2. PART ONE - Chapter First: Rain

Author’s notes: Lots of smut.

Standard disclaimers apply. I don’t think JKR would be very happy with me if she read this. I think she’d be a bit miffed that I—ahem—took such liberties with Harry and Hermione. But goodness, they’re rebelling, I tell you! Rebelling!

Chapter rating: NC-17.

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PART ONE - Sunrise

Chapter First: Rain

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FIVE YEARS AGO…

It might have been the rain; the tears of the sky soaking into her clothes and touching her skin.

The water was a torrent of cold, thick droplets, but her eyes were warm orbs of honey and gold; her pale lips, quivering with chill, were nevertheless plump and glistening. Her breathing was heavy, as if she had been running, and the rise and fall of her chest called attention to the curved mound of flesh within the unbuttoned top of her shirt.

He recalled the day: the 30^th of July; the eve of his birthday.

Before her unexpected arrival, Harry had been lying in bed, looking at the ceiling of his room as he followed the waterline on the paint. It left his mind free to think about the previous year; how odd it had been in every way; how horribly it ended. How he had spent most of the year alone; neglected by his best friends.

Occasionally, the rumble of thunder outside would get his attention and he would think that the skies should have raged the night Albus Dumbledore died.

Freak summer storms weren’t unheard of, and perhaps, wallowing in the grief of Dumbledore’s death, he welcomed the dreary auspiciousness of the rain.

But for the pelting of droplets on the roof and the steady stream of water outside his window, number 4 Privet Drive was silent.

He had looked at his battered bedside clock. It had read 11:33 pm. In another half-hour he would be seventeen years old, and he would forever leave the home he had hated.

Somehow, he found very little joy in the prospect. His grief threatened to overcome him every second he spent alone, but the thought of leaving this wretched house, free to find affable company among the wizards, hadn’t filled him with the anticipation he expected.

Eyes stinging, he fought back his tears.

Tears were for the weak. Tears were for quitters. He was a Gryffindor. His courage should see him through.

The tears persisted and he wiped them away with a fierce swipe of his hand.

What did the world want from him, anyway? A slip of a boy like him, loved by no one but supposedly loved by everyone? Sirius was a heartbreak. Dumbledore was the shattering of the spirit. It was like he was being taken apart piece by piece. And now this isolated summer where no one cared. No one understood.

Ron and Hermione wrote. Of course they did, and he’d written back a bit, but what did either of them know about grief?

Ron had prattled on about his happy family and the pranks Fred and George pulled; he even mentioned something about writing to Hermione about something important. The “you know…” Harry did not know. Or he didn’t want to know. Ron could be such a prat sometimes.

Hermione had sounded more sensitive, as usual, and she constantly told him to call her on the telephone if he needed something; anything. Her letters would always have her telephone number at the bottom. Sometimes, he would consider giving her a call; just to tell her that he missed her company, and that maybe they could meet somewhere to get something to eat, but the thought that he’d have to explain to her everything that was going on in his head felt tiring in the extreme.

Thinking about it all, he felt so completely and utterly alone.

More tears fell and he thumped the back of his hand on his forehead, almost like punishment.

It was during this brief struggle that a pebble flew in from his open window.

He frowned, confused, and then he heard the whisper of a euphemized curse. Like one of those, “Darn be all things ruddy!”

He could hardly believe it, so he rushed to the window without thinking.

On retrospect, he should have been more careful. Moody certainly would have disapproved. It could have been anyone outside his window. It could have been a Death Eater, and he might have lost his head the moment he stuck it out, but he knew that voice; trusted it implicitly, and he had no fear.

And there she was gingerly picking through the bushes.

“Hermione?” he called in as loud a voice as he could manage without waking the entire household.

She looked up and their eyes met in the dimness.

She smiled and normally, it would have lifted his spirits. But not tonight.

“Door,” he mouthed, pointing towards the front porch beneath his window.

She nodded and turned to proceed.

He left the window and made his way to his bedroom door, setting the chair that barred it aside. As he stuck his head out in the hallway, he looked left and right, and carefully, he made his way to the landing. His climb down the stairs was swift, expertly avoiding the creaky steps and treading with light feet. He wore no slippers and the socks helped. He didn’t make a sound and the house continued to sleep.

When he got to the door, he unlocked it and held it open.

There she was drenched from head to feet. Her abundant brown hair was plastered to her in curly ringlets; her light summer clothing clung to her skin. The small rucksack that hung from her shoulder was limp with water.

He could see her bra through her white blouse, maroon against her skin, but strangely enough, it was her eyes and lips and breathing that caught his gaze, held in a jumble of confused feelings.

Their eyes met for the second time and he couldn’t pull himself away from them, until she blinked and broke the spell.

“Can I--?” She gestured into the house.

It was then it finally occurred to him to ask her in. He did and she crossed the threshold, dripping all over his Aunt Petunia’s immaculate carpet.

He closed the door behind her and they stood in the hallway, regarding one another. He wasn’t sure what to make of her presence there. He wasn’t even sure he wanted company right now.

She brought out her wand and muttered a drying spell on herself.

For a moment, he wanted to warn her of under-aged magic, but then he realized that she was seventeen now; had been seventeen since last September, and that she had probably even apparated from wherever it was she came from.

Grown-up Hermione, legal in the Wizarding World.

Her clothes unstuck themselves from her and the ringlets of her hair sprung back to life. Color returned to her cheeks, though she still gave a shudder. She dried her rucksack, and it looked good as new again.

She was strangely attractive in the darkness.

Harry heard that girls looked so much prettier in dim lighting. Hid the imperfections, they said. But he couldn’t exactly recall what imperfections she had as she stood there, the darkness waxing her lovely.

He took a moment to wonder whether he should be thinking such thoughts about her before he realized he wasn’t really bothered by it. So what if he thought she was attractive? She was a girl. He was a boy. So what if they were best friends?

Looking back on the last school year, they hadn’t been very good friends, anyway.

He missed her. She hadn’t been her. Maybe he hadn’t been much of himself, either.

She looked up at him, and he realized that he still didn’t know what to make of her.

“Alright, Harry?” she asked softly.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the subtle scent of her perfume. Funny how it hadn’t washed away in the rain. He wondered if he should lie to her.

“How do you think I am?” The reply came unbidden in an equally soft voice. There was no harshness in his tone, but perhaps his eyes had conveyed bitterness.

She looked down at her feet, fidgeting slightly. “You’ll be seventeen in half an hour. I thought you might like some company.”

She ran her hand uncomfortably to the back of her neck, caressing her nape before resting her knuckles on her collarbone.

When she looked up again, she was apologetic. “I just wanted to know if you were alright.”

He tore his gaze from her, letting his eyes wander to the darkness of the house. Shoving his hands in the pockets of his tattered cargo pants, he shrugged.

He’d had better nights than this, but he didn’t feel like explaining that. There was too much to tell and he hadn’t the strength right now.

He met her gaze again and he was completely unprepared for the deep concern he found there. His eyes watered suspiciously and he fought the tears. He won, but she had seen.

Her hands came up to cup his face and but for a moment of surprise, realization surged and he knew what he wanted. She didn’t need for him to explain, and for that he was grateful to her. What her eyes told him of what she was willing to do, he didn’t even question. He let her, because he was sliding his hands around her hips. She tilted her face up and he lowered his lips on hers.

They were kissing; his hands running up her back before he buried them in the mass of her hair; her arms snaking over his shoulders while she raked her fingers in his wild, untamable strands.

Her lips were soft, moist and warm. When he parted them open with his tongue, she met it with her own. The slow, rhythmic movements of their mouths made his head spin and a groan rose from his throat.

She pressed her body against his and he held her tighter in his embrace.

Hermione.

Her name pulsed in his mind, but there were no questions; not while the intensity of the kiss began to awaken his body. He felt her breasts pressing against his chest and he hardened in an instant.

No questions.

Her hands were running along the hem of his shirt, slipping underneath it to touch the skin of his waist. She would encounter way too much boxer shorts, as Dudley’s cargos were too big for him and they hung low on his hips.

She showed no hint of minding as her fingers dipped beneath his boxers’ garter-belt and ran along it tentatively, almost as if she were asking permission. The sensation of her fingers jolted every nerve he had there and below.

He hissed, his erection straining against his trousers.

He pulled away from her but took her hand, leading her through the hall and up the stairs. She stepped on the creaks, but he didn’t care. She wasn’t going to wake anybody. The rain outside was a steady, lulling noise.

Pulling her into his room, he shut them in.

She dropped her rucksack without a thought and leaned against the door, grabbing him towards her. She caught his mouth with hers as she pushed off his track jacket.

His lips traveled to her throat and she made a breathy little sound as he whipped the jacket off. Her hands were on his shirt and she tugged the hem upward, getting him out of it.

He realized then that she was still fully clothed and he wasn’t going to stand for it. He unbuttoned the rest of her blouse revealing the bra that had earlier been veiled by white.

Her skin was a bit chilly, but he warmed it with his hands, his palms pressing around her waist, her flat stomach and then her breasts. She leaned back against the door, eyes closed and moaning. She was lovely to behold.

It amazed him to see her like this; so desirable. The idea that he could ever want Hermione Granger this way had never crossed his mind until now, but perhaps that was only because she never endeavored to show him that she could make him want her.

The notion that this lovely, seductive woman had sprung out of nowhere was preposterous. This woman must have always been inside Hermione, just that she never chose to show it until now, and that made him heady with longing. Why only now? Why had she wasted so much time casting his attentions somewhere else? He would have welcomed this side of her. He would have wanted to sigh into her hair; watch the graceful folds of her robes cling to her figure; look at her smile and think he wanted her lips pliable against his.

These thoughts were driving him mad, though his singular purpose remained: Want her now. Need her now.

He kissed her as he undid her belt. The buckle was a bit complicated, the brown leather inlaid with feminine pink flowers, but she helped him without need of request. She wanted out of her trousers just as badly as he did.

With the belt undone, he whipped the buttons and zipper of her jeans open, pulling them down as he knelt in front of her. There was all this skin he had to taste, and she was delicious.

Several more minutes of skin desperately on skin, they were both undressed, and he hitched her against the wall as her legs wrapped around his hips.

He didn’t have the largest room in the world, and an easy turn had them both on his bed. Beneath him, she felt even softer, and for a brief moment, he stared down at her in wonder.

Her impassioned eyes met his, her swollen lips parted to let her hot breath escape.

He was going to say something. He wasn’t sure what, but he motioned to speak. Her fingers touched his lips delicately.

“Shush,” she breathed. “Don’t say anything. Just take it, Harry. Just take me. Don’t say anything.”

It didn’t seem right, that he would take without asking; without even telling her that he wasn’t sure exactly what he felt about her. But she seemed to know that his thoughts and feelings were a jumble, and she was giving him what he needed anyway.

The warmth of her was a balm to the chilling cold of his night, so it was difficult to deny her offer.

He dropped his lips upon hers, slow and tender. He didn’t know what else to do to make her understand that he at least wanted to take care of her in this. She took care of him all the time; he could only do so much to return the favor.

This was all very new to him, at any rate. He had never touched a woman like this.

Ginny had been all about soft undemanding kisses, light groping and tender teases. He had been new to that as well; she had been a gentle teacher. But they were together for too short a time. He didn’t get the chance to be taught more. He didn’t know if she knew more.

Hermione seemed to know more.

How, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to find out.

She touched him, holding him in her hands with firm, rhythmic strokes. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder and neck, groaning as he pressed his hips back and forth to a responsive motion.

Carefully, Hermione took his hand and lowered his fingers to her center. She made him touch and her wetness was intensely arousing. She whispered some kind of explanation; that this meant she was ready for him.

He slid his digits inside her, to experiment, and she moaned her approval. He was eager to hear the sound again, but she breathed more words.

“Later,” she said. “We’ll do all that later.”

Later. He was ecstatic at the thought that there would be more; that now she just wanted him inside her.

It wasn’t something he could argue. It was something he probably wanted even more than she did. So he did enter her, and he heard a soft cry from her throat.

He was sorry for the pain, so he kissed her, and kissed her, because he was moving now, and it was too good to stop.

Her nails were digging into his shoulders, but she wasn’t pushing him away. Her legs were wrapping tighter around him and her hips began to thrust back.

He couldn’t even comprehend how amazing it felt.

Those many, adolescent nights when he’d touched himself hadn’t come close to the sensations he was experiencing now, and as she lay pinned beneath him, she was all his fantasies come true.

It didn’t take long. By some instinct, he wanted to hold back, but the smooth stroking; the sound of her moans and that desperate way she told him to move just like that was his undoing. He came quicker than he would have wanted, and it was glorious.

When he was spent, the realization that he hadn’t been successful at bringing her to climax crept into his consciousness and he felt horribly embarrassed. He began to stammer an apology, but she pressed her fingers to his lips again, and she smiled.

“Don’t think about that now,” she said softly. “That was for you. We’ll do this again in a little while, and it’ll be wonderful. I promise.”

He thought maybe he was a randy little bastard to be so inwardly excited by her words. He wasn’t ready to try again so soon, but he was determined to get her to feel what he just felt.

And so when he stirred from his fifteen minute nap and the mere nudge of her rear against his cock sent him into instant readiness, he administered what little he had learned that night. He reached in front of her while their bodies were spooned and dipped his fingers inside her.

She gasped and fidgeted at his touch, but when he began to stroke, she let out a heavy moan.

“Tell me how,” he whispered in her ear as he bit the lobe of it lightly.

She shuddered and she did tell him; not exactly how, as she was finding difficulty in forming coherent sentences, but she managed to get the message across with short words, and minutes later, breathing ragged, he was down upon her, tasting all that was her and wondering why he hadn’t thought about doing this in the first place.

Well, he reasoned with himself. I wasn’t exactly prepared to see her outside my window, wanting in. I wasn’t prepared to find her so vulnerable and desirable on the Dursleys’ front steps. I hadn’t expected that she would be such a fantastic kisser…

When she gave a soft sort of wail, her teeth digging into her lip and her body arching, he saw Hermione Granger climax for the first time. It was beautiful to behold; or maybe there was a deep satisfaction to be found in watching a woman like her come completely undone.

He had learned something, coaxing her to come like that. So when he thrust into her, he applied his new knowledge, finding it easier to hold back because of his earlier release. It was fascinating to watch the responses on her face, and he studied her. Shallow strokes followed by deep ones, she seemed to like it immensely, if the sound of her moans were any indication. He searched her eyes for confirmation and the glimmer of desire he found in them told him enough.

Harry and Hermione; always communicating with these looks.

But wouldn’t it be fun; arousing, to ask just this once?

He asked her if she liked what he was doing in a soft, teasing drawl. Her response was a mixture of moan and words.

Yes, she had said.

Don’t stop doing that, she had breathed.

Knowing he was doing so well did more for him than the sensations running from his cock to his entire body. There was merit to this pillow talk.

Her hands came up to clutch at his hair and she began to plead softly.

Faster and harder, she was saying, and Harry complied readily, because pleasing her seemed to make it feel better for him.

He found that he was in dire danger of coming before her again. Seeing her so close to the edge was pushing him even further at a faster rate. But then she was clenching him tight, crying with loud intensity.

He had to kiss her to muffle her shouts, and the pressure of her around him sent him toppling to his own release. It felt incredible; all the more satisfying for knowing that they had gone together.

When it was over, he slumped against her. He felt heavy and weak, but it was a blessed vulnerability.

“Good gracious, Harry,” she breathed in his ear.

She cupped his face in her palms to lift it from her shoulder. She kissed him; a slow, languid meeting of lips and tongue to show her appreciation.

He was quite grateful himself. When they separated, she ran the tips of her fingers delicately over the plains of his face. He closed his eyes, liking the sensations for its tenderness. He settled beside her, holding that same hand of hers to place kisses on her fingertips and the heel of her palm. He was sapped of strength but not exactly ready for sleep just yet.

Carefully, he laid his head on her stomach, looking up at her as his hands caressed her sides.

She smiled, running her fingers idly through his hair.

Would she tell him to be quiet if he spoke?

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he finally said.

Thunder rumbled softly outside through the torrent of rain, as if to punctuate his sentence.

“I didn’t exactly plan all this either,” she replied.

And she probably meant all of it as she said it. She hadn’t planned on showing up at his house; at his doorstep; in his bed.

“Do your parents know you’re here?” Did he really care to know? Yes. However lovely this new and impulsive Hermione was, he still wanted the Hermione he had come to know.

She nodded. “I told them I would come here. I told them that I believed you shouldn’t be alone tonight. They didn’t ask why. They just let me do what I had to do. I don’t know if it’s because I’m seventeen and of-age in the Wizarding World, or—I don’t know. Maybe they saw it in my eyes or something. I had to see you.”

His eyebrow arched, a slanted grin tugging on his lips. “Had to?”

A blush rose in her cheeks. “Yes, had to. I feel many things for you, Harry. Deep things. Things I’ve never felt for any other boy.”

The beating of his heart picked up. He wasn’t sure why. “What things?”

She smiled again, and he knew what it meant, though it was the very first time he saw it. It was a smile that said, “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then I’m not going to tell you.”

He clutched at her hand desperately. Maybe he needed to hear it after all. “Hermione?”

But she shook her head. “We’ll talk about that some other time. Harry, you’re seventeen now!”

He lifted his head to look at his clock. It said 11:56 pm. “Four more minutes.”

She shook his head. “That clock is five minutes late. You’re legal as we speak.”

The enthusiasm in her eyes made him grin, but just as he had thought earlier, his coming of age wasn’t exactly giving him the satisfaction he expected. He was more elated by the fact that he had a woman in his bed and that he had made her scream beneath him. And there was true warmth in knowing that the woman was Hermione.

His best friend.

Maybe he should feel more disturbed. Logic dictated that men did not make the women they consider their best friends, their lovers; it was giving up something great and rare, but he felt no loss. She was still his best friend, and she had given him a very special gift. He hoped she felt he had gifted her with something too. This, what they had shared, was too precious to be squandered by petty insecurities.

He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her waist. He burrowed his nose in her skin, inhaling the wonderful smell of her. Committing it to memory. If they never did this again, he would have all the memories he could gather. Her taste, her touch, her smell; the way she looked and the sound of her impassioned cries.

Harry desperately wished this wouldn’t be the last time, but if it was, he would remember it in all its dimensions.

“You’ll be here when I wake up?” he asked, eyes still closed.

“Of course, Harry. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

He smiled as he let the waves of slumber begin to wash over him. “Good.”

“Go to sleep,” she whispered, the steady rhythm of her fingers in his hair lulling him further.

He drifted off just when his clock clicked twelve.

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The following morning, Harry helped Hermione risk the bathroom.

He stood with her at the threshold of the bathroom door, holding out a towel for her as she cradled her own bath supplies. It was a basket of pink and purple bottles, and he marveled at this. He was sorely tempted to ask her if he could watch her use these soaps and gels, and from the look in her eyes, she would let him watch all he liked and do even more, but then Dudley lumbered out of his bedroom, and all pleasant thought withered.

Harry instinctively stepped in front of Hermione, waiting for what Dudley was going to do.

Dudley’s beady eyes fell on her, looking her over and realizing with apparent astonishment that she was wearing Harry’s t-shirt.

He had let her wear his Quidditch jersey because all his other house shirts were Dudley’s, and Harry wasn’t about to wrap her body in anything of his cousin’s. He was being a bit possessive, he knew, but he didn’t feel embarrassed about it. They had slept together, after all. He felt he was entitled to a bit of marking. He didn’t have to tell her that’s how he saw it, anyway.

“So you did have a girl in your room,” said Dudley dangerously.

Harry tried not to imagine what Dudley had done while hearing them last night. He glared. “Sod off, Dudley. I’ll have you know that as of today, I’m seventeen, and I can use magic outside of school now. So unless you want me to shrink that little ‘Diddykins’ of yours, you better not be making trouble for me, or for Hermione.”

Dudley’s eyes widened. Without a word, Dudley turned and slammed himself back into his room.

Behind Harry, Hermione gave a soft giggle.

“Diddykins?”

He grinned. “That’s what Aunt Petunia calls him.”

She arched an impish eyebrow. “Little?”

He shrugged. “He has short fingers.”

Hermione laughed and Harry had to shush her, warning her that while Diddykins was easy, Uncle Vernon was going to be more of a problem.

He hustled her into the bathroom and closed her in, grinning at the sound of her soft giggles. He was about to go back to his room when he realized he wasn’t about to leave her there with Dudley fuming just down the hallway.

Not that Hermione couldn’t take care of herself, but he wasn’t going to risk it.

He leaned back against the wall, wand out and arms crossed over his chest.

Once, Dudley peered out of his door and Harry shot him such a murderous glare that Dudley retreated in a hurry.

Hermione took a bit longer than he expected. He’d heard of girls taking longer in the bathroom, of course, but he never realized they went way past fifteen minutes.

When she came out, freshly clothed and rubbing a towel in her hair, she stopped short upon seeing him. “Harry, how long have you been there?”

“Erm… since you went in.”

She looked mildly sympathetic. “That was thirty minutes ago, Harry.”

“I just wanted to make sure Dudley didn’t bother you. I didn’t know you would… you know, take that long.”

She sighed, rolling her eyes. “Your turn, then.” She walked past him to his room and he watched her close herself in.

There was little point in not doing as she directed. So he went straight into the bathroom and found himself inhaling the sweetest scents. He scratched his head in wonder. He never realized having a girl in the house, a young girl, would mean things like this.

He realized moments later that the scents were familiar, that it was the same kind of smell from her skin last night and this morning. It was embarrassing that his Harry reacted so instantly to the mere thought of it.

He turned the shower on cold.

When he was done showering and he went to his room, he was a tad disappointed to find her almost completely ready. She was preening in front of a mirror she had propped up on her trunk. He didn’t recall having a mirror, so it must have been hers.

Her trunk itself had been a surprise. He hadn’t seen it the previous night, not that he would’ve noticed it with her standing in the rain and the water soaking through her shirt. It amazed him to know that she had shrunk her trunk and stuffed it into her rucksack. There were other things in there, as well, but he wasn’t so much fascinated by what as he was with “how”. Tonks had done it before, but it was still quite amazing, especially watching Hermione doing it. Having seen the look of wonder in his face, she had promised she would teach him how to shrink his own things, and that had been something to look forward to.

As he closed them into his room, she pried her gaze from her preening and smiled, mischief glinting in her eyes as she looked him over.

He felt a bit self-conscious, though the towel was secure around his waist.

“Honestly, Harry,” she said, smiling impishly. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

She didn’t elaborate. Was she telling him not to be embarrassed because they had seen, tasted and touched each other in the most intimate ways last night, or was she implying that she—well—liked what she saw? Either way, it was giving him a semi.

He tried not to give it much thought as he dressed.

His trousers were still too big for him, but remembering that he was seventeen now, he grinned and transfigured the trousers to fit. She looked at him in surprise before she grinned back.

“Smart of you,” she said.

He was pleased she approved.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he put on his socks and shoes, furtively watching her hold her abundant brown hair up, as if to test its effect before letting it go.

He thought her adorable now. He never let himself think so before. It didn’t surprise him that he found her so distracting. After all, he can never look at her again and not remember the sensual arching of her back or the curves of her breasts against his palms.

Lord almighty, he thought with mild disdain of himself. This woman…

She caught him staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” he muttered.

It was only then he realized that he had completely forgotten Ron.

He froze, thoughts of his best friend flooding his mind. Where did Ron fit into all this? Ron fancied Hermione, didn’t he? Ron did all those stupid things, like fighting with her and snogging Lavender to get Hermione’s attention, right? Ron had held Hermione during Dumbledore’s funeral, and it had been so telling of his feelings for her. Ron had been running his fingers through her hair, much like Harry had done this morning as she lay in his arms, naked…

He took a deep breath, heading to his dresser to pick a shirt.

“So,” he began nonchalantly. “Heard from Ron, lately?”

“Few letters,” she replied without hesitation. “He mentioned something about Ginny being worried about you. Has she written to you yet?”

His lips pursed, knowing full well that she had intended to swing right back at him with her last question. He asked himself if he was willing to play this game with her. He wasn’t.

“Where are we going from here?” he asked, changing the subject completely. He realized immediately how loaded his question was and he wondered if he was being too heavy handed about this entire one-night stand.

“Wherever you want to go.”

Her reply was just as filled with possibilities. He looked at her, and he saw that she meant what she said, with all its undertones. He cocked a tiny smile. She smiled back.

“Grimmauld Place, then,” he said. He didn’t really want to go there, but he figured he had to. It was better than the Burrow, at any rate. The Burrow was filled with people he loved, and with people who loved him back, but there was a sense of forgetfulness there that he didn’t want just yet. He didn’t want to escape things right now. He would have enough of that during Fleur and Bill’s wedding. He could get to that when he had done some of the more important things.

After Grimmauld Place, he might even take a trip to Godric’s Hollow.

Hermione was better company for all that. He wanted no one else.

She nodded. “Remus is keeping house there, I think. I don’t know who else is living in it, but that hardly matters. You own the place, don’t you?”

He was surprised she knew.

She shrugged. “I just figured, Harry. Who else was it going to go to? I think Sirius would have rather had his tail cut off than let Narcissa inherit the place.”

Harry smiled.

When he was done dressing, he gathered all his possessions. He was never coming back to this place, ever, and he had no intention of leaving any trace of him behind.

It surprised him how little he had gathered over the years. The room itself reflected so little of him, so he had no posters to roll up or useless bric-a-brac to pack. It had been a place to sleep in, keep his things in and spend the days wishing he wasn’t there.

He left Dudley’s clothes. He was looking forward to getting news ones, after all, and when he pried the floorboard open to his secret panel, he left the board out. He wanted Uncle Vernon to see that he had been able to keep secrets. It would surely drive him spare.

Hermione smiled when she saw him bring out his most valuable possessions. His baby album with pictures of his parents; his first broken quill; Buckbeak’s feather; pictures of him with her and Ron and finally, a piece of his Nimbus 2000.

She laughed softly as she picked it up. “The Nimbus?”

He blushed, taking it from her hand. “It was my first broom. Don’t laugh.”

She reddened. “I wasn’t laughing—at you, I mean. I… I kept a piece of your Nimbus, too.”

This surprised him a lot, then it pleased him. “Really?”

She nodded, smiling and embarrassed as she rose to check if all her things were in place. He watched her, relishing this new tidbit about the Nimbus and her.

Broke in the third year, didn’t it? Awfully sweet of her. Awfully…

He banged the lid of his trunk shut, locked it and declared he was done. She then taught him how to shrink his things. She let him shrink his trunk and his Firebolt and a few other things he had. She was a good teacher and he caught on quickly.

Of course, he already knew how good of a teacher she was. He had taught her enough last night, didn’t she? And he blushed at the thought.

He stuffed all his shrunken things in his rucksack, just like she did. Before they stepped out of the door, he grabbed her rucksack with his. She made to protest but he shook his head.

“Let me, alright?”

She smiled a bit and nodded.

Together, they made their way down the stairs.

His uncle, aunt and cousin were there.

It didn’t take long for his Uncle Vernon to hone in on Hermione.

Harry pulled her behind him.

“I don’t recall letting her in,” said Vernon, his eyes peering at her with barely disguised disgust.

Dudley said nothing, but he was waiting for Harry to make a mistake; to stumble; to get in trouble.

Harry wasn’t afraid; had never been afraid, but this time, he didn’t have to put up with any of it, anymore. He lifted his eyes at Vernon boldly. “That’s really not your problem, is it? I let her in. She’s my friend. She gets to come in here whether you like it or not.”

“I’ve been here all night,” Hermione said. “I slept in his room.”

He looked at her in surprise. Not that he minded what she said. It would give his uncle something more to stew about, and that was satisfying, but he didn’t want her to feel like he was using their night together as fodder for teeing his uncle off. What they did last night had nothing to do with the Dursleys. It had been about her and him alone.

Still, he saw the impish defiance in her face, heard it in her tone. She was telling Vernon because she knew it would shock his uncle, and she was doing it for him.

Predictably, Vernon turned purple with rage while Petunia’s sour face crumpled even more.

“I will have none of that in my house!” Vernon roared. “Such immoral, disgusting, freakish—“

Harry whipped out his wand. “Silencio.”

The magic hit Vernon without warning and silence filled the room. Vernon’s mouth continued to move for a spell before he realized what had happened and he began stomping furiously. He advanced towards Harry and Petunia screamed.

She knew at least that Vernon stood no chance against what Harry could do.

“Petrificus totalus!” cried Harry, wand whipping.

Vernon stiffened instantly, toppling backwards. He missed Dudley by an inch and Dudley made a terrified sound, shaking in his clumpy boots.

“Well done, Harry!” Hermione said.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, glad of her praise. He stepped towards his uncle and Petunia stepped back with a small cry.

Harry tucked his wand away and laced his fingers through Hermione’s, pulling her close. He met Petunia’s gaze coldly. “I’m seventeen today, which means I’m done here. I have nothing to say to any of you.”

He led Hermione to the door, but before he left, he reached into his robe and placed a pouch on the console table. A handful of galleons spilled out of its mouth.

Petunia stared at the gold in shock.

“Only because you’re my mum’s sister,” he said without emotion.

He opened the door and walked out with Hermione. When they reached the front lawn, Hermione stopped them in their tracks. She looked up at him and smiled, pulling him even closer. He thought she was going to kiss him, and he found that he wanted the kiss; craved it since he woke up with her in his arms, but there was a pop, and realized that she had apparated them both, leaving number 4 Privet Drive behind him forever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They stared at 12 Grimmauld Place as they stood on the side-walk, hand in hand.

He remembered telling Dumbledore that he didn’t want the house; that he didn’t want a reminder of his dead Godfather.

But as he stood there, staring at it, he found that it wasn’t as painful as he thought it would be. They walked up the path and climbed the porch.

He was about to ring on the bell when Hermione stopped him gently.

“I’m glad I’m here with you, Harry.”

He looked at her and gave in to the impulse he had earlier to kiss her. She responded immediately. Maybe she had wanted it too.

Seriously, bloke, he thought. You’ve slept together. Don’t act so surprised.

Harry found himself grinning while they kissed and he held her tighter to let the kiss continue for a bit more. Finally, she was able to pull away.

“What are you grinning at?” she asked.

He held her hand as he stepped back, smiling rather awkwardly. “I’ve been wanting to do that all morning. I was wondering why I didn’t just do it.”

She seemed mildly surprised before she began to laugh softly. She understood what was funny. He found comfort in their deep understanding of one another. It had always been like that with them, hadn’t it?

He rang the bell.

Remus Lupin answered it and his surprise was apparent. “Well, I didn’t expect either of you, at all! But come on in! Quickly now.”

They walked in and Remus closed the door behind them. The place didn’t look much better than the last time Harry was in it, but it did look lived in, and it remained clean enough.

“Hermione sprung me out of Privet Drive,” Harry said. “We’ll need a place to stay until I can—I don’t know, find a flat of my own?”

It occurred to him that he had every intention of taking her with him, wherever this flat was, and maybe if he was good, he could get her to live there, too.

“Nonsense,” said Remus. “You can live here for as long as you want. You own this house now, Harry.”

He nodded to indicate that he knew that. He had no intention of keeping number twelve, and he had every intention of giving it to Remus. Sirius would have agreed with it, but he could see Remus having none of it.

Harry can put off talking about his plans for another time, though. For now, it was good enough that Remus was comfortably placed.

“We’ll settle down for a bit,” he said, looking at the stairs.

Remus nodded, leading them to the steps. “Let’s bring you to your rooms, then. No trunks?”

“Shrunk them,” said Hermione.

Remus looked mildly surprised. “Oh, yes. You’re both of you seventeen. Congratulations! And happy birthday, Harry! But my, wasn’t Hermione a pleasant birthday surprise this morning?”

More than you think, thought Harry. He saw Hermione blushing and knew she was thinking the same thing. They exchanged knowing looks and she squeezed his hand, as if in warning. He almost laughed at the thought that she was expecting him to blurt it right out at Remus.

The Dursleys were one thing; Remus another. Remus was more the uncle than Vernon was, so telling him would almost be like telling their parents.

They went to the second floor.

“Same room, Harry,” said Remus, pointing to the door down the hall. “And Hermione, I’d imagine you wouldn’t want to be alone on the first floor, so you can take this room nearby. Let me know if you encounter any problems with the paintings. They’re not accommodating to werewolves and muggle borns.”

They exchanged sympathetic smiles.

Remus took Hermione’s rucksack from Harry. “You go on ahead and settle in your room, son. I’ll take Hermione to hers.”

Harry nodded and watched them go. He fidgeted nonsensically on the threshold of his room just so he could see where she would be settled. It wasn’t far. Two doors away, and he caught her gaze as she entered her room.

He walked into his room and began unloading his rucksack. He was just enlarging his things when Remus stuck his head through the door.

“Alright, Harry?”

“Yes. Is Hermione getting settled in?”

Remus nodded. “Yes. And I gave her the nice room, too.”

Harry smiled at him gratefully.

“Have you had breakfast?” Remus asked.

Harry shook his head.

“I’ll have some ready then, when you’re done. I’ll be downstairs, and I think maybe I’ll floo the Weasleys. They’d like to know you’re here, yes?”

Harry nodded. He didn’t know if he wanted them to know, but he didn’t feel much like telling Remus that and explaining why.

“I reckon so,” he muttered. “Um, Remus? I… I sorter left my Uncle Vernon hexed…”

Remus stared at him a moment, looking as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do.

“He was going to attack Hermione,” Harry added hastily. He wasn’t actually sure if Vernon had intended to inflict bodily harm on Hermione, but Harry had certainly acted on the instinct to protect her more than himself. If Vernon had somehow incapacitated him, it was only prudent to suppose Hermione would fall victim next.

Remus expelled a soft breath, smiling a bit. “Don’t worry about it, Harry. I’ll take care of it.”

“Th-Thank you.”

Remus left and Harry continued to unpack.

Fifteen minutes later he was done and he was looking out the window at Muggle London. He didn’t even notice Hermione enter his room until she stood beside him, facing him.

She was pretty with the morning sun kissing her face, and he was right, there were no glaring imperfections on her face; nothing that needed hiding in dim lighting. The intelligence in her eyes was what made her so extraordinary and special, anyway, and no amount of lighting could outshine the attractive quality of that.

Forget the girls with the straight, glossy hair. Forget the ones who caught all the boys’ attention. The woman in front of him was so much more to him than all of them; she with her wild, bouncing hair and radiant, magical smile.

And so what if Hermione didn’t like Quidditch? She was always there for her friends; cheering them on during Quidditch matches; watching over them in the infirmary when they got hauled in, half-dead from kissing the dirt at the pitch.

He pushed some of her curly hair from off her face. “Ron’s letters to you… what did they say?”

She seemed startled and she had every right to be. This was probably something she hadn’t planned on talking about just yet, but he figured why wait? The Weasley might be upon them as soon as tonight. He didn’t want unanswered questions hanging between them while Ron and Ginny buzzed around giving them no privacy whatsoever.

“Harry—“

“We talk about this now,” he interrupted gently.

There was true distress in her eyes. “Do we have to? I—I rather like where things are.”

He found this confusing. “Where are things, then?”

She looked up at him. “Here. With just the two of us. I’m expecting the Weasleys to come barreling in at any moment… but now, it’s just us two. No Ron… no Ginny…”

Maybe she did have something with Ron, which made him feel jealous. “Are you and he together?”

Her eyes widened. “No, of course not! I wouldn’t have—I wouldn’t have slept with you if—“

He held her hand, relief flooding over him at her words. “Good. I don’t want you to be with him.”

She gave pause at what he said and she smiled slightly. “He writes some… I think he fancies me, but I—he botched his chance when he snogged Lavender and all.”

Harry watched her and nodded. “He did, didn’t he?”

“It was a small enough chance, anyway,” she muttered. “I only fancied him because I thought he fancied me. It was embarrassing to have it blow up in my face like that. I… I always liked you better, Harry, because you were nicer to me.”

He was mildly surprised. “Always?”

“Always.”

“Liked?”

She smiled and blushed. “Fancied.”

“Really?”

“Don’t act so surprised, Harry. I would have thought it was obvious when I stuck by you in fourth year. Viktor certainly knew it. He was jealous enough of you as it was. Then I told you at Quidditch tryouts last year that you were never more fanciable. I meant what I said.”

His jaw dropped, shocked at these revelations. “But—But you gave me advice! About Cho! And you gave advice to Ginny! And you seemed pleased enough to see us together.”

He just couldn’t believe he had never noticed, and perhaps he wondered what he would’ve done if he knew. Maybe he wasn’t ready for her then. Or maybe…

We could have had months. Years…

“Of course I was pleased, Harry,” she said plaintively. “You were happy, weren’t you? And Cho… well, I was never threatened by that ditz…”

He grinned. “Oh, weren’t you?”

She rolled her eyes. “A ditz. I knew you’d come to your senses.”

He laughed at this.

“But Harry,” she continued, her tone going soft and serious. “You just needed someone last night, I suppose. I’m glad I was there for you, but… I know you’re probably not quite over Ginny yet. I won’t tell her. You don’t ever have to, either, alright? It will be our secret, won’t it?”

He frowned and pulled her closer to him. “If that’s what you want, but I’m not going to keep what we have secret because of what you think I feel for Ginny. This is no one’s business but ours, isn’t it?”

She gazed into his eyes, silent before she nodded. “It is. Harry, about last year…”

He supposed thoughts of Ginny could lead them to sixth year. She was, perhaps, the one bright spot in that dreary time. “What about it?”

“I’m sorry; for neglecting you; for being difficult; for being… everything hateful about me.”

He took a deep breath and released it. “We all have something to apologize for, don’t we? I almost got you killed in the Department of Mysteries.”

“That wasn’t your fault.”

“We’ll not talk about the past, then,” he said. “We’ll remember the good. There’s a lot of that to remember. Why, only last night, I was with this wonderful woman…”

She blushed, grinning.

He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, realizing how much taller he’d gotten in the past year. She had pointed it out before; how he’d grown a foot, but he never realized how his height was just right for her. How easy it was to hold her in his arms, or maybe carry her, or have her wrapped around him…

It was official. This woman would have him thinking naughty thoughts his entire life.

Entire life, now?

His eyes widened at his own revelations.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he replied. “Nothing at all.” He pulled her closer into a kiss, and it was every bit as perfect as the last dozen kisses he’d been giving her since last night.

He was ready to lose himself to it completely when someone at the door cleared his throat.

They separated instantly, awkwardly pulling apart without really wanting to. They exchanged apologetic looks before they lifted their gaze to the door.

Remus was there, and he wasn’t exactly looking at them either. “Breakfast is ready. I’ll see you both downstairs at the kitchen.”

He left.

Hermione laughed softly. “Well, there goes our secret, then.”

He smiled. “He won’t tell anyone. But is it so bad? Being seen kissing me?”

She seemed shocked. “Harry… of course not. I just—this is new, isn’t it? I like to—I think maybe I like to keep it between us for now. It’s wonderful, and exciting and brilliant…” She reddened.

He didn’t realize he would be so pleased to hear her say that. He nodded.

He was rewarded by her radiant smile.

Harry took her hand. “Come on then. Breakfast is waiting.”

She nodded, and together, they made their way to the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The view of the city from the rooftop of Grimmauld Place was the best to be had. It was the highest house in the area and there was nothing to obstruct one’s line of vision, and while there was still that ever present fog hanging over the city, that grim blanket that told Wizards that the Dementors were mating, it was still a fascinating sight.

He was alone right now. He had left Hermione in the library a few hours ago, rather reluctantly, actually. She had gone to the library, hoping to get some studying time and knowing how important her books were to her, Harry resolved to keep his hands off her. It was astounding how difficult he found that. Her close proximity made him antsy because of the little things that reminded him of her physical… there-ness. He could smell the sweet scent of her lotion and shampoo; he looked at her hair and thought he wanted to run his fingers through it; he saw her hands and was reminded of how well she had held him where it drove him mad. When he found himself peeking through the collar of her shirt to get a better glimpse of her bra-bound breasts, he knew he was being an absolute prat.

He had begged leave, telling her he had a few things to attend to around the house. So she let him go, promising to look for him when she was done reading.

There was a sound at the door, and it caught Harry’s attention. He saw Hermione emerge and he smiled. She smiled back.

“Have you been here all day?” she asked, settling on the railing beside him.

“No. Not really. I’ve just been walking around the house after I left you in the library; checking things out.” And he had, opening doors and sitting in rooms as he explored the house. Maybe he had expected Sirius’s ghost to be hiding somewhere just waiting for someone to find him. He found no miserable, spectral form of his Godfather, but ghosts were plenty in the house. There were echoes and reminders of Sirius, simply because it was one of the few things Harry knew about him. The snooty paintings and dust-aged furniture in parts of the rundown house reminded Harry that Sirius had endured twelve years in Azkaban, and that was the reason Grimmauld Place had stood unlived in for that length of time.

There was a heaviness in his heart as he stared at the watermarked walls and cracked ceilings, but Harry surmised there was more guilt than pain. He had told Dumbledore last year that Sirius would not have wanted him to grieve; that Sirius would have wanted him to move on, but Harry wondered if he hadn’t so conveniently said that just because he was done grieving, and that he felt he needed a worthy excuse to go on without having to think too much about Sirius anymore.

Dumbledore’s loss was ever more palpable, and Harry asked himself if his refusal to go back to Hogwarts bore the same reasoning as his refusal to acknowledge that twelve Grimmauld Place had been bequeathed to him by Sirius.

“Did you find anything interesting?” she asked.

He shook his head.

After a moment’s pause, he felt her nudge his arm with something. He looked. It was a small wrapped box with a dainty ribbon.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” she said, grinning.

He couldn’t help but return the smile. He took the box and tore into the wrapper.

The wrapper came off easily and he found a black velvet box, like something that would hold jewelry. He opened it and found what looked like a compass on a chain. The chain had a clip on the end, with teeth, so it could be attached to anything. The compass itself was set in a simple elegant design of gleaming silver, but its face was a fairy tale dream of cows jumping over the moon, blackbirds in a pie, Georgie Porgie kissing girls and Jack jumping over the candlestick. There were more images that moved about, the scenery changing at every turn.

“Interesting,” said Harry, examining it more closely. The needle in it turned continuously, and the North, South, East and West symbols seemed to be moving as well.

“It’s a Finder,” she said, grinning. “It’s spelled to find whatever it is you’re looking for. It’s got its limits of course. Distance is one. It covers only a certain radius, though I’m told it’s a rather large radius at that. Also, if the object you’re looking for is magic protected or if you’ve never seen the object before, it won’t work, but for things you’ve seen and even landmark places you’ve been to, it’s terribly handy.”

Harry grinned. “Wicked. So if I’m lost in the Forbidden Forest, I can find my way to Hogwarts again?”

“Yes, because while Hogwarts has magical wards on it, it isn’t unplottable,” she said. “You just have to think about Hogwarts clearly, say the incantation with the name of the place and it will make the finder work. The needle in it will point the way. You’ll even know where North lies. See? It’s like an instant point me charm. The markers move in response to its true direction.”

Harry tested the markers and saw that it was true. “So I can’t exactly find Grimmauld Place?”

“That’s right, but you can find the house next to it.” She smiled. “You just have to be smarter than the Finder, is all. The incantation is locare then say the object’s name or the place you’re looking for. The pictures on the face stand still while it’s locating the object or place. The pictures will move again when you’ve come in contact with what you’re looking for, or if you’re standing where you’re supposed to be. If the pictures aren’t moving and the needle is spinning, it means you’re on top of the object or place but you’re not in contact with it. Give it a go with something.”

“Alright, then,” he said, smiling. “Why don’t you go back into the house, hide and I’ll see if I can find you.”

She pouted. “You weren’t listening! It can’t find people!”

He chuckled. “I was listening, and I’m telling you, I can find you. Go on then. I’ll give you ten counts.”

“But—“

“One.”

Excitement blazed in her eyes and she bit her lip.

He grinned. “Two.”

“I’m going! You won’t find me, Potter!” she yelled as she took off back into the house.

He laughed. “Three!”

He heard her give a shriek as she barreled down the stairs, probably in twos and threes.

He considered foregoing the rest of the counts, just because she was adorable and he wanted to get to her already, but he was a man of honor after all, and he did give it a fair count to ten, after which he looked to his compass, muttered the incantation and called out the object.

The moving pictures on the face came to a slow halt as the needle swung round before it settled on a direction.

The mischievous chuckle that escaped him made him realize that he was really going to enjoy this.

He followed the needle and wondered what floor she would be in. It was possible she was on the third floor landing, because that was about as much as he heard when she went down the stairs, but Hermione was smarter than that. It was possible that she had crept the rest of the way to the second floor, just so he wouldn’t hear.

He scanned the third floor first and found himself in one of the many rooms. He walked the floor and at one point, the needle began to spin wildly, but the pictures remained unmoving.

Harry laughed. She’s under this room.

Off he hurried to the second floor and straight for the room he was looking for.

He peeped in cautiously. It was the linen room. Some of the piles of cloth looked dusty and long unused, but there were fresh piles all around as well of blankets and towels and folded curtains. There were carpets rolled up and piled in one corner and he saw Hermione’s wand placed distinctly atop it.

He chuckled. Clever girl.

A smirk spread on his lips. But I’m cleverer.

He looked at his compass and found that she was somewhere by the tall pile of floor pillows. There was nowhere to hide behind so he could only assume she was standing somewhere there, probably in his invisibility cloak.

Closing the door behind him, he went to her carefully. He didn’t want to barrel into her, did he? But he did want to catch her. He grinned when the needle indicated that she had stepped around him.

With perfect timing, he reached out and estimated her middle, catching her by the waist.

She shrieked as he grabbed her and he laughed when the invisibility cloak fell away from her head.

“Ha! Caught!” he declared. “I told you I’d find you.”

She giggled, making a poor attempt at trying to get away from his clutches as she held the cloak firmly around her body. “You did! But how? See, I left my wand over there! I was sure you were using it as a focus object.”

He was very pleased by his success. “I was going to use the wand, yes, but I thought better of it, knowing you’d figure it out. I used a different focus object.”

“Oh, you did?” she said softly. “What, pray tell?”

“Something you’re wearing, of course!”

“What I’m wearing?” she asked with affected surprise. “But Harry, my clothes are over there.”

Her svelte arm poked out from beneath the cloak and she pointed to an indistinct pile of clothes somewhere among the towels.

His heart skipped a beat as he looked, and indeed, there were her jeans and t-shirt. On top of it was her wrist watch and on the floor her sneakers. He looked back at her, realizing that she was still holding the cloak to conceal most of her.

With growing excitement, he parted the cloak and let his hands slide inside. He touched skin and it was hot. His breathing began to get heavy.

She let the cloak slip from off her shoulders and it pooled to the floor. She was in her lacy maroon bra and knickers, and on her feet were her cute ankle socks. He could see her wiggle her toes beneath the cloth.

“I’m a little shy,” she said, her eyes impish.

He let out a breath to control his raging lust. He ran one hand up her back to pull her to him while the other touched the soft lace of her bra. The needle on the compass stopped spinning and the pictures began to move.

“My focus object,” he said huskily, running his fingers underneath the straps.

She smiled, pressing herself closer to him. “Clever boy… I wasn’t sure if you saw it in the library.”

“I peeked.”

“I thought you did. I was going to remove everything, you know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because I wanted you to find me.”

He kissed her, and as she returned his kiss, their arms tightening around each other desperately. She led him to the pillows where he lowered himself upon her.

Harry’s heartbeat triple-timed and the tightness in his trousers was instantaneous. She was so soft beneath him, and the scent of her skin was intoxicating. He kissed her slowly, relishing the feel of her lips and tongue against his.

Lowering his hand, he ran his palm along her thigh. He squeezed the back of her thighs and pulled the rest of her leg around his waist. Gently, he pressed himself between her legs.

She gave a soft moan, pushing her hips to meet him.

Thoughts and emotions swirled chaotic inside him and he realized that this was the sort of relationship he was going to lead with Hermione from that moment on.

While it was perfectly clear that they were completely willing to give in to this physical need they had for one another, it was unclear whether they were willing to breach certain other lines that shall remain nameless as of yet.

“Take off your shirt, Harry,” she whispered.

He did with her help, and it was during this brief struggle with fabric that she managed to push him to the side so that she was on top of him. Before he could figure out just exactly what she was doing, her lips were on his chest and she was sucking gently on his skin.

A hiss escaped his teeth. Seeing her prowling over him like this in her lacy knickers was intensely erotic. He ran his fingers trough her hair, cupping her face so he could coax her lips upon his. She obliged him for several blessed moments and he slid his hands down her spine, slipping his fingers beneath her knickers so he could squeeze her bum.

The moan that reverberated from her throat was exquisite, but then she pulled away and he tried to chase her back to him. She pressed fingers to his lips and she smiled.

“It’s your birthday, Harry,” she whispered. “I think maybe I’d like to… give you a little something…”

“I know you do,” he whispered back. “We’ll give it to each other. Please—“

“Later.”

Somehow, she had turned that word into a world of promise.

She leaned back and rose up, her knees on either side of him. She began to undo the belt of his trousers, her eyes watching his face with a naughty glimmer. He reached and pulled at the front of her knickers and she slapped his hand pertly.

This surprised him, almost shocked him, a blush rising to his face. She had done the same thing to him, once upon a time in third year, when he tried to grab hold of her time-turner, but the thoughts he had now compared to then were so different it almost disturbed him.

“Naughty, Harry James Potter,” she said darkly. It sent a ripple of pleasure through him.

His belt undone, she took his wand and summoned hers from its perch across the room. Her wand slipped into her hand and she waved it. His trainers and socks came right off, followed by his trousers and boxers.

She clasped his erection and he groaned at the motion of her hand. Closing his eyes, he began to push his hips up into her grip to a rhythm he found most pleasurable. Her other hand carefully massaged the rest of him and he was just about to smile at the blessings of it all when an explosion of sensation assaulted him.

Her mouth; her perfect mouth had taken him in. Her hands remained at the base of him, moving and clutching with perfect pressure, but her lips and her tongue worked its slick way over his dick and he couldn’t believe how heinously wonderful it felt.

“Oh, God,” he gasped, his fists grabbing the pillows beneath him.

As much as he wanted to sink into oblivion and let her take him to the edge, he wanted desperately to see if she looked as good as she felt. She was amazing to behold and the groans that escaped him were beyond his control.

He hoped to Merlin that nobody heard them because he was in no condition to cast anything competently. No silencing charms; no locking charms; no nothing.

Her rhythm changed and he found himself alternately holding her head and pushing himself into her mouth. His cries became desperate and her moaning was only making the sensations all the more mind-blowing.

If he didn’t speak up soon, he was going to lose it. “H-Hermione, not like this. Not—“

The motion of her hands never paused, but she looked up, concern etching her features. “Don’t you like it?”

“Sweet Merlin singing, I love it,” he gasped. “But I want you. I want to be—please, just come here.”

He cupped her face and coaxed her up. She followed his gentle pull but soon found herself in his desperate embrace.

His kiss was demanding, his frustration of not being inside her pouring from his lips and tongue to hers. She made a sensual sound as he let his erection rub against her knickers.

He removed her bra with a twist of his fingers and he cupped her breast in his hand as he flipped them over.

She gasped his name, half-protest-half-plea.

A coherent thought broke through his haze and made him smile. She had wanted control and he had taken it away, but he was determined not to make her regret it. He dipped his hands into her knickers and let his fingers slide into her, rubbing his thumb just where it drove her to gasping.

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she squirmed helplessly.

“Harry… just…”

He smirked, loving her utter loss of composure; loving it more that he was causing it. “Just what?”

She lost her train of thought for a few more seconds before she clutched desperately at his shoulders. She was saying something about her knickers; something to do with not caring about them.

Harry leaned down and took her breast into his mouth. Her hands clasped his head, pressing him to her as she writhed against his hand. The sounds she made began to echo in his head, rendering his self-control completely useless against it.

Pushing himself up to his knees, he took the edges of her knickers and ripped them off. The second he realized what he had done, he felt overwhelming shock at his own impatience.

Good lord, what’s gotten into me? Was that necessary?

He was about to apologize when her voice cut through his thoughts.

“Oh, Harry,” she moaned. “I thought you’d never get around to doing that!”

He almost swooned at her words. His arousal surged and without even thinking, he lifted her hips by the back of her thighs and entered her.

The initial surprise on her face faded as the sensations flooded over them.

Harry couldn’t believe what he was doing. He had, on numerous occasions, fantasized about this particular position, but he had never put a familiar face to the women he did it to in his dreams. In his mind, a proper missionary position was the only way to go for the woman he cared for. It was respectable, and it was pleasurable to them both. But as he did this to Hermione, knowing without a doubt that there was no woman he respected more and cared for more deeply in his life, he was shocked at how fantastic it felt and how right it seemed. And she… she was loving it. She was just begging for him to keep going.

He did, and just when he thought the visual stimulation, the movements and the sounds were too much for him to bear, she tightened around him and moaned her climax. He watched, relishing his success, and seeing her come undone because of him was as much as he could take. He leaned forward so he could clamp his mouth over hers while he came, letting her lips muffle his groans as he made his final thrusts inside her.

Spent, he leaned his forehead against hers. They panted for breath, sweat filming their skin as they gasped to recover.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to lean back a bit. He didn’t want his glasses making her uncomfortable. But her arms encircled him, letting him rest his head on her shoulder with his body half-draped over hers.

“I’m heavy,” he protested softly.

“I like it,” was her quiet reply.

He relaxed a bit and he sighed happily, closing his eyes. Her fingers in his hair felt wonderful and he showed his appreciation by placing soft kisses on her throat.

“I wish you’d have let me do what I wanted to do,” she said with a chuckle.

He smirked. “Is that a complaint?”

“Heavens, no. Are you kidding me?”

He tucked his arm around her, pressing them closer together as he grinned.

“Just that…” she continued. “I—well…”

Harry raised his head slightly to look at her. She was blushing. “What?

“I wanted to—erm—taste.”

If he had been able, he swore he would have gotten a hard-on right then, but he was sated and spent for the meantime, so all he could be was surprised.

She pinched his nose affectionately. “But this turned out wonderfully, anyway. I’ll get my chance next time.”

There was really nothing he could do except smile foolishly at his smashing good fortune.

He rolled over to his side and gathered her in his arms, spooning her comfortably in his embrace. He buried his nose in her wonderful hair and smiled. “I’m so glad I found you,” he murmured. He wasn’t sure what the extent of his feelings were as he said it, but one way or another, whether he was talking about Hide and Go Seek or the unexpected turn their relationship had taken, he meant every word.

3. Chapter Second: Dazed

Author’s notes: More HBP tie-ups here. Smut’s pretty mild, but Harry and Hermione are still all over each other. Can’t be helped. Their hormones are getting away from me.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: NC-17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Second: Dazed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The two weeks that followed was strangely Weasley free. Not that they didn’t want Ron to be there, but they had quite a few things to work out between them, still, and perhaps it was better if Ron wasn’t there to interrupt all the time.

Ron wrote them, of course, and Harry was just glad Ron hadn’t asked him questions about Hermione. He didn’t know if he could stand to lie to Ron about her, and he wasn’t sure how to say what he had to say about it, either.

Harry had wondered, time and again, how he was going to break such a thing to their best friend, especially if Ron fancied her.

Oh, by the way, Ron, he imagined himself writing. Hermione and I have been sleeping together every day, sometimes two times a day, in the last two weeks. I hope that’s alright with you.

The mere prospect of it made him groan.

Hermione was mum about what Ron wrote her. She certainly didn’t look as if they bothered her, and Harry thought that was a good sign. Of course, the fact that Ron had mentioned absolutely nothing about it could mean it was bad, too.

Harry wondered if Hermione was capable of lying to Ron to spare his feelings but realized that Hermione would never do such a thing.

Ginny wrote to him, as well.

Her letters were filled with chatter and good cheer, as if they had never been anything more than friends in the sixth year but he noticed, with slight apprehension, that she always signed her letters, “Love, Ginny.”

He didn’t know if it meant anything, but he thought maybe he had to be careful about what he wrote her back.

His first reply to Ginny was a smashing failure, as after he gave it a read, it was filled with “Hermione and I” and “We” and “Us.”

Honestly, why don’t I just tell her Hermione and I just finished showering together and that my hair’s still wet as I’m writing this?

He didn’t want to encourage Ginny, but he didn’t want to be mean if she still had feelings for him, either. So he had to redo his letter, crossing out sentences and phrases. He left a smattering of “Hermione and I” while he sprinkled some Remus in the mix. The letter ended up being very short, and it occurred to him that it was because everything he had been doing included Hermione somehow, and that left very little to tell if he was going to avoid “Hermione and I” in his letters.

By the fourth letter, Harry was tired of editing and decided that he would just write whatever came to mind. Consequently, that lengthened the letter a bit, but only because “Hermione and I” wasn’t being edited out anymore.

Ginny stopped writing after the seventh letter.

When Remus told them at dinner that Ron and Arthur would be arriving the following day at Grimmauld Place, Harry tried not to look so flustered. He desperately avoided meeting Hermione’s eyes as he was sure Remus would find them out if he was caught looking.

Remus had, for the most part, said nothing about having seen them kissing in Harry’s bedroom. They were careful, anyhow, not to get caught kissing or doing God Knew What.

Harry prayed the old werewolf really didn’t know the things they did when he wasn’t around, and that he wasn’t just turning a blind eye to it all.

Even Harry blushed at the mere memory of how he and Hermione had carried on in the last two weeks. Mrs. Black would be hideously outraged.

He didn’t know what got into him, sometimes. He wasn’t exactly the most experienced young man in the world (not by a long shot!), but he had, in the two short weeks he had been with Hermione, begun to understand what “chemistry” meant. It was almost crazy how he often felt that he knew exactly what he was doing in that respect, and the fact that Hermione never complained about when, where and how hadn’t helped his self restraint, either.

After their adventure in the linen room, they seemed to have made a playground of the entire house. They’d done it in the most likely and unlikely places. And the library! Oh, how they liked that library!

Sometimes, he would find himself spacing out and thinking, Good heavens! I did that? WE did that? But quite understandably, it wasn’t something he thought anywhere near dreadful. The inevitable blush that followed was almost always attached to a grin.

Being with her was slowly becoming some kind of obsession. He didn’t know if it was healthy, but it felt so good that he didn’t lose sleep thinking about it. All he knew was that hearing and feeling her pushed over the edge was essential.

She was certainly intent on driving him spare with lust. He didn’t know how she knew so much about the male anatomy, and he could only surmise that she had read up on it, but he wasn’t about to complain, either. The woman knew how to turn him into some kind of randy maniac, and while he didn’t mind this in the least, it was almost as if she were punishing him for something, because she would work him up in the most inopportune times, usually when he can do nothing but wait until the coast was clear before he had her shoved up against the wall and—well, there went the general idea.

Overall, it had been a complete escape from his worries; his entire life, really. With her, he hadn’t had to think about the sordid details of horcruxes, or Dark Lords, or Ministries. He wondered if she somehow decided he needed this escape and that she was doing all of it for him.

He hoped not. It was more gratifying to know that she was doing it for herself, as well. Being with her; getting lost in her, had been half about giving her something, too. And it wasn’t just sexual, either. It was the comfortable companionship; the pleasant promises that her mere presence implied; the quiet laughter and those words they exchanged with their eyes.

He sighed.

So now Ron and Arthur would be there the next day. It was like a wrench in the fantasy and he would soon have to face the reality of it all. Funny how he had considered the Weasleys to be his escape, two week ago.

Harry’s eyes practically glazed over at the prospect of Hermione wreaking mad havoc on his libido now that surely, they wouldn’t have as many opportunities to be alone.

“Will they be spending the rest of the summer with us, then?” asked Hermione in a perfectly unaffected voice.

“Just Ron, and yes, he is expected to spend the rest of summer here,” said Remus, smiling gently. “Funny how you say that. Are you going somewhere in the fall? Should I take this to mean then that you’re planning to go back to Hogwarts if it opens?”

That knocked Harry out of his stupor. He looked at Hermione and saw that there was nothing but cold determination there.

“I’ll only go back to Hogwarts if Harry does,” she said.

Remus looked shocked by this, and Harry felt an overwhelming wave of warmth. He knew what Hogwarts meant to Hermione. He knew that under any other circumstance, Hermione wouldn’t forego Hogwarts for anything, yet here she was, telling Remus without a hint of hesitation that she would skip Hogwarts if Harry did.

Just for that, Harry wondered if he should go back at all, just so she could.

“And he can’t, really,” she continued, as if determined to settle the matter as she calmly scooped some mashed potatoes on her plate. “He has a world of important things to do. I’m going to help him. Ron said he’d join us, of course. He said so in his letters. So he’s not going back to Hogwarts either.”

“Hermione…” Harry breathed, awed by her friendship and loyalty.

She flashed him a radiant smiled. He thought maybe that was the moment he realized he loved her. There were a million other things that made her the kind of special girl he always thought she was; he might have loved her forever, for all he knew, but it was then he really said it to himself, and meant it.

Christ almighty, I love this woman.

Remus wasn’t quite so emotional. He frowned. “Hermione, are you sure? And I can ask the same of you, Harry. I understand the importance of everything; this war; its consequences; but school… it’s important, too. And Hermione, shoot me with a silver bullet if you don’t become Head Girl this year.”

She shrugged. “It’s just a title, Remus. What am I going to do with that when we’re fighting a war? Deduct house-points from a Death Eater? I don’t think Antonin Dolohov is going to defer to me when I tell him to drop his wand because I’m Head Girl.”

I love her. I truly do. I truly, madly, deeply love her.

But in spite of his inner revelations, he took control of himself and sighed, half-exasperated with himself. “Hermione, it means a lot to me that you’re doing this, but Remus has a point.”

“Shut it, Potter. There’s nothing they can teach me in Hogwarts that I don’t already know. Why do you think I’ve been spending so much time in the library?”

He looked at her, eyebrow raised. So we can shag?

She reddened, seeing the answer in his eyes. To her credit, she kept her poise valiantly. “To do some seventh year reading, is what. And while I might have to devote some extra time in the future to try brewing some potions for practice, I think I’d be able to pass my N.E.W.T.s with reasonable results should I ever get the notion to take them.”

He supposed he should have expected that she would still think about taking her N.E.W.T.s. She was Hermione after all.

Remus sighed, the determination in her eyes making it clearer that he wasn’t going to convince her to go back to school. If he couldn’t get Hermione to go back to Hogwarts, then there was little to be hoped from Harry and Ron.

“Minerva’s going to blame me for this,” Remus grumbled. “I just know it.”

Hermione grinned. “Oh, she won’t. I have a nice long letter prepared for her when we’re asked back. She’ll be terribly disappointed in me, of course, but she isn’t going to be blaming anyone for it.”

Harry thought briefly that McGonagall might blame him for leading her favorite student astray, but to his surprise, Hermione smiled at him and put a hand on his thigh, rubbing it reassuringly.

He smiled back, reaching for some pot roast, when her hand crept higher, her fingers brushing just where it sent tingles through his poor, tormented Harry-kins.

Didn’t even wait until pudding, he thought morosely.

He dealt her a glare. She merely smiled up at him and continued to eat her dinner as if nothing was amiss. Remus certainly didn’t think anything was wrong.

Harry stifled a sigh. Punishment indeed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione giggled as Harry knocked over a tall stack of books and swept them off the hip-high shelf, sending the books splattering to the floor.

“Oh, dear!” she whispered as he swept her up and plopped her on the cleared space.

He kissed her then, parting her legs so he could stand between them. Running his hands up her thighs as he pushed her flouncy white skirt up, his fingers groped for knickers. He was delighted to discover that she didn’t have any.

“Why, Ms. Granger,” he said in a softly playful tone. “How very considerate of you to do away with the formalities!”

She smiled as she bit her lip. “Think nothing of it, Mr. Potter. We’re all friends here.” She began to work on his trousers, undoing the buttons with expert ease. Soon enough she had her hands inside his boxers, stroking him with one hand and massaging the rest of him with the other.

He let her work, his eyes rolling back in his head with a groan.

“Like that?” she asked with a satisfied smirk.

He looked at her, seeing that gleam in her eyes that bespoke mischief. She seemed to find a sick pleasure in tormenting him until he would come undone before she did. Since that first night, he hadn’t failed her yet, and while he didn’t think she wanted him to fail, he could only assumed that she liked seeing him work for his rewards. Like really work.

Maybe she IS punishing me. For all those years I never noticed how utterly exquisite she is.

So when she asked if he liked this, there was simply no other way to say it.

“Excessively,” he said.

He grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands out of his underpants, putting them over his shoulders to keep them as far away from mischief as possible; at least for the moment. Then he let his fingers work, sliding into her in the rhythm she loved.

She was instantly more compliant.

Moaning appreciatively, she pulled him down for a kiss, biting lightly on his lips.

“Harry,” she breathed. “You do realize that tomorrow—“

“We’ll worry about that when Ron gets here, yes?” he said softly, slipping off his trousers and boxers.

He kissed her while he entered her, their combined moans muffled by the press of their lips and tongue. He held her thighs tight while he stroked himself in her, setting a rhythm that would prolong their joining.

She squirmed, pushing for a faster pace.

“No, you don’t,” he whispered in her ear as he bit the lobe of it. “You don’t get me worked-up at the dinner table and expect that I won’t draw this out for as long as I want.”

She pouted as she moaned in frustration. “Harry… I was only teasing…”

He chuckled. “Yes, you were, and now I’m making you pay for it.”

A hiss escaped her lips, but she made no further complaint. He wasn’t the only one who liked getting punished.

He did as he promised, dragging it along for as long as he could take it. Finally, she begged him to put her out of her misery. The begging always broke him. He gave in to her, picking up the pace. She was very appreciative of his mercies and she let him know it.

So from that point on, holding back was a tad more difficult.

It was practically a miracle that he managed to hold off long enough to feel her come, and he let the clenching of her inner muscles take him with her. It was a spectacularly orgasmic tumble.

When coherent thought returned to him, he realized they were panting heavily, they were sweaty and they both seemed quite exhausted.

He pushed the damp hair from off her forehead as he looked down on her upturned face. “I wish you can sleep with me tonight.”

“D’you think it would shock Ron so much if he found us in bed together?”

He smiled wanly. “You tell me.”

She said nothing, probably analyzing what he meant by it, exactly. He was thinking about Ron’s letters when he said it, and this was the first time he would bring it up. He had been wondering what her correspondence with Ron consisted of, and maybe he was still insecure.

“He hasn’t brought ‘us’ up directly,” she replied.

“Us?”

“Him and I,” she replied softly.

He steeled his features. “There’s that now, is there?”

She frowned a bit. “Don’t be daft, Harry. I’m sitting here and you’re still inside me. How can you ask me that?”

In retrospect, how indeed can he feel so insecure at that particular moment? He reddened, caressing her cheeks apologetically before stepping back to pull his trousers back on. “Sorry… so he hasn’t brought your relationship up directly?” With his trousers in place, he held out his hand and she took it.

He led them to the couch, settling her down so he had her legs across his lap while she leaned against the armrest.

She nodded at his question. “He said that he’s really looking forward to seeing me at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, and that I—“ She blushed, pointing at him warningly. “Don’t laugh.”

“Well, is it funny?”

“He said that he can’t wait to see how beautiful I’ll look.”

“Him and me, both.” He caressed her calf, squeezing gently.

Her cheeks glowed pink in the candlelight and she smiled shyly. “Well, anyway, I always pretend I’m not getting the hint when he gets that way. I can’t exactly turn him down because he’s not saying anything that needs turning down. I just say that I’m looking forward to being there with the both of you, and really daft things like that. I’ve tried to bring it up myself, but knowing I’d be letting him down… sometimes I feel there’s no saying it on paper. It just seems cowardly to do that, or maybe I’m really just being more of a coward by putting it off altogether.”

“Well,” he muttered. “Ginny certainly hasn’t reacted to… you and I.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You—You told her? You told Ginny about what we’re—you know!”

Harry was beginning to think she wanted to keep their affair a secret forever. “Not that, but I made it quite clear that I’ve been spending a lot of time with you. She stopped writing last week. Probably means she figured out something was… up.” He had an urge to giggle at that last word, but the look on her face chased any giddy thoughts away.

She stared at him as if he’d grown horns and a third eye.

He frowned. “What?”

“You realize that it if you want to go back to Ginny…”

Merlin, is she still on about that?

“Hermione, I don’t want to go back to Ginny.”

She was quiet for a while before she shifted and curled against him, leaning her head on his shoulder. She gave as sigh, as if completely content to be where she was and he put his arm around her, closing his eyes as he kissed her forehead tenderly.

They talked a bit more after a comfortable silence, murmuring about silly, nonsensical things like Felix Felicis potions and Slughorn and even Cormac McLaggen. Slowly, they slipped into easy sleep, exhausted from their earlier efforts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry felt someone nudging him in his sleep. He opened his eyes and half expected to see Hermione peering down at him. He was about to reach out and pull her into bed when he realized that it wasn’t Hermione but Ron staring at him from above, looking very upset.

Harry groaned. Whatever melodrama Ron had, and whatever time it was, it was too early. He shifted, determined to ignore Ron, but his movement was hampered, for a couple of reasons. One, his bed was too small and two, someone was lying on top of him; someone very soft.

His eyes widened and his first thought was, Good Lord! Ron found us in bed!

His second thought was that he needed to cover Hermione with a blanket.

But there was no blanket. In fact, there was no bed, and Hermione was perfectly decent in her flouncy white skirt and linen beige sleeveless top, even if she did forego the knickers.

There was the problem that his hands were around her, and that she was perfectly content half draped on him while she lay tucked between him and the back of the couch, but the real issue was that Ron had come upon them that way, and that likely, it looked quite bad.

Harry could either panic and jump off the couch, treating Hermione to a very rude awakening, or he could play this out as calmly as he could, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with this picture.

He couldn’t very well say that it wasn’t what Ron thought, as it was exactly what Ron thought, and that denying it would be tantamount to lying, which Harry didn’t want to do.

So summoning his nerve, Harry signaled Ron for quiet as he carefully extricated himself from Hermione’s embrace.

It was going really well until Hermione gave a soft complaint and murmured his name quite audibly.

Shite. This is going to be a hard sell.

He turned and led Ron out of the library.

When they were out in the hallway, Harry tried to sound as nonchalant as possible. “Late night, studying. Been doing it all week, too. I think it finally caught up on her.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. Hermione had been studying when Harry came barging into the library to study her. And of course, she was quite tired after all that.

Ron eyed him suspiciously. “You were studying too?”

Harry shrugged. “Keeping her company and bothering her, mostly.” Boy, did I BOTHER her. “Where’s Mr. Weasley at?” Harry asked to keep the conversation going.

“Downstairs with Remus.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs then. I need to go to the loo.”

Ron nodded, eyeing him still as he headed for the stairs. Harry made for the bathroom just to appease some of Ron’s suspicions.

He washed his face, brushed his teeth and tried straightening his clothes. When he was more presentable, he made straight for the library. Somehow, letting Hermione go down knickerless didn’t sit well with him.

He gently nudged her awake. She stirred, blinking languorously and smiling as she reached out to run her fingers through his hair.

It killed him to break the news when she looked so content, but he had to. “Ron’s here.”

She froze and her smile disappeared. Her hand dropped and she sighed, stretching lazily on the couch. A swath of skin peeped between her skirt and blouse and he had a strong urge to touch it. He always liked seeing her in the morning, all drowsy and relaxed and filled with a million possibilities. It was such a turn-on, but he didn’t think it very prudent to start anything at this time, as Ron was downstairs with scenarios already running through his head because of what he’d seen earlier.

“He saw us,” said Harry. “On the couch.”

She stopped stretching, mid-arch, then she slumped back down. “I suppose we were going to have to deal with this sooner or later.”

He nodded. He wished he could be as cavalier about it.

“Go on ahead. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

He rubbed her tummy for a bit, giving in to his earlier impulse and rose to go to the kitchen.

Ron was stuffing pancakes in his mouth on one end of the table. His unbelievably long legs stuck out from beneath. He was at least an inch taller than Arthur now, and he showed no signs of stopping anytime soon if the amount of food on his plate was any indication.

Arthur greeted Harry with the same warmth and enthusiasm Harry had come to expect from him.

“We would have gotten here sooner you know, if we hadn’t been pressed to finish a few Order matters.”

Harry was surprised by this. Ron hadn’t mentioned anything like that at all. He looked at his best friend. “You’ve been doing Order tasks?”

Ron nodded. “Oh, dad’s quiet about the details, so I don’t really know anything, but I did a bit of body-guarding for him with Fred and George. I reckon what dad’s been doing is way too important for him to be left by himself.”

Arthur blushed. “Well, of course it was important, but I think the intelligence I delivered is far more important than I am. It had to be done, you understand, even if we’re without a leader at the moment.”

Harry had been wondering about that particular bit. He looked to Remus. “How does the Order choose a leader?”

Remus seemed amused. “We don’t know, really. Albus set up the group and led it ever since. We’ve never had to get a new one.”

He found that to be very unsettling. “Well, I’ve never heard of a proper group without a leader. Shouldn’t choosing a leader be the Order’s first priority now?”

Arthur nodded. “It is, but there’s a—“ he paused, clearing his throat while looking quite displeased “—matter that members can’t seem to come to agree on, for some silly reason or another.”

“What matter?”

Arthur and Remus exchanged looks. Harry turned a questioning eyebrow at Ron who merely shrugged.

Remus looked to the stairs. “Is Hermione waking up anytime soon? I’d rather she be here for this.”

Harry’s face registered surprise.

Ron began to stand up, his breakfast yet unfinished. “I’ll go get her.”

“I met her on the hall coming down here,” said Harry. “She’ll be down in a while. What’s this about, Remus?”

Ron sat back down, shooting him another suspicious look. Harry ignored it.

“In a while, Harry,” said Remus. “We’ll wait for Hermione.”

Harry tried not to be so worried as they waited. He helped himself to some breakfast and Arthur cheerfully made conversation.

Fifteen minutes later, Hermione emerged, showered by the likes of her. She was back in jeans and a well-fitting sports shirt, like a football jersey. Her curly hair of brown shiny ringlets fell unhampered, halfway down her back now. Last time Ron saw her, she had her shorter hair tied up, either in a tight ponytail or a bun. Now it was loose, and it gave Hermione a whole new different look, like she was unfettered. Harry found it very appealing. Ron did too, it seemed, if the look he gave her was any indication.

Harry took consolation in the fact that she didn’t even notice Ron looking.

“Hullo, Ron. Hullo, Mr. Weasley.” She gave Ron a pat on his shoulder as she passed him and she gave Arthur a daughterly kiss on the cheek.

Harry saw Ron’s gaze following her. He frowned.

“Hullo, dear,” Arthur said. “How are you parents?”

She went for the coffee pot. “Perfectly fine. I think they saw Tonks the other day. Daddy said there was a strange, green haired woman that kept loitering outside their clinic.”

Remus looked a bit alarmed.

Arthur, however, smirked. “Sounds like her.”

Hermione looked at him squarely as she held up her mug. “Is the Order guarding them, then? I didn’t realize they were in danger.”

Arthur winced, looking like he had let something slip.

Remus certainly shot Arthur a slanted glare, as if to scold Arthur for it.

Arthur hastened to explain. “Well, it’s just a precaution, really. Nothing to worry about.”

She leaned against the sink, sipping from her mug. They could all feel her displeasure, however controlled her face was.

“You know,” she began. “You can’t keep doing that. You can’t always keep us in the dark. Not anymore. We’re all adults now.”

Harry stared at her in mild shock. She wasn’t being disrespectful, but she was talking awfully grown up to Arthur.

He looked at Ron who seemed even more shocked that he was.

After a moment, Arthur sighed and exchanged looks with Remus.

Remus nodded.

“Hermione,” said Arthur. “Please sit down. You can have breakfast while we talk about all this. You’re right, of course. You’re not children anymore.”

Satisfied that she got her point across, she sat, taking the seat beside Harry. She smiled up at him, a hint of triumph in her gaze. He couldn’t help but smile back. She was amazing.

When he looked back on the table, Ron was staring at him, scowling. Harry decided to completely ignore him for the moment.

“So,” she said, taking some toasted bread. “Why does the Order think my parents are in danger? They have nothing to do with any of this.”

“But they do,” said Remus. “They’re your parents, Hermione, and like it or not, you’ve gained the attention of Voldemort’s followers.”

She seemed surprised. “I’ve gained their attention? Where do I fit into the grand scheme of things? I’m just a pesky mudblood according to them.”

Everyone winced at the word.

Arthur blinked a few times before replying. “Whether they really believe that or not is immaterial. The fact of the matter is you’ve been identified as a willing participant in the fight against the Dark Lord and his minions. You’re a known supporter of Harry Potter and you’ve shown your worth on the matter of keeping him alive.”

Harry was beginning to feel terribly uncomfortable and her frown was deepening.

“But I wasn’t the only one in the Department of Mysteries,” she said. “And really, it’s the only time I can figure that they’ve marked me at all. Ron and Ginny are marked because those skull-faced degenerates think all Weasleys blood-traitors—no offense—“

“None taken,” said Arthur, looking rather proud, in fact.

“But the rest of us are just—well, we’re really just flunkies of a sort; Luna, Neville and I.”

Harry scowled. “You’re not a flunkie, Hermione.”

“I am,” she said. “I’m just a geek who knows how to use a wand. Everybody knows it.”

Harry bristled but she smirked, dispelling his annoyance, somewhat. He caught Ron staring at them and Harry felt like bristling anew. What was up with Ron and his looks?

“No matter what you think, Hermione,” said Arthur, “Harry is right. And we’ve some intelligence to prove that you’re quite marked, particularly because you’re muggle-born and you survived a Death Eater curse. By their twisted philosophies, you shouldn’t have survived Dolohov’s hex. They’ve taken your survival as a personal insult, of sorts.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “There’s intelligence?”

Arthur nodded. “Justin Finch-Fletchley called in a report last week, said his house was being stalked by Death Eaters. Apparently, he had relied on a cheap sneakoscope to come to the conclusion, but it proved sufficient enough. He was right. We think the Finch-Fletchleys would have fallen victim to a vicious attack if Justin hadn’t come and reported the stalkers. The Finch-Fletchleys have taken shelter somewhere else, but we’re keeping an eye on Justin’s house. So it seemed prudent to suppose that if the Death Eaters are interested in the Finch-Fletchleys…”

Harry groaned. “They’d be even more interested in the Grangers.” He felt fear pooling in the pit of his stomach. It was happening again. Someone he loved was in mortal danger.

Ron’s brows knotted. “What does Justin have to do with Hermione and her family?”

“Justin is muggle-born,” she said. “Both parents muggles. Just like me.”

Arthur remained grave. “You understand, of course, that the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters have no love whatsoever for muggles and muggle-borns. Justin fits their twisted profile for execution, but you… you’re a symbol, Hermione. You’re an ace student in Hogwarts, you’re Harry Potter’s friend… reported as his girlfriend once upon a time and you were in the Department of Mysteries—err—raid. They kill you and your parents, they get their point across in ways the Finch-Fletchleys’ demise couldn’t.”

She was finally quiet, and Harry wondered if she had been better off not knowing.

“So now they’re being guarded,” she said softly.

Remus nodded. “Round the clock, whether they’re at home or in their clinic.”

“And they don’t know about this?”

“They do, actually.”

Silence fell upon them and Harry could practically feel Hermione’s anger radiating off her.

“Well then, why didn’t they tell me about it?” she demanded.

Arthur smiled apologetically. “I think they just didn’t want you to worry, Hermione.”

“Worry! I can’t—then why did daddy tell me about Tonks, then?”

“He doesn’t know who Tonks is, dear. He was just probably telling you about a strange, green-haired woman. Our mistake.”

Hermione’s grip on her mug tightened. “I can’t believe this. I can’t believe they kept this from me. They usually tell me everything, and now they’re treating me like a child, too. The Order seems to be catching on that respect.”

Arthur looked crestfallen and Remus seemed mildly embarrassed.

Harry shot her a look of reproach and she sighed.

“I’m sorry,” said Hermione. “I didn’t mean that. You treated me like an adult just now and for that I’m grateful. I’m just mad my parents are keeping secrets from me.”

Remus gave her a conciliatory smile and Arthur grinned.

“Don’t be too hard on your parents, poppet,” Arthur said. “They always have your best interests at heart. You’ll know what I mean when you have little twins running around and getting in trouble at Hogwarts.” He glanced furtively at Ron as he said it and Ron’s eyes widened in horror.

Harry didn’t know he could ever feel resentment for Arthur, but that last comment about twins, coupled with the telling stare was practically a motive for murder, or at least a very uncomfortable slug-puking hex.

Splendid. Of course the father would root for the son, he thought bitterly.

Hermione blinked several times before forcing a tiny smile. The smile missed her eyes, but Arthur didn’t seem to think anything was amiss.

“Now to the next order of business,” said Arthur jovially. “The matter of leadership in the Order of the Phoenix. Since we lost Albus, the workings of the Order have been left in the hands of a governing body of sorts. Instead of appointing one leader, we’ve resorted to having deciding body. Senior members are represented by myself and Remus, the school is represented by Minerva and the Aurors are represented by Kingsley Shacklebolt. This circle of leadership has worked so far, but…”

Harry’s eyebrow arched, waiting for Arthur to continue. Whatever it was, it wasn’t easy for him to say.

“There’s no easy way to say this so I’ll just say it. Remus and I believe that you should be part of this board, Harry.”

Hermione and Ron’s jaw dropped, synchronized like.

It didn’t sink in on Harry quite as quickly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley, I thought I heard you say… WHAT?”

Arthur looked to Remus, as if in silent plea.

Remus leaned over the table. “You know that you have shown an uncanny ability to inspire a group of students to fight competently against the most senior of Death Eaters.”

“Uncanny ability?” cried Harry. “I almost got all of them killed! And it was because I stupidly believed Sirius was being held captive!”

“I was talking about last June Harry, at Hogwarts, when it fell under attack and students bravely rose to fight back,” said Remus. “And I understand that you led a group called Dumbledore’s Army in your fifth year, teaching your classmates Defense Against the Dark Arts. It’s the reason they had the confidence to fight back, after all, and let’s not forget Justin Finch-Fletchley. I doubt he learned ‘constant vigilance!’ all by himself. If not for Justin, Hermione’s parents might be dead right now.”

Harry paused a moment at that, but he shook his head. “First of all, the D.A. wasn’t my idea, it was Hermione’s, and second of all, I may be legally an adult, but even I can admit that I’m not old enough to be given this kind of responsibility.”

Remus sighed. “It’s not just that, you know. And I’d be lying if I told you this wasn’t the most important thing: In the last seventeen years, you’re the only one, aside from Albus, who has come in contact with Voldemort, fought him, and lived. You have an incredibly valuable perspective of his motives, Harry, and apart from that, you spent a lot of time with Albus during his last days. Knowing him, he shared with you a lot of vital information, whether you know it or not.”

Harry sighed. It always boiled down to being the Boy Who Lived, apparently. It was something he would have to accept sooner or later, but it didn’t make things any easier. “Look, I can sit in these… I dunno, meetings and give my input, but to decide on anything—“

“If your vote isn’t given any importance, then your input might be worthless. You’ll need leverage to start with. Giving you a vote is as much as we can do to help you along with that, but given time, you’ll earn the trust of your elders. Besides, if you just stand there without a vote and be Harry Bloody Potter, it wouldn’t be much different from Scrimgeor asking you to play Poster Boy for the Ministry.”

This was all too surreal for him. “Even if I took a fancy to being on this governing body, I can’t do it. I have too many things to work on. It’s the reason I’m not going back to Hogwarts at any rate. We have things to search for; things to find. We can’t do that if I’m on-call for meetings.”

Remus and Arthur looked perplexed at this.

Arthur gestured to speak. “Yes, I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. Ron told me you weren’t going back to Hogwarts, and that he and Hermione aren’t going if you’re not… what is more important that school, son?”

“I told you, we have to search for things.”

“What things?”

Harry exchanged looks with Hermione. She nodded.

“Horcruxes,” said Harry.

Remus’s eyes widened. “Horcru—“

“Voldemort’s Horcruxes,” Hermione said.

Remus now began to look ill and Arthur looked seriously perplexed.

“What is this Hoc-rucks?” Arthur asked.

“Horcrux, dad. And it’s very bad magic,” Ron replied in the same dark tone he used for words like “scarlet woman” or “He Who Must Not Be Named.”

“I have heard that it is very dark magic,” said Remus. “But I don’t know the details. There are no written references to it.”

Hermione looked to Harry and he realized she wanted him to explain. He was hoping she would take over for that, but he supposed she figured he would be the best authority in this matter. She had always been a stickler for accuracy and referring to the proper sources. At this point, he was the best reference they had.

He stifled a sigh, but he explained. “It involves the killing of another human being to create a rift in the soul, so that the torn pieces can be stored in an object, or a vessel.”

Arthur was properly shocked. “B-But why would anyone do such a thing?”

“It anchors the soul on Earth,” concluded Remus in awe. “So that if your corporeal self is killed, your horcrux prevents you from moving on to the beyond. You live, even if you’re only living on a fragment of your soul.”

Harry wasn’t surprised Remus caught on so quickly. The man was the brains in the Marauders after all.

Arthur looked utterly revolted. “That’s—that’s monstrous!”

Remus turned to Hermione. “And you say Voldemort made a horcrux? But of course! That seems to make sense; that he’s so difficult to kill and that he’s been rising from the dead.”

She nodded. “Harry has reason to believe Voldemort made seven horcruxes.”

“Good Lord,” Remus gasped. “Seven? Harry, where did you—“

“Dumbledore,” he replied. “Last year, all I did with him was look into Tom Riddle’s past. From what we learned of the stored memories about him, Dumbledore and I formed theories about the horcruxes. That there are seven is speculation, but it’s entirely possible based on the known facts. I think we’ve destroyed two. Dumbledore took care of Marvolo Gaunt’s ring and I destroyed Tom Riddle’s diary. Voldemort’s a piece in himself, so we’re looking at four more objects. We... Dumbledore and I believe that one object is Helga Hufflepuff’s cup. The other is Salazar Slytherin’s locket. I’m thinking the other two should be something from Rowena Ravenclaw and Godric Gryffindor.”

Remus scowled. “Voldemort always was a self-important bugger.”

Ron sputtered on his pumpkin juice and Harry was pleasantly surprised by Remus’s candid take on it. Hermione, however, seemed completely unbothered.

“At any rate,” she said loftily. “I think we’ve seen Slytherin’s locket. We just have to find it again.”

Harry whipped his gaze to her. “WHAT?”

Ron’s voice rang with him. He had completely given up on the pumpkin juice.

She reddened. “Well I—I’ve been doing research these last two weeks, see, just to make sure. I didn’t want to go traipsing around chasing theories… the locket. I think it was here, Harry. In this house. I had to go back on the Black family tree and all that, just to make sure that R.A.B. is Regulus Black—“

“Regulus!” gasped Harry. “But what—“

“You remember that summer we first came here, Harry? This place was a mess. We were cleaning, and we threw out some things…”

Harry’s eyes glazed over, remembering the time; remembering the moment when they had cleared out the bric-a-brac from those glass-fronted cabinets. There were rings with the Black family crest, snuffboxes, tweezers, silver-framed family photos and they also stumbled on a particularly interesting locket, one they couldn’t open…

“Bloody hell,” Ron said.

Harry stared at her in disbelief. “You’re right,” he whispered. “You’re brilliant… amazing!”

She blushed. “Well, it’s still just a theory, and I—well, I haven’t found the locket yet. I borrowed your Finder, Harry. I hope you don’t mind…”

He smiled at her adoringly. “Of course I don’t.” He paused for a heartbeat, realizing that she had referred to the locket being in the house in the past tense. “It’s not here, is it?”

“No, but it couldn’t have walked out by itself, so I’m guessing we can ask Mundungus if he happened to nick a silver locket during one of his raids. I think he’d remember how he got rid of a locket that couldn’t be opened. Knowing Old Dung, he wouldn’t simply toss something made of silver in the trash. He’ll do something with it to make money off it, and since it probably couldn’t be destroyed, being a horcrux and all, he couldn’t have had it melted. Either he still has the locket or he conned someone into giving him money for it. He’d be able to give us a solid lead of its whereabouts.”

Mundungus, thought Harry. Now he was in complete awe of her. It was difficult to maintain his composure in the face of such brilliance, and so he let himself admire her.

“But Dung’s—“ Ron began, wide-eyed. “Dung’s in Azkaban!”

That snapped Harry out of his reverie and as Ron’s words sunk in, he knew exactly what Hermione was going to say.

Hermione raised her chin. “Then we go to Azakaban.”

I knew she’d say that.

“What!” cried Ron in a rather shrill tone.

Harry met Remus and Arthur’s glances. They seemed resigned to the fact that Ms. Hermione Granger had made up her mind. There was no point in arguing about it at this time, in any case. They’d have to butt heads with her later.

“This is all—“ Arthur said, breaking the argument before it could progress further “—very disturbing, and frankly, aI agree with you; that finding these horcruxes is paramount, but it doesn’t change the fact that the Order needs Harry.”

Harry began to protest, but Arthur cut him off.

“The Order can pool its resources to discover the remaining horcruxes. I think a whole complement of experienced wizards and half a dozen Unspeakables doing the research is about equivalent to one Hermione Granger, don’t you think? So now we’ll have an equivalent of two Hermiones looking for answers.”

Hermione reddened at the compliment.

“There can’t ever be a substitute for her,” said Harry before he could think better of it.

She smiled prettily, her eyes shining with something that made him feel warm all over. “That’s sweet of you, Harry.”

“Right,” said Ron, his face suddenly gone of all emotion. He leaned back on his seat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It’s about time the Order listened to what you had to say, Harry,” said Arthur. “If you’re afraid of making the wrong decisions, welcome to the club. We all make decisions based on what we know and what we think we know, and we pray to Merlin those decisions are the right ones. Remus and I have complete faith in you; that you’d be guided. We’re not even forcing you, anyway. Call it a worthy suggestion, if you will.”

Harry tried not to scoff. Arthur was serious, and really, it was an honor to be so trusted by two of the most trustworthy men he knew, but he found it a bit too frightening at the moment. He’d give it some thought, but he wasn’t going to promise anything.

“I take it Shacklebolt and McGonagall don’t think much of me, then,” he said.

“Oh, Minerva’s quite understanding of the matter,” said Remus. “Shacklebolt’s just being himself, but the real protests are coming from some of the Order members, for one reason or another. Bickering wastes time, you know, so I’m hoping we can get past that and have you on the board as soon as you say you’d do it.”

“And what does this have to do with Hermione?” He hadn’t forgotten that they’d wanted her there for this particular discussion.

“Hermione and Ron, actually. They’re your best friends. They know you best. Talk it out with them, and then you can work from there. I firmly believe that if you’re going to go into this, you’ll have these two to back you up all the time. They’re your board, so their opinion is equally important.”

Harry was surprised at the depth of Remus’s understanding of his friendship with Ron and Hermione, until he realized that Remus had known this kind of friendship before with James and Sirius.

Hermione looked quite abashed. “R-Remus, I don’t know what to say…”

“I do,” Ron muttered. “You’re all bloody mad.”

“Now, son,” said Arthur, shooting him a warning glare.

Ron said nothing more after that.

Remus smiled, expelling a breath. “Well, that’s all for today, class. Now that the weight of the world is on your shoulders, I’d like you to make a three foot report on How Not to Lose Your Marbles In Times of Great Pressure.”

Harry smiled in spite of himself. Hermione paled and Ron laughed bitterly.

She got up, muttering something about homework and how it was no laughing matter. She started to magically gather the dirty dishes in the sink for washing. Ron didn’t protest when she took his half-filled plate. It seemed that something had finally staunched Ron’s appetite.

“Need help there, Hermione?” asked Ron.

“No, Ron, I’m washing Muggle-way now. I need to think.”

“What?”

“That’s what she does,” Harry explained. “When she needs to think she cleans.”

Ron shot him a menacing glare before he rose and went for the stairs. He was gone quickly enough, climbing the steps four at a time. Harry tried not to let that murderous look bother him.

“Well, Remus,” said Arthur. “I’ll have to go back to the Ministry for the meantime. I’ll leave Ron in your capable hands. I’d expect you and the kids to be at the Burrow for Bill and Fleur’s wedding, yes?”

Remus smiled and nodded. They shook hands and Arthur turned to give Harry a similar goodbye. Hermione gave him another one of her daughterly kisses before he finally went and apparated out of the house.

“I’ll be in my study if anyone needs me,” Remus said. “Lord knows I’ve put off my paperwork long enough. You children behave.”

There was a brief twinkle in his eyes that Harry prayed wasn’t what he thought it was. Remus left.

Harry wasted little time as he slid up behind Hermione while she was wrist deep in sink water and soap.

He ran his hands along the waist of her jeans, kissing her neck. She sighed happily, letting him, though she didn’t stop working.

“You are positively brilliant,” he said in her ear.

She shuddered delightfully. “I try.”

“You’re a smashing success.”

She grinned, turning her head to catch a kiss from his lips. They relished the contact for several moments and his hands began to trail up her stomach. He let his thumb graze her breast and she pulled away, giggling. She went back to work on her dishes.

Well, when she puts her mind to something…

“Ron’s going to be difficult, isn’t he?” she asked in a quiet tone.

He hadn’t expected that question, but it made him smile a bit. He knew she wasn’t talking about her “relationship” with Ron. She was talking about what she and Harry had, however… unlabeled it was, as of yet. It meant she was at least willing to tell Ron that—well—they had something. To Harry, it was a good thing even if he wasn’t looking forward to any of Ron’s possible reactions. He closed his eyes and buried his nose in her abundant hair. He smelled her shampoo and it was wonderful. “Yes. I reckon so.”

“How are we going to do this, then?”

“I’ll talk to him. Alone. It’s better that way.”

She sighed, but it was with relief. “Alright. But Harry, you know that if you tell him, it means that… you know… there’s no easy way to turn back.”

He frowned. “Why would I want to turn back?”

Her hands paused a bit before resuming its work. She smiled plaintively and she gave a tiny shrug. “I don’t know. For whatever reason you may have. I’m well aware that this all started with me—practically jumping you. And then everything we’ve done… maybe it was unfair, because I—I know that I’ve… encouraged this… this. But I honestly had the best of intentions, especially that night on Privet Drive. I care for you, Harry, so I’d do these things for you. I wasn’t hoping to trap you or anything…”

“Too late. I’m trapped.”

She craned her neck to look at him and he was astonished by the apology in her gaze. “You’re not, really. You can always back out—“

“I don’t want to back out. I love you.” He finally said it, and she looked utterly surprised. He could tell she hadn’t expected it at all, and that was a bit disconcerting. He didn’t think it was so far-fetched for him to fall for her. He had, in the last twenty four hours, realized that it was really the only thing that made sense in his life right now. For her to look as if it was practically supernatural was unnerving. Maybe she didn’t love him.

He began to worry.

“R-Really?” she asked.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I just—I never thought you’d—I love you, too, you know.”

He smiled. It was wonderful to hear her say it.

Maybe he should be jumping around; celebrating, or something. He certainly felt like it, but this closeness was so much more fulfilling. He pressed his lips to her neck, closing his eyes again to relish the feel of her. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly.”

“Brilliant. That settles that, then. You’re not going to have little twins with Ron.”

She giggled and pressed her back against him in a sensual motion. Up went the trapped little bugger in his pants.

“Hullo,” he said, delighted. “And just where do you plan on finishing what you started, witch?”

She smiled, pressing a bit more. “Oh, you know… I always think of something.”

“And you know I love it when you think.” He kissed her, his hands creeping beneath the front of her jeans. He felt the line of her knickers against his fingertips.

There was a sound behind them, and it startled them both. They looked, and there was a flash of trainers disappearing up the steps.

“Shite,” he breathed.

“Oh, dear,” she whispered, beginning to wash her hands, as if she was going to put off the cleaning so she could fix this emergency first.

He pressed his hands to her shoulders. “No. Stay here. I’ll go. Might as well get this over with.”

“But—“

“I’ll take care of it, alright?” He placed a comforting kiss to her neck before he left to follow Ron up the stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry gingerly opened the door to Ron’s room and saw him sitting on the edge of his bed, his back to the door.

Ron whirled to look at Harry over his shoulder, his eyes blazing. “You know, you’re something else!” he growled. “You just had to take her away from me, didn’t you? You can’t bloody stand to let me have her, at least. You just have to take everything all the fucking time!”

Harry felt a wave of magic pulse, as if to push him away, and the intensity of Ron’s feelings made him cringe. Ron’s anger was catching. Harry didn’t appreciate Ron talking about Hermione as if she was something, like she was a prefect badge or a Firebolt. And she shouldn’t have to be anyone’s “at least” either. She was the best thing to happened to Harry since he found out he belonged somewhere, and he wasn’t very well going to give her up to someone who considered her an “at least.” But he figured he couldn’t let the anger take him. Not as long as he could help it.

There were a million hurtful things he could have said: She was never yours… You botched it when you went off with Lavender and kept snogging her in Hermione’s face… She CHOSE me… She kissed me first… She was the one who came to my doorstep looking utterly desirable… She said she’d always fancied me more, you git… You bloody lost your fucking chance.

But he said none of those things, and all he could do was say the one thing that mattered.

“We’re in love.” He didn’t even have to yell it. It was just the truth.

Ron stood and turned to face him, the shock evident on his face. He clearly hadn’t expected that, then the stubborn set on his jaw returned, his eyes reclaiming its fury. “Well I saw her first!”

Harry’s jaw dropped before he scowled. “You did not. We saw her together! You called her a nightmare—“

“I’m talking about the Yule Ball!” cried Ron. “I noticed her. I knew I fancied her then. You didn’t know shit!”

Harry felt his shoulders go tense before he let out a reluctant chuckle. “Well, I was a blithering idiot…”

“I could’ve told you that,” Ron hissed.

Harry’s grin wavered into a glare, realizing that Ron wasn’t going to budge on the matter. “You weren’t exactly the most brilliant wizard alive when you started snogging Lavender out of spite, you know. You had an entire year to work it out with Hermione and what did you do? You blew you chance. And she had to suffer that bloody git McLaggen for your petty mind games—“

“And what about you? Don’t tell me you held back because you thought I fancied Hermione. If you tell me that, so help me, I’ll kill you, because that means you used my sister—“

“I didn’t use Ginny! I really did fancy her, but that’s beside the point! Hermione and I got together in the last few weeks and—“

“Fuck… me! You mean all this time I’ve been writing to her, she’s been snogging you?”

Harry bit back the hurtful retort that rose in his lips and thought better of it, but for all of Ron’s shortcomings when it came to picking up subtle hints, he chose this time to be incredibly perceptive, and he had apparently understood what Harry had deferred from telling him.

Ron’s eyes grew wide with outrage. “You’ve been shagging haven’t you?” he hissed.

Harry glared, pointing a warning finger at him. “Stop right there, Ron. Don’t say anything else you’ll regret.”

Ron’s shock mingled with his anger. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Look, it’s not all about that. We care for one another—“

“You son of a BITCH!”

Ron launched at him, throwing a punch that knocked him to the side.

Harry had had enough of being sensitive to Ron’s feelings. He gave back as good as he got and soon, they were tumbling and yelling on the floor, cursing each other’s lineage and calling each other the worse names. There were blows everywhere, but it was as if neither of them could feel a thing.

Harry vaguely heard someone screaming from the door. “Stop!” or something like that. It wasn’t exactly registering. All he knew was that Ron, the giant, was attacking him, but he wasn’t about to roll over and be overpowered.

Ron was just about to give him another good one in the face when another voice cut through the rage.

“Dissendium!”

They flew apart, sending Ron crashing to the bedside table on one end of the room while Harry got knocked breathless against the dresser.

He saw stars for a moment then he felt a soft touch, accompanied by a string of words filled with distress. Hermione’s voice, though frantic, was a balm to his strained nerves. He listened to that voice amidst the blur and let its sweet tones calm him.

“Are you alright, Harry? Oh, Merlin, what did he do to your face? Your glasses… oh God! What in heaven’s name… ohh, my boys!”

“Easy there, Ron,” came another voice; a man’s voice from the other side of the room.

“Occulus reparo,” Harry heard her whisper.

He felt her gingerly put his glasses back on, and while he saw things more clearly, he realized that his right eye wasn’t being very cooperative. It was probably swollen half-shut.

She was helping him up, and the look on her face was of pure worry. No anger. No reproach. She was holding him, but she was glancing over her shoulder at Ron who looked as bad as Harry felt. Remus was helping him to his feet.

Hermione’s brows knotted with concern. “Ron—“

“Shut it, you!” Ron hissed.

Harry felt the anger rise in his chest again. “Don’t you talk to her like that!”

“I damn well—“

“Enough!” said Remus sternly. “That’s enough! Or I’ll stupefy you both and let you sleep this off!”

They fell silent and began to realize the error of their ways. Harry felt heat rising up his face, not because he was sorry he had socked Ron a few good ones (those were immensely satisfying), but because they must have looked like a couple of ten year olds rolling in the playground, and they had wanted to be treated like adults not more than a half hour ago!

Hermione sighed. “I don’t know what happened but—“

“You happened,” Harry said, looking at her. “You happened to us both.”

She stared at him, her cheeks reddening before she looked away. There was a brief silence.

Remus coughed. “Come with me, Ron. I’ll take care of those bumps for you down stairs. Fancy some butterbeer? I believe we have some straws. I’m thinking that mouth of yours is going to be more swollen in a minute or so… Hermione, why don’t you take care of Harry? You can come down and join us when he’s in better shape, alright?”

Hermione nodded.

Remus led Ron out of the room without further incident.

Face drawn with worry, she pulled Harry gingerly to the bed and sat him down on the edge of it. She told him she would be back in a second. Harry didn’t think he was in any mood to go anywhere.

She came back with a first-aid kit and she began to apply potions to the cuts and bruises. The worst one on his face was his eye and a bit of a split lip. His cheek felt like it would bruise but she muttered a healing charm and it felt instantly better.

Her hands pressed gently on his sides and he hissed at the tenderness in his ribs.

Damn, Ron can throw a bully punch…

She frowned in disapproval and helped him out of his shirt. He didn’t even have the slightest pep left to joke about her getting him undressed.

She applied more of the potions to his bruises and she cast more healing charms. When she had dealt with the worse of his injuries, she took a healing stone from the kit, activated it and tied it around his wrist.

She blinked as she did it, as if she were holding back tears. When she tied the last knot on the charm, she kissed his palm affectionately.

“There! All done!” There was a tremble in her voice, and she was still blinking. She tried to smile but it only made her tears fall.

His insides went weak instantly. He could never stand to see a woman cry, and Hermione’s tears just took every ounce of fight from him.

“Hermione…” He crooned softly as he cupped her face, wiping the tears with his thumb. “What’s wrong?”

She sniffed, her brows knotting with the effort to stop her tears. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean for you and Ron to fight. I didn’t realize he would—it just never seemed like I mattered that much to him, you know?”

“Of course you matter that much,” he said softly, pulling her into an embrace. His bruises ached at the press of her body, but she was sensitive to his injuries, so it was bearable. “But, it wasn’t your fault at all. It was mine and Ron’s fault… for being a couple of prats.”

He felt her tears on his bare shoulder and he stroked her hair gently as she sniffled. “It’s not something you should worry about. It was all fists and bad words. Nothing permanently broken. I promise. Ron and I will talk again, alright?”

She looked up at him worriedly. “And you’ll still be best friends, right? We’ll still be best friends? All three of us?”

It was difficult to be so optimistic at that particular time, but in Harry’s heart, he had a feeling that everything would be fine. “Of course, Hermione.”

They were quiet for a bit before she tilted her chin up to kiss him.

Three minutes of comfort snogging later, Harry realized that though the spirit was willing, the flesh was most decided beaten to a pulp, so the snogging had to stop. Besides, there was Ron to talk to downstairs.

Hermione helped Harry back into his shirt and they headed to the kitchen where Ron was drinking some butterbeer through a straw. He had bandages stuck to his face.

When Remus saw Harry and Hermione, he stood, gathering the first aid kit littering the kitchen table.

“Well,” he said. “I’ve got quite a bit more paperwork to do. I trust you’ll both take care of Hermione.”

It was a subtle way of saying that he expected they weren’t going to brawl in her presence. It was the height of diplomacy.

Harry and Ron nodded.

Remus left, and Harry and Hermione sat at the table with Ron.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, and Harry didn’t bother hiding the fact that he had his hand on Hermione’s lap.

“So,” muttered Ron through his swollen lip. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand to tell him she would handle this for the meantime. “We were going to tell you today. We were just trying to figure out how.”

“Well, when Harry and Hermione put their heads together they can accomplish anything,” was his scathing reply.

Harry frowned, growing annoyed all over again. “Sod off, Ron. We didn’t do this to hurt you.”

Ron narrowed his gaze at him. “Nice! It’s the thought that counts, I suppose?”

Hermione sighed. “I’m sorry you found it out the way you did, but I won’t be sorry Harry and I are together.”

“I care for you, you know. And I’ve been carrying this bloody torch for you since fourth year! Ask the Chosen One when he began fancying you!”

A scowl tightened Harry’s expression. “This isn’t about who fancied her the longest! And for your information, I’ve cared for Hermione even longer than you have. You only noticed her during the Yule Ball. I’ve watched out for her ever since I met her.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I—“

“Stop it!” hissed Hermione. “Just stop it, you two! That’s all beside the point! And Ron, I gave you your chance, but that chance is gone. I may not be the Belle of Hogwarts, but I was never desperate. Snogging Lavender, indeed! Did you really think I’d have you after that?”

“That was a phase!” protested Ron.

“Come off it!” growled Hermione. “Contrary to what you think, the women of Gryffindor aren’t your bitches.”

Harry choked on a laugh and found that it was painful on his ribs to do so. He grunted with laughter, anyway, especially seeing the look on Ron’s face which was quickly becoming redder with shame.

Hermione continued to frown. “Anyway, I don’t even know what you were hoping to achieve with that Lavender debacle. If you thought I would lose it and jump her from behind… pulling at her hair and clothes so we can wrestle in a vat of slushy in our knickers, then you’re more delusional than I thought!”

Ron’s eyebrow arched. “Now there’s an idear…”

She glared at him. Harry did too.

“Oy, don’t you be looking at me like that! She brought it up!”

“Now I regret it,” she muttered. “Ron, seriously! We’re going to be able to work through this, aren’t we?”

Ron frowned. “Well, I don’t know, Hermione! How would you feel if it was Harry and me?”

“Well, surprised, for the most part.”

“That’ll make two of us,” Harry muttered.

Ron reddened. “I mean if I were a girl.”

Hermione began to look amused. “Well, now I’m feeling rather tickled.”

“I think Ron would make an ugly girl,” Harry said.

“You know what I mean!” cried Ron in frustration. “This entire thing is just—it’s derailed! It was supposed to be me and Hermione, Harry and Ginny! Like one, big—“

“Happy Weasley Family,” Hermione finished tiredly. “Or Express, since you’re talking about derailment. I hate to tell you this, Ron, but the constellation of train tracks doesn’t revolve around your family.”

“I know that! But—But things were supposed to be that way, anyway.”

Harry shook his head. If Ron was going to be like that, then he really didn’t have much more to say about it.

Hermione was more patient. “Things aren’t meant to be foretold. That’s what I think. If—If Voldemort didn’t hear the first half of the prophesy, he wouldn’t have made the mistake of fulfilling it in the first place.”

Harry looked at her, once again awed by how brilliant she was. It was funny how she still surprised him. The thought that she could sent a pleasant tingle through him.

She smiled, abashed by the intensity of his gaze. “What?” she whispered.

“Nothing,” he replied softly as he gave her a fond stare. He clutched her hand as he pressed it to his heart.

“I can’t watch this,” said Ron, rising from his seat in disgust.

Harry didn’t even bother to give him the attention he wanted.

She sighed. “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere I don’t have to listen to the two of you!” Ron walked out of the kitchen and they could hear him retiring up the steps.

Hermione looked to Harry, worried.

“He’ll be fine,” said Harry, touching her face.

“I know. I’m worried about you.”

That surprised him. “Me? I’m perfectly happy listening to the two of us.”

She smiled wanly. “Ron’s important to you. He was the one you saved during the Second Task, you know, and that was after he’d acted like such a prat. I’ll never forget that. It meant that when you love, you love unconditionally.”

He hadn’t realized until now that she really was worried about his friendship with Ron, and how this rift was going to affect him. She had cried about it earlier, after she’d patched him up, but Harry had thought she was worried about all three of them. He had misinterpreted the depth of her anxiety.

“Ron and I will be fine,” he said. “I have too much faith in him to believe that we’ll never get back what we had. And he’s your best friend, too. He’ll miss you. He always does.”

“I hope so, Harry.”

He tilted her face up by her chin and kissed her. “You know, I was saving you from that second task, too. But that Bulgarian came out of nowhere…”

She chuckled. “Ah, yes, Viktor.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d be wondering if he Wronskied your Feint.”

She slapped his arm playfully. “Harry! Don’t be vulgar!”

He grinned, gathering her in his arms and pulling her to his lap. She was careful not to hit his bruises and he appreciated her more for it. He placed kisses along her jaw. “I thought you liked it when I sometimes talked—you know—dirty.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I do admit I’m rather… partial to it at times.”

“Partial?”

“Alright, it’s a dreadful turn-on.”

“That’s the spirit.”

He began to kiss her, slipping his hands up under her shirt. Their kiss deepened and Harry whispered his thoughts with such dirty eroticism that he had her gasping and giggling at how crudely delicious it was.

“I’m thinking…” she sighed as he rolled his tongue on her neck.

“And you know I love it when you think…” he murmured.

She grabbed his hand and dragged him up the stairs.

“Where—“

“There’s a bathroom upstairs that has this quaint tub...”

His eyebrow arched in surprised before he grinned. “Oh?”

“I was thinking those bruises of yours can do with a hot, relaxing soak.”

Harry smiled. Indeed, her mind was a beautiful thing.

4. Chapter Third: Possibilities

Author’s notes: There are a lot of parts here that might seem… irrelevant, but I have decided that they are important for future chapters. Also, my primary emphasis is on Hermione and Harry’s relationship, so I do apologize in advance if it seems I’m spending too much time on it, but I’d like to be able to put Hermione in as many situations as possible where Harry could see and understand just how important she is to him. I want it to be believable that Harry could fall so deeply in love with her within a certain period of time. ^_^

Also, I am reading Draco Sinister by Cassandra Claire right now, after having read Draco Dormiens, of course. If you haven’t read it, you should. Goodness, it’s excellent fanfiction. I LOVE it. If you like angsty, funny, twisted Harry-Hermione-Draco fics (which I love), read it here: http://www.schnoogle.com/authors/cassie/DD01.html . It’s H+Hr, though, so don’t worry… if you don’t mind the dash of Hermione+Draco. Trust me when I say I didn’t like Hermione and Draco much, either, until I read this.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R (next chapter’s smuttier, promise.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Third: Possibilities

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry looked up at the sound of the library door opening, his hand twitching to open the prop book he had on the coffee table.

The book, Troublesome Traps to Thwart Thievery by Clepp Toefingers, had seemed so much like interesting reading, until Harry realized that no book could ever be more interesting than Hermione’s hair falling in a mess on her back and shoulders.

He’d been running his hands through it in the last ten minutes, enjoying the way Hermione had tried and failed to fend off his attentions. She had scolded and lectured and plead. Finally, she was wiling him to stop, and he couldn’t understand how she thought this method could possibly be more successful than her other attempts, because Hermione wiling him to do anything was just a pleasant catastrophe waiting to happen.

The person standing at the door was just in time to avert disaster.

Ron stood observing them from his vantage point. He looked like a giant in the dim lighting, standing there while they looked up at him from the floor.

“Alright, Ron?” asked Hermione.

His gaze was filled with stubborn irritation, but he nodded.

She smiled, patting the space beside her delicately to coax him to join them.

Harry was a little relieved to see Ron take the invitation.

Ron did sit beside her. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he muttered.

She shook her head. “We were just reading some.”

Ron arched an eyebrow. Harry wasn’t the type who read out of school and they both knew it.

“Reading, eh?” said Ron. “About what?”

“Arithmancy Applied to Quantum Physics and the Calcular Theories of Alleptus…” she replied, biting the nail of her thumb as she grew more and more sheepish.

Ron made a face and shook his head. “What a geek.”

She frowned. “Well, you asked!”

“Does it even make the slightest bit of sense to you?”

“Of course it does! The wave structure of matter and spherical standing interactions can explain the discrete energy states of quantum duality in entanglement solutions—“

“Good lord, it’s like you’re speaking in tongues, witch! I’m sorry I asked!”

“I take umbrage at being called a geek, by the way. Only geeks can call each other geeks. You don’t get to call me—“

“You take what?”

“Umbrage! Um-brage! A feeling of pique or resentment at some often fancied slight or insult!”

“Who talks like that?”

“I talk like that!”

“Merlin, this is why you drive me nutters! I swear by Merlin! It’s times like this when I seriously don’t know whether to hug you or—or arm wrestle you!”

Hermione blinked at him in surprise and Harry frowned, more perplexed than teed off.

“Arm wrestle?” asked Hermione.

Ron sighed. “Yes. You know when your brothers or cousins want to settle something without knocking each other senseless? You offer to arm wrestle to settle the point…”

Her astonished eyes began to twinkle. Ron chuckled, looking more embarrassed by the second.

Harry didn’t quite get it. “What’s so funny?”

“Ron’s funny,” she replied. “He sometimes thinks I could be his brother.”

Ron buried his face in his arms, blushing madly. “This is going to take some getting used to, you know. The two of you… where does that leave me now? The world goes where Harry goes, so I suppose I always believed that if I just—I don’t know—had Hermione, I couldn’t possibly be forgotten, or at least I wouldn’t be alone.”

“Don’t be daft,” Hermione told him gently, leaning over to pat his head affectionately. “It was never like that. There were times I felt insecure that you and Harry were setting me aside, you know?”

Harry raised his eyebrow at her in astonishment and Ron looked up from the solace of his arms.

She nodded. “I felt that the only reason you both let me stick around was because I was useful. You know, for homework and for figuring things out and stuff like that… I didn’t even think you thought of me as a girl.”

Harry frowned.

“Neither of you needed me last year,” she said. “Not for school, or for… other things. I tried to be useful, but it just wasn’t working that time. So at the end of the year, when Harry told us his plans, I knew I could be useful again, and that it didn’t matter what any of you thought of me. I’ll just do what I do best: Figure things out; read books; look for answers…”

Ron sighed. “And so you went to Harry’s at Privet Drive. Remus told me that much.”

“Honestly, Ron, I just—I didn’t want Harry to be alone then. I just had this feeling he shouldn’t be. Not on the eve of his birthday—“

“Eve…? Shite,” Ron breathed, looking at her wide-eyed. Something obviously clicked in his head and Harry could tell he realized that they’d been sleeping together since then, but to Ron’s credit, he didn’t say anything more about it. He instead returned to the original track of conversation. “Hermione, for someone so smart, you’re a hand at stuffing rubbish in your head. We didn’t keep you around because you were useful. We kept you around because we liked you. In more than friendly ways, too, as it’s turning out. Say, did you really fancy McLaggen or did you just go out with him to make me jealous?”

Harry scoffed. “Dream on, Ron.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I asked him to the Slug Club dinner because you were being an arse. I had to punish you. If it’s any consolation, McLaggen was awful. All he wanted to do was snog, and when he wasn’t trying to snog, he was talking about himself. Yak, yak, yak, like he was the most interesting person in the world.”

Ron laughed. Harry didn’t think it was that funny. After all, he’d seen how annoyed Hermione had been then. She could laugh at it now, but back then she was practically running circles around the room to get away from Cormac.

She grinned, reaching out to squeeze Ron’s shoulder. “Please don’t be mad at Harry, anymore.”

Ron glanced briefly at him. “Yes, well, your boyfriend isn’t exactly thinking nice thoughts about me, either.”

She looked up at Harry questioningly and he sighed.

“The worse of it is over,” he said. “Ron and I will work out our issues by ourselves, so maybe we’re both still a little mad at each other, but we’ll be fine. Won’t we, mate?”

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, almost grudgingly. “Couple of blokes like us… we don’t get all touchy feely talking about things. Who knows? Maybe we’ll rough each other up again.”

Harry nodded but stopped when he caught Hermione’s scowl. He pulled her closer into his embrace, rubbing her back as he gave an awkward shrug. “We’re boys…” he explained lamely.

“Works for Fred, George and me, anyway,” said Ron.

She sighed. “I s’pose there’s no help for it, then. Boys are so weird.”

Ron exchanged looks with Harry. “Girls don’t come with a manual, either.”

They fell quiet for a while, and at least from Harry’s perspective, it was relatively comfortable. He had Hermione in his arms and she burrowed against him contentedly. Ron would glance at them briefly, scoff a bit but he let them cuddle.

After several minutes, Hermione pulled out of Harry’s embrace and went back to reading.

Harry smiled, thinking that they could’ve survived an earthquake, a hurricane and a tidal wave and Hermione would still turn to the nearest book at the end of the drama, as if it was all a matter of fact and there was no point in not reading.

Perhaps seeing that their emotions have settled, Ron looked past her and addressed him.

“So, are you going to take this Order appointment, Harry? Threw me for a loop, frankly.”

Harry appreciated this subject matter. As much as it behooved him to take such a responsibility as being part of the Order of the Phoenix’s governing body, he didn’t mind talking about it with his two best friends. “How do you think I feel? I think they’re out of their minds! I’m seventeen! What the bloody hell do I know?”

Not lifting her eyes from her book, Hermione shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I think it makes sense.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “She always did have an overstated opinion of you, mate.”

Harry grinned. “If it’s all the same to you, Ron, I think I like that about her.”

Hermione shot Ron an annoyed look but went back to turning the pages of her book. “Harry has always been a capable leader, especially under pressure. His leadership skills are instinctive. He steps up, you know? It’s not like either of us ever took charge whenever things were falling apart around us. It’s always Harry who comes through.”

Ron gagged and Harry tugged at her hair playfully.

“Why, thank you, Ms. Granger.”

She finally shut her book and looked at them both, frowning. “It’s not lips service! It’s the truth. And I’d rather have Harry to listen to than a bunch of bickering Order members who, only two years ago, believed the papers when it reported that Harry was losing his mind!”

Ron stared at her, eyes widening. “Good lord, you are serious. Mate, she’s serious!”

Harry couldn’t help but frown. “I noticed. Hermione—look, your fantastic opinion of me means a lot, and I’m not just saying that. Truly, I spent my entire life at Hogwarts seeking your approval, sometimes desperately.”

“Really?” Hermione and Ron asked in unison. They looked at each other and for a moment, Harry thought they were going to yell, “Jinx!” They didn’t. Maybe they’d grown past that, at least.

He gave them a sheepish look. “Yes. Her approval always pleased me.”

She beamed and Ron ruffled his hair irritably.

Harry continued. “So don’t take it the wrong way when I tell you that I think it’s preposterous that I’d sit on some board meeting and tell people that this or that recourse is better than another. For one thing, I’m not a tactician. I get things done, but I don’t exactly have moves planned in my head. If they want someone like that, they should put Ron on the board.”

Ron’s eyes gleamed with surprise and Hermione’s glazed doubtful.

Harry couldn’t help but laugh and grab her affectionately, dragging her to his lap. “You don’t think Ron can do it?”

Ron frowned.

Hermione squirmed on his lap, unwittingly giving Harry a flash of unchaste thoughts. “I’m not—of course I believe in your… skills, Ron. But this isn’t chess…”

Ron looked hurt but Harry just rolled his eyes.

“Hermione, that’s like me telling you that if it’s not written in a book you wouldn’t know how to apply it.”

“So are you telling me we should consider pushing for Ron to be on the board?”

At this, Ron began to look alarmed.

Harry shook his head and spoke before Ron lost it completely. “I’m just saying I don’t think I’m right for the job. I’m no more qualified than either of you. Besides… if by some miracle they manage to convince me to do this, I’ll have to defer taking the seat. We have things to do; things to find, remember?”

Warily, she nodded. “I suppose you can put off the decision until then, but… Ronald, dear, you know I think highly of you in many things, and yes, if you were to be put on the board, I’ll be one of your staunchest supporters, but Harry’s different in that he does inspire. Remus was spot on about that. Harry’s a force in himself. He has nothing to answer for because he’s just so pure that way, and he always does the right thing without expecting anything in return.”

Harry reddened, and he thought maybe his head would explode from all her praise. “Hermione,” he murmured chidingly.

Ron didn’t smile but he nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, like saving nightmarish girls from trolls and having ‘moral fiber’ at the tri-wizards tournament.”

Hermione grinned. “Exactly! So Harry, you’ll seriously think about this, won’t you? I know the things the world expects of you can be too much at times, but we can’t shirk responsibility just because it frightens us. At any rate, Ron and I will be there to help you with this particular burden, right Ron?”

“I still think you’re mental.”

That was Her-Ronese for “Yes.”

Harry looked up at her, admiring the determination flashing from her eyes. “Alright, then, I promise I’ll give it serious thought. And if you say I can do this, then I suppose I can.”

“That’s the Harry I know.” She wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning her head against his shoulder and closing her eyes.

He had an urge to pull her close and kiss her. Maybe Ron would be kind enough to catch on and leave them alone.

Ron cleared his throat, showing no inclination to be so lavish. “In the meantime, what do we do?”

“I have one more stop before we really start looking for horcruxes. And I’d rather do it before Bill and Fleur’s wedding. I’ve been wanting to go to Godric’s Hollow. I have a feeling that I should go there, at least just to visit my parents’ graves. We can go tomorrow. Leave early, you know? And then after that, we can start looking for the locket.”

Ron groaned. “In Azkaban. I’ve said this again and again Hermione—“

“Yes! I’m mental! But of course I don’t agree with you.”

“The mental ones rarely do.”

Hermione raised her nose haughtily. “Harry, we should speak to Remus about visiting Old Dung.”

“Tomorrow,” said Harry.

She smiled. “Tomorrow.”

“Say, how did you know the locket wasn’t in the house?” Ron asked.

Harry explained about the Finder. Ron was intrigued.

“D’you have the Finder with you?” he asked.

Harry grinned. “Always.”

Hermione smiled as he dipped his hand in one of the many pockets of his cargo pants. The Finder’s chain was clipped to the lip of the pocket, just to make sure it doesn’t fall out without him knowing. The thought of losing it was heartbreaking to him, now, since there was such a wonderful memory attached to it. He would never think of the Finder without thinking that they had used it to play Hide and Go Seek with the most rewarding prize at the end of it.

A light blush tinged her cheeks and he knew she was remembering too. He had an itch to get this discussion over with so he could drag her to his room and take his sweet time making love to her. Ron would get over it and Remus wasn’t exactly the micro-parenting type.

Harry placed the Finder in Ron’s hand and Hermione explained the mechanics of it to him.

“It was her birthday present to me,” Harry said.

Ron winced. “Sorry I missed your birthday, mate. Order business kept me. I got you something, though, and I was supposed to give it to you this morning, but you really teed me off and I’m still a little mad at you right now.”

“It’s fine,” Harry muttered.

Ron looked the Finder over. “Nice. Hermione always gives the best presents.”

She beamed and Harry grinned up at her.

“Yes, she does,” he said, pinching her chin gently. She graced him with a blush. He hoped she understood that he wasn’t just talking about the Finder.

“Can I try it?” Ron asked.

Harry let him. He and Hermione have had enough “fun” with it. She explained the mechanics of it and Ron was eager to give it a go.

Ron tried it with his Chudley Cannons’ jersey. “Can I borrow this for a while?”

“By all means,” said Harry magnanimously. “Take your time. But don’t lose it. That Finder’s special to me.”

“Right.” Ron got up to follow the needle. Soon, he was gone from the library.

Harry pulled Hermione closer and they met in a kiss, tongues tangling.

They separated for a bit and Harry hissed. “I’m really beginning to love that Finder… it’s like the best EVER.”

She laughed softly. “I think maybe I’m quite ready for bed… aren’t you?”

“Early day tomorrow, you know.”

“I didn’t mean I was ready for sleep, Harry.”

“I know.”

Her eyes twinkled. “And do you suppose Ron would mind so much if he came back here and we were gone?”

“He’ll be furious, but he’ll live.”

“Anyway, it’s not like there’s anything wrong with going to bed...”

“Completely normal after night fall.”

“Completely!”

“Yours is the nicest room in the house.”

“That, it is.”

They hurried out of the library and shuffled on over to the lower floors. They slipped into Hermione’s room soundlessly and the room became quieter still after Harry cast the charm to silence the walls.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry woke up first and he checked the charmed clock by Hermione’s bedside table.

“Too early for you, Lover Boy,” said the clock in digital print.

He stifled a groan. Why didn’t these damn wizarding clocks just give the time?

He shifted a bit to reach for his battered wrist watch and saw that it was six fifty three.

He was careful not to wake Hermione who, quite simply, seemed to be sleeping on him.

She was light and tiny enough to make her a comfortable and soft weight. She was pleasantly warm, too. The spill of her hair was amazing, and he rather liked that. If there was one thing he never knew, it was his appreciation for this hair of hers. He had never really paid much notice of it before. In school, she would have it tied up tightly, and in the common room, she had it tamed with mousy, unflattering clips. He often wondered whether she had—well—done these things on purpose, to take the attention away from her, because there was absolutely no way he and all the other blokes in school could have missed seeing this incredibly pretty, sensual woman if she had flirted a little more, or done something to make them notice. She had wowed them all during the Yule Ball in fourth year, but after that, she had so successfully reverted back to her unassuming front that they all perhaps assumed that the Hermione they had seen was just some kind of dream.

Ron had remembered.

That’s right, but he didn’t do anything about it, did he? Harry was annoyed of Ron enough to think that it had all been Ron’s fault he lost Hermione the way he did.

Harry looked at her sleeping face; admired the graceful planes of her shoulders where the bones stuck out just right. She had always been somewhat tanned; a lifetime of summers in France with her parents, he supposed, and she had these incredible breasts, too. Not stacked like Katie or Susan or Lavender (yes, the boys talked. What else would they be discussing in the dorm rooms?), but just perky enough to make a t-shirt look dead good, or full enough to fit in the grasp of his palms. But other than these minor developments to her appearance, Hermione Granger hadn’t changed all that much. He wondered what had been so dramatic about her change that he would look at her now with the same sense of wonder and awe he once had for Cho and Ginny. Nay, more than that. He looked at Hermione and he was astounded no one else saw what he saw. It was like being in a room where everyone was searching for gold and there he was, staring at a diamond hidden in plain view, aghast that no one else was seeing it.

Maybe he had changed. But the more he thought about it, the more it didn’t seem like the right explanation. He had changed over the years, yes, and the summer before fifth year had brought on the most significant twist in his personality, the side of him that lost its temper easily, and that side of him that acted so quickly without thought. But none of these changes could have explained why he was so taken by her now.

Since that first night he shared with her, he had wondered whether he didn’t always love Hermione Granger. It would have to be like one of those dormant feelings then, like magic so strong that one had to grow prepared first before it could be used. Was it like that? And most important of all, did Hermione know that? Did all those years of hiding herself mean she knew the inevitability of this between them, her disgust for divination aside? Or maybe there was a sort of instinct inside her.

He’s not ready. You’re not ready, her brilliant mind would tell her. Let it mature. He’ll notice too soon if you let on and then where would you be? Too young. Too immature to make much of these strong feelings. Give it time and only then should you both let yourselves see.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense; that it wasn’t that he had changed, or that she had changed; it was that now, they were ready, and that now, they knew exactly what to do.

He pushed some of that wonderful hair from off her sleeping face. The freckles smattered across the bridge of her nose were way too cute. He could stare at them forever, but he had to get up. If she wasn’t awake by eight, he would try to wake her.

Carefully, he extricated himself from her embrace.

She made a disapproving sound, attempting to tighten her hold on him in her sleep.

“Where you going?” she mumbled half-coherently.

“Downstairs,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

She did, burrowing and curling around the warm spot he had left behind, her perfect back towards the ceiling.

With the blankets tangled around her legs and just covering her bottom, she looked terribly delectable.

Sighing, he left her.

He showered, dressed and went downstairs.

He began to make breakfast.

He was just putting the bacon into the hot pan when Ron appeared at the door, showered and dressed as well.

“Here’s your Finder,” Ron muttered, forking it over.

Harry didn’t meet his eyes when he took it and slipped it back into his oft-used cargoes. He clipped the end of the chain to the lip of his pocket.

This time, Harry felt compelled to apologize. “Err, sorry we… you know…”

Ron glared at him briefly before waving his apology away. “I sorter knew you’d be gone when I came back, anyway. You looked about ready to jump her every two minutes since I walked into the library.”

Harry reddened, shaking the frying pan. “Yes, well, she… rather has that effect on me.”

“Right.” Ron began to put some coffee together. “Look, I don’t mean to be nosy, but does Ginny—“

“I’ve broken up with her, mate. And everything I’ve written to her over the summer was careful not to make her think I wanted to get back together with her, so don’t worry… I’m not playing your little sister.”

“Right,” Ron said again, nodding.

After that, Ron seemed more lighthearted. Harry had to appreciate his friend’s better traits. The bloke did take his big-brother role seriously.

“About Hermione,” began Ron.

Harry eyed him. “What about her?”

“You’re sure you’re not just…?”

Harry was irritated by what Ron’s question implied. He shot Ron a withering glance. He didn’t even know if he was in any frame of mind to answer that question properly without socking Ron in the face. How could Ron think he could hurt Hermione that way?

Ron caught the look and for once understood the wordless response. “Sorry. It’s just that—well, if you’re so into this… this physical thing, you might have mistaken some feelings—“

“Ron, I’m going to say this only once, so listen very carefully. I don’t just ‘fancy’ her. I don’t just think she’s ‘kinda cute’ and ‘kinda pretty’. I look at her and I’m wondering where she’s been all my life. Understand that much? I’m not going to lie to you about the sex. It’s freaking fantastic. Sometimes, I go mad with—you know—just being near her, but if you think I’m in it just for that, then you can’t have possibly loved Hermione at all. Seriously, Ron. You just can’t have.”

For a moment, he thought Ron would pitch into him again, but the tension from Ron’s shoulders disappeared and Harry realized that at least for now, Ron was going to believe him.

“Alright,” said Ron in a somewhat defeated tone. “Alright… so, we’re going to Godric’s Hollow this morning, eh?”

Harry appreciated the quick change of subject. What needed to be said has been said. No more need to delve further. “That’s the plan.”

“You reckon we’ll find anything there?”

Harry shook his head. “Not really. I just—I don’t feel like being alone over there, you know?”

Ron eyed him. “Are you sure you want me there? I’m fine with just you and Hermione going.”

Initially, Harry thought Hermione was the only one he wanted with him at Godric’s Hollow, but he supposed things were slightly different then. When he wanted to go to Godric’s Hollow with her, their relationship was precariously Ron-free. Now that they’d spoken to Ron; had begun to get past issues, Harry realized that shutting Ron out would only hurt all three of them. He wanted Ron with them on this trip. “Shut it, you. You’re my best friend too, you know.”

Ron managed a grin.

There was sound from the stairs and Harry knew it was Hermione by her light tread.

She appeared at the kitchen entryway looking as pretty as she pleased. Her jeans gave a nice shape to her hips and belled at the bottom with interestingly thick-soled sandals. Her adorable toes peeked out of them, like a preview to her lovely feet. Her top was white, feminine and short-sleeved. Her hair was all over the place, but she didn’t seem to care. Neither did Harry. He loved it best that way.

Again, he marveled at how he never noticed before and knew she had been keeping it from everybody. It was impossible to be certain as to why, and he wasn’t about to ask, lest she thought he was complaining.

“Good morning, Ron,” she said in her usual bossy way.

Ron muttered a reply, watching her with barely veiled fascination as she went to Harry and kissed him on the cheek.

“Good morning, Harry,” she said in a softer tone.

“What sort of kiss was that?” he teased quietly.

She smiled and tried the kiss again, this time on his lips, and a little bit more than that.

“Better?” she asked.

“Much.”

She pulled away and he watched her do so with reluctance. She poured herself some coffee and went to the cabinets to take out some bread for toasting.

She leaned over the sink to open the windows. “Owls from Hogwarts should be arriving today.”

That startled Harry somewhat and Ron positively blanched.

She saw the looks on their faces and frowned. “Oh, honestly, you two! What are you both looking so peaky for? It’s not like we’re going back there so it doesn’t matter how our grades turned out. I just thought that we should at least receive our Hogwarts letters properly.”

She was right, of course.

With that, she pulled out a thick sealed envelope from her back pocket and plopped it on the table.

“Blimey,” gasped Ron. “That’s your letter to McGonagall, isn’t it? Rather thick…”

She reddened as she sipped her coffee and took a seat. “Yes, well, my letter to the Headmistress is a record twenty pages long, but this one’s not for McGonagall.”

“Who’s it for, then?”

“Well, I haven’t written to Viktor in ages, so…”

Harry frowned, muttering something about stupid Bulgarians while he moved the bacon around in the pan.

Ron was more vocal. “I can’t believe you’re still writing to that mumbling moron! And how could you with Harry and you being… you know!”

“What does my relationship with Harry have to do with Viktor?”

“Well, shouldn’t you be telling Viktor to stop writing to you now? The only reason he’s writing you at all is because he fancies you!”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Ron,” said Hermione. “He used to fancy me but he hasn’t in the last year. He’s seeing a perfectly nice Bulgarian girl and he seems quite happy with her.”

Ron scoffed. “A likely story. See if he writes back after you’ve told him about Harry.”

Hermione huffed. “Well, as a matter of fact this letter does say a lot about Harry and how I feel about him, so I’ll just let Viktor prove you wrong.”

Even if it felt nice to hear Hermione talking about him with Viktor, he was still annoyed that the Bulgarian hadn’t been kicked out of the picture completely. Anyway, Harry didn’t buy the Bulgarian Girlfriend bit either.

“It’s too early for this bickering,” Harry groaned, transferring the cooked bacon onto a plate. He started cooking another batch, knowing Ron can finish the first batch all by himself.

The toaster gave a ring and Hermione piled the toast on its own plate, shoving it in Ron’s vicinity before stacking more bread to toast.

Hermione began to fry the eggs.

With a bit of magic, the food cooked quickly, and they were seated around the table, ready to begin breakfast when the owls came. Hermione jumped up to get them, feeding the weary owls some treats before going back to the table.

Harry’s envelope was surprisingly thick. Curious, he opened it and shook out its contents. With the letter and list of requirements tumbled a badge with the letter H.

The whole world’s gone mad, he thought, almost horror-stricken.

“Shite!” Ron cried. “Is that what I think it is?”

“McGonagall’s gone mental,” Harry said, wincing.

Hermione sighed as she opened her envelope. “Well, of course you’d be Head Boy, Harry. I told you that you’re a natural born leader. The Headmistress simply acknowledges that.” She waved her own Head Girl badge. “Surprise, surprise.”

“You, maybe, but me?” said Harry incredulously. “My grades aren’t even all that good!”

“Your grades are better than most boys, and being Head Boy isn’t just about being the boy with the best grades, Harry, it’s about being well-rounded and being the embodiment of the Wizarding World’s values.”

Harry scoffed. “You’re telling me Percy was that when he was Head Boy? No offense, Weasley.”

“None taken.”

Hermione didn’t even blink. “Yes. At the time, Percy was just that. He was prim, proper, straight-laced and a product of the times. These times, however, the world needs someone brave and principled and heroi—“

Ron groaned. “Here we go again! Harry’s number one fan! It’s nauseating, I tell you.”

Hermione glared at him fiercely. “Percy was a statesman of sorts in a time of complacency. Now we’re at war, so we need a warrior. A knight, and one who can lead, at that. Harry fits that description. I don’t understand why you find it so hard to believe that Harry’s special, somehow. That goes for you too, Potter. Harry, you know I’m not one of your gushing fangirls. At least, I hope you know, but just because I’ve seen you standing around in your drawers and I’ve watched you all these years crash and burn in Potions and History, it doesn’t mean I don’t understand the side of you that the whole bloody world calls the Boy Who Lived. You and Ron saved me from a mountain troll, for God’s sake. It couldn’t get anymore blatant than that.”

Harry felt like he wanted to melt through the floor. She was a relentless nag, yes, but it was nothing to her vicious praise mixed with her accurate reproach.

“Fine, then!” cried Ron. “I get it! So Harry’s Head Boy and he deserves the badge. Too bad we’re not going back to Hogwarts.”

She shrugged, her enthusiasm deflating a tad. “Yes, too bad. I figured you and Harry haven’t written your letters of refusal, yet, so you can write them later, after we get back from Godric’s Hollow. It would be best, I think if we send our letters all together.”

Harry nodded as he picked up the admissions letter and opened it. It mentioned the usual invitation to return to Hogwarts and that his list of subjects were on the attached page. He was however surprised to note that the bottom portion of the letter wasn’t quite standard:

On a more personal note, I have been informed by your guardian that you have expressed a reluctance to return this coming school year. While I understand that there are matters you consider more pressing than your formal education, I implore that you reconsider. My decision to make you Head Boy was an easy one, as there was no doubt in my mind that you fulfilled the requirements of the award, however, should you decide not to attend Hogwarts this year, I would be forced to go with my second choice, which is Ernie McMillan. I am reluctant to do this, mainly because Head Boys and Head Girls are meant to compliment each other, and Ernie McMillan does not compliment Hermione Granger at all. He will, in fact, contribute nothing to Ms. Granger’s development. This is troubling, as it is no secret that I have made it my mission to aid Ms. Granger in realizing her full potential as one of the most notable witches of her time. I know you hold her in high esteem, Mr. Potter, and if only for her, please reconsider returning to our humble school.

She made the formal goodbyes and signed it.

Harry tried not to squirm at the fact that McGonagall was still expecting Hermione to return and that he would be the very reason she wasn’t.

Gingerly, he folded the letter back and tucked it into its envelope.

He furtively glanced at Hogwart’s Sweetheart beside him.

McGonagall’s going to kill me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They arrived in Godric’s Hollow a little bit later than Harry expected.

Ron had, after breakfast, said that he could write his refusal letter in five minutes, prompting Harry to do the same. Ron did manage his courteous but short refusal in the time he promised, but Harry took a little longer.

Though Harry’s letter was only a page long, it had the polite platitudes and winning apologies that Ron’s letter lacked.

Hermione had looked over their responses quickly and approved them both without need of revision.

They sealed their letters in their respective envelopes and attached them to Hedwig, sending her off.

Now Harry was staring at the home that once sheltered him and his parents. It wasn’t as big as twelve Grimmauld Place, but it was certainly a bit bigger than four Privet Drive. There was a pretty, fanciful gate surrounding the entire lot. The gate was bent and rusty now, of course, but the intricate patterns of what looked like snitches, quaffles and brooms on the wrought iron was evidence of its former glory. The place had belonged to Bowman Wright, after all; inventor of the Golden Snitch.

The front lawn was terribly overgrown, but it was easy to imagine that it could have been a picture of clean cut grass, rose bushes and a flagstone walk cutting right down the middle.

The house was in ruins, but the echo of it was there. Quaint windows and fanciful curtains; warm lights and laughing voices.

Hermione stepped ahead of them both, touching the gate and tracing a pattern on it delicately before pushing it open for them to walk through. Harry followed suit and Ron pushed the gate wider open. It gave an ear-deafening shriek before slipping off its hinge in a clatter of steel.

“Sorry!” cried Ron.

Pursing her lips, Hermione continued on.

Carefully, they made their way through the growth. They climbed the porch and Ron’s huge foot punched through the porch floor.

He cursed and Harry snickered.

“You are such a klutz, Ron,” Hermione said huffily. “Honestly, why don’t you just bring the entire house down?” She extended a hand to help him and Ron let her pull him out of the hole.

“It’s not my fault everything is too small and fragile for me,” he muttered, trying to heave himself up. Harry had to help or else Ron would drag Hermione down with him.

Grumbling about boys and their growth spurts, Hermione magically undid the crudely installed bolt on the door and they went in.

There was very little left of the quaint, two-story home. It was derelict, dusty and what little furniture there was worn bare of any usefulness. A few of the standing pieces had been knocked over, probably from a stray wind that blew through one of the broken glass windows. The carpet had gone tattered through sheer exposure, and perhaps a bit of searing. The walls were watermarked everywhere and the drapes were yellow with age. There were cobwebs, especially in the small chandelier overhead, crystals blackened with neglect.

Harry looked around him and nothing elicited affection. It was just a house; an empty, desiccated husk of what once was his life; or what could have been his life.

Hermione walked slowly to the foot of the staircase. Tentatively, she took the first step and a painful groan shrieked from the wood.

Harry was afraid the only thing that held it up were the termites that had likely eaten through it in the last sixteen years. “Maybe you shouldn’t, Hermione. That thing can cave in—“

“It will be fine, Harry. If Grimmauld Place can stay upright, so can this house.” She began to climb and she ignored every creak her step created.

Ron looked up the steps warily. “Maybe I should stay down here.”

Harry smirked, following after Hermione. “Alright. Watch out for those spiders, though.”

“Spi—h-hang on, I’m coming with you!”

They reached the landing and Hermione walked down the long hallway to enter a room a few doors down.

Harry followed her and Ron sort of stuck close by, wand out to hex any unfortunate arachnid that happened to cross his path.

Hermione stood in the middle of the floor, her gaze on the large, grime-covered bed.

The bed was made-up, like whatever had stopped time in the house had done so before bedtime. The lamps on both sides of the bed were yellowed and decaying; loose strands of dusty cobwebs hanging from them and connecting them to the bed.

Harry came up behind her. On the ruined bedside tables were picture frames, but the pictures were gone. “This is my parents’ room, isn’t it?”

Hermione nodded, looking up at him.

He wished he could tell her that he felt something, but he didn’t, exactly.

“Harry.”

Harry turned and saw Ron staring at an open closet. There were clothes inside it and Harry was drawn to its contents.

Dresses. Just a few, really. There were pants in them as well, and dark robes. He looked at the bottom and he saw the shoes; men’s shoes.

Dad.

He felt a twitch inside him this time, knowing that his mother and father had been in these clothes. He reached out and touched the fabrics. They were stiff with age, and the colors had faded dull, but they were personal in what he first thought was an impersonal house.

Ron nudged him. “Oy, where’s Hermione?”

Harry snapped out of his reverie and looked around frantically. He was inclined to believe that nothing really wrong could happen to them in this house, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He hurried out of the room and looked into the door across the hall.

He was relieved to see Hermione there.

She was crouched down, her knees pulled to her chest. She was tinkering with a baby mobile. The mobile was still securely attached to the frame of the crib, though the entire crib was collapsed.

Delicately, Hermione pushed the mobile with her fingers, making it turn and awakening the enchanted stars, moons and unicorns attached to it. The trinkets twitched with what magic remained in them.

“In integrum restituere,” she whispered, flicking her wand at the toy.

The mobile trembled, shaking dirt from off itself before it began to turn and the soft, tinkling music played its soothing tunes once more.

She smiled wanly, looking at them. “Precious, isn’t it? Harry, you touched these when you were a baby. And you’d have been sitting right there.” She pointed to a spot on the tilted bed frame, the mattress yellowed in spite of its powder blue tints. “And…” She dipped into her pouch and brought out what looked like a pastel purple rubber ring the size of a fist.

She went to them. “This is a teether, see? There are indents over here, like two tiny teeth biting into them. Baby Harry’s teeth marks.”

Harry blinked. “I did those?”

She smiled and nodded. “Isn’t it adorable?”

Ron coughed, garbling “Sap!”

“I don’t care what you think. I’m keeping this.”

Harry looked at her in surprise. “You will?”

She blushed. “I will. It’s cute. It was yours.”

He smiled. Who’d have thought something as silly as that could make him feel good?

“Harry…” She looked up at him and she was suddenly crying.

His smile faded, her tears alarming him. Was it something he said? “Hermione, what’s wrong?”

Ron fidgeted, shuffling about in his pockets and surprisingly producing a handkerchief.

Hermione accepted it, wiping her eyes as she blinked. “Nothing,” she replied. She pointed her wand back at the mobile and said, “Finite incantatem.”

The mobile stopped; the music faded and the dirt blossomed back on it.

It was then he realized what her tears were for and he understood the depth of her feelings for him.

“We should go to the nearby church,” she said. “Visit the grave yards. I—Harry?”

“This is where you think it happened, don’t you?” he said softly. “Voldemort came and—and killed mum right here. I was in that crib and he shot me with the killing curse…”

Ron began to back away from the crib.

Hermione looked guilt-ridden. Why, he wasn’t sure. Maybe she felt that if she hadn’t shown him her tears, he wouldn’t have figured it out and she could have saved him the pain. But it hadn’t been her fault. She had nothing to feel guilty about.

“You lived,” she said plaintively.

There were many times in the last seven years that he wished he hadn’t, but now wasn’t one of those times. Right now, he was standing in a room with the very person he lived for.

He went to her, draping his arm over her shoulders. “Come on then. Let’s go to that church. Ron?”

Ron snapped out of his own thoughts, following after them and looking around him with a renewed sense of awe.

This was the house that had changed Harry Potter’s life forever and that thought was parts amazing and terrifying at the same time.

Harry looked at her and she returned his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shook his head. “Don’t be.” He brushed his lips on her forehead before leading them down the creaky stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They found the church easily enough, with its steeple rising high above the many houses. Godric’s Hollow was a small town by itself, and its residents weren’t very friendly to strangers, but Hermione didn’t care a wit. She found a nearby flower shop, bought a bouquet of white lilies and carried them the rest of the way.

“They’re for Harry’s mum,” she simply said when Ron asked her.

Harry thought maybe he’d die in appreciation of her.

Harry, Hermione and Ron found no trouble at the local Anglican Church. The vicar was a kindly old man who pointed the way to the graveyard without issue.

The graveyard was somewhat old, but generally well maintained. It was impossible to find a pattern on the grounds amidst the tombstones, but that was not the fault of the church, as the earth did have a tendency to move by itself. They split up into sections and were looking for about twenty minutes when Ron waved to them, saying he had found the tombstones.

Harry felt that little twitch in his stomach again, but it wasn’t overwhelming, and he went to Ron.

There was nothing distinct about the tombstone, even with the phoenix crest carved at the top of it. It was one huge slab of marble with the words “Lily and James Potter. Loving parents. Soldiers brave.”

Under their names were the years “1960 – 1981”.

“Harry,” said Hermione, handing him the flowers she had bought earlier. “Ron and I will be over there, alright? Take your time.”

He cocked a small smile at her, thankful for her sensitivity.

She took Ron by the arm, leading him away towards a stone bench farther down the yard.

Harry fidgeted a bit as he looked at his parents’ graves. He wasn’t sure what to say, really. Awkwardly, he put the flowers at the foot of the tombstone and stared. He’d heard that people prayed on the graves of their ancestors, but he didn’t think praying would do, this time. He never had much theology in his life to begin with.

Flowers are for you, mum, he thought. Hermione bought them.

He sighed and crouched low.

I suppose you know what’s been happening all this time. Voldemort’s back and he’s spent the last few years trying to kill me. He’s a bit of a bother.

The wind blew softly in his hair and the dried leaves rustled about. He thought he heard a giggle, and it could have been anything; distant wind-chimes, or maybe even Hermione, but he rather liked the thought that Lily’s spirit hadn’t lost its sense of humor.

So Harry spoke to his parents in thought, telling them the various highlights of his life, and maybe even the low points. He brought up Sirius and hoped that his Godfather was with them.

I’m sure Sirius has told you about Hermione in detail. She helped him escape execution, and Sirius has been in love with her since. It took me longer to figure it out, but I did, eventually. She’s wonderful mum, dad. You two would’ve loved her, too. She takes care of me and Ron and I think maybe I’d have been dead first year if it wasn’t for her. She’s the first person I know who’d ever told me she loves me, and that really means a lot…

He spoke a bit more about Remus, about how Remus told him all sorts of things about Lily Evans and James Potter. Harry had long realized that Remus and Sirius had seen very little of Lily and James when he was born, so there were very few “Happy Family” stories Remus could tell him with any detail or great accuracy, but it was enough for Harry that Remus could tell him, with utmost certainty, that his parents loved him very much. That was enough “happy family” for him. Remus’s tales of James and Lily in school were easier to relate to, anyway. It was through Hogwarts his parents came alive for him, and through the years, scouring for information; looking at pictures; walking the same halls as his parents had, Harry had formed some sense of belongingness. He had a legacy, after all. Tales told through the memory of loved ones and friends were more precious to him than anything he had watched from a pensieve.

He said his goodbyes to his parents’ graves, rising from his crouch to look around. He could see Hermione and Ron speaking, heads close together as they sat face to face. If he didn’t know any better, his insecurities would’ve gotten the better of him.

They saw him approach and they rose to meet him.

“Alright, Harry?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. He was feeling a bit melancholy, but he was glad he made the trip.

Hermione wrapped her arms around him and he took comfort from her concern.

Moments later, they were walking back into the church where the good vicar gracefully accepted their thanks.

“My dear, would you care for a rosary? We just received our newest supply and they’re quite fetching,” said the vicar.

Harry and Ron looked to her. She paused for a moment, blinking in surprise before she nodded warily.

“Um… of course. Mum’s Anglican so I can buy one for her…”

The vicar raised an eyebrow. “You’re not Anglican?”

She fidgeted on her feet. “And for myself?” she added rather uncertainly.

The vicar nodded. “Excellent. Wait here.” He left, shuffling briskly to one of the closed doors and disappearing behind it.

“Indirect donation,” she explained, chuckling a bit. “Churches don’t get big-shot sponsors to run it.” She ruffled in her pouch for her wallet. She brought out some pound notes and Ron took a moment to look over some muggle money.

The vicar came and showed her some rosaries. She selected two and paid for them, telling the vicar to keep the change.

“Bless you, child. The county orphanage will thank you for your generosity.”

As they headed out the door, Hermione began to mutter to herself about having very few pounds on her to make much of a difference. She shoved the rest of her pound notes in the “County Orphanage Fund” box along the way and dropped in what galleons she had for good measure. They were gold, after all.

Perhaps having a soft spot for orphans himself, Harry put in his own galleons just right after she and Ron stepped out of the church. The vicar saw him.

“Bless you, son.”

Not sure how to respond to that, Harry nodded and hurried on after his friends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were back in Grimmauld Place sometime during lunch and Remus was there looking a tad annoyed.

“I really wished you had left me a note,” he said. “That way, I could at least pretend that I had some control over my charges. As it is, I implore you to be more cautious about leaving the house unattended by aurors.”

Harry was about to protest when Remus beat him to the punch.

“In your position, I wouldn’t want to be followed around either. As an adult, you should have the right to come and go as you please, but your circumstances do not allow for that, Harry. As much as I would like you to live your life freely and without some crotchety old Order nosing in on your business, that is simply beyond my control. Humor an old man, won’t you? Let me know, next time. I promise; I won’t let them prevent you from doing what you have to do.”

Remus very rarely exerted his authority and Harry could tell by the looks on Hermione and Ron’s faces that they felt guilty enough already.

Harry readily apologized, promising Remus that next time, they would act more responsibly.

Remus forgave them with a ready smile. “It’s alright. I was just worried, that’s all. So, where have you been?”

“Godric’s Hollow.”

There was a flicker in Remus’s eyes that looked much like sadness and regret.

“I’m sorry I forgot to ask you,” said Harry hastily, realizing to his horror that Remus might have wanted to come.

Remus smiled. “No need to apologize, Harry. I—I don’t think I would’ve gone anyway. I don’t know if I’d have managed it with—well, anyway, I’m glad you went to visit. It’s the decent thing to do.”

Harry smiled wanly.

Remus then told them he’d have lunch ready soon.

Hermione, in the true spirit of their promise to Remus, told him that she’d like to visit her parents in the next available weekend, which was likely the weekend after Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

“They said they wanted to spend an advanced birthday with me since I haven’t in the last six years. If Harry and Ron would like to come…”

Harry looked at her askance. “Well, of course we’d like to go with you.”

Ron grinned. “We’ll try to behave for your parents’ benefit, Hermione.”

She chuckled. “You’re invited too, Remus. I’m sure my parents would be delighted to have you. Mum always loves to show off the house since it’s—like—her life-long project, but you can come with us. I’ll drive you all in my dad’s BMW.”

They all looked at her in surprise.

“You can drive?” asked Harry. “Like—without magic?”

She frowned. “Well, of course I can! I got my license to drive ages ago. I wouldn’t have cared at all, you understand, but mum and dad are muggles, so they believe it’s dreadfully important. They even bought me a Fiat of my own, but if I’m going to drive the lot of you around, there’s no way we’re all going to fit in that tiny car. Daddy will have to let me use the BMW. He croaks about petrol most times, but he won’t on my birthday!”

“Fascinating!” Remus said. “Tell me, Hermione, why shift gears and why have a hand-break when there’s a break-pedal?”

Hermione then began to explain the basic mechanics of a car to Remus and Ron. She conjured models for them that were so far from the Ford Anglia that Ron and Remus were amazed. Harry had some exposure to cars, and he’d even seen the really fancy ones, but his interest in cars was minimal, probably because he never had pleasant memories attached to the things.

“This little beauty is my favorite,” she said, conjuring a streamlined auto in silver shine. “It’s a Jaguar XK8, 4.2, V8 engine, five speed automatic transmission…”

Harry laughed. “Good lord, Hermione. I didn’t realize you were into cars.”

She blushed. “Well, not cars, per se. Machines, really, and how they work, but cars are so fascinating because they’re a perfect fusion of function and design! Like magic. I suppose I can like motorcycles, too, but I don’t like that they’re so unsafe.”

Remus grinned. “Sirius would have begged to differ.”

Their eyes widened at him in surprise.

“Sirius had a motorcycle?” Hermione demanded.

Remus nodded. “Long ago. It’s lost now, you understand, but it… served its purpose.”

Hermione snorted. “I bet all the girls went ape seeing him on one.”

“Harry, you should get one, too,” said Ron eagerly. “Drive all the birds wild!”

Hermione rounded on him, glaring at Ron viciously as she whipped out her wand. “Don’t you go encouraging him, Weasley! And what are you on about birds? I’ll give you birds!” She conjured her canaries and sent Ron running from the room as they circled his head pecking at him.

Ron began to scream that it wasn’t funny. Harry was laughing too hard to offer any kind of help. Apart from the fact that Hermione’s Attack of the Canaries was funnier now than the first time he saw it, he was terribly pleased that she was doing it because she was being—well—possessive.

“Why, that’s excellent spell work, Hermione!” Remus said.

“Thank you!” Hermione huffed. “But I don’t want to talk about motorcycles anymore!” She left, stomping up the stairs.

Harry stopped laughing long enough to realize she was seriously upset. He could still hear Ron screaming hexes at the canaries.

“Oh, my,” said Remus. “I think maybe you should go after her.”

Harry did, wondering what on earth set her off. He found her in the library, furiously turning pages in a huge-arse book.

“Hermione?”

“Yes, Harry?” She didn’t look up from her book.

“Er—was it something I said?”

She kept flipping, making no reply for a few seconds before she sighed and leaned back on her seat. She looked at him, a blush rising up her cheeks. “No, of course not. I was just—I was being—“ She sighed, putting her arms on the table and burying her face into them.

Harry sat beside her, lightly playing with her hair. “Being?”

She peeked from the cover of her arms to stare at him. “Harry, you’re positively the most handsome boy I know.”

He froze and felt himself go red all over. He fidgeted awkwardly, smiling a bit and feeling embarrassed at the same time. “Err—thanks?”

“It’s true. I look at you and I think the angels must have spent a bit more time putting you together; not just on the outside, but on the inside, too.”

“Shite, Hermione… stop it already. You’re embarrassing me.”

She chuckled. “And that’s probably the best part, too. You simply don’t know it. You look at yourself and you don’t think you’re special. That just drives the girls mad. More than half the girls in school would’ve committed murder to have you smile at them the way you do when you make a fantastic catch of the snitch. And I know a few boys who wouldn’t mind getting your attention, either.” She giggled.

He reddened even more.

“Which is why,” she continued. “I can hardly believe this—us, is real. Because in real life, the gorgeous lead doesn’t fall in love with the plain Jane girl, and even if now we’re together, I’ll always think that some beautiful princess is going to come along and make you realize that you can do much better than having mousy me for a girlfriend.”

His embarrassment quickly dissipated at her outrageous words. “How can you say that about yourself? How can you say that about me? You’re not plain. And you’re not mousy. Not to me, and I’d have to be an idiot to think that there’s someone out there better than you. I think you’re breathtaking, and so very desirable, especially with all that wild hair. I was watching you sleep this morning, and I’ve been hitting myself over the head and asking myself why I never saw this in you before. You’re lovely and there’s a special magic in your eyes, that’s just… it drives me insane, but in a good way.” He touched her shoulder, tracing the pads of his fingers on it lightly. “And I just love the color of your skin…”

“R-Really?” she whispered. “You mean that? You’re not just—“

“I’m not lying. I’m not flattering you, either. I’m telling you that I think you’re beautiful and that there’s no one else like you in the world.”

There was disbelief in her eyes, but she was smiling, too. She nudged him shyly. “And here I thought you loved me for my mind.”

“That, too, but it doesn’t hold a candle to your breasts, really, which are just exquisite—“

She pinched him lightly.

He pulled her into his embrace and whispered in her ear, feeling the usual tingle of naughtiness when they held each other this close. “And you just drive me mad, sometimes; not just when you’re naked, but sometimes you’d be fully dressed having a perfectly decent conversation and all you have to do is sigh a certain way and I—I’d get a—you know.”

He felt her shudder.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

“That’s very encouraging.”

“You have me whipped solid in that department, just so you know.”

She smiled, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For being insecure. For belittling your feelings for me. But I can’t promise I’ll always be sure of myself. I can’t promise that I’d ever outgrow this feeling that I’m not good enough.”

“Then I’ll have to apologize too,” he said softly. “Because I’m just as guilty of those things.”

“Right self-deprecating couple we make.”

He smiled. “We’ll just have to keep reassuring each other, I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

They chuckled.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Harry reminded her that Remus had made lunch for them, and that they hadn’t been very appreciative of his efforts.

Hermione responded immediately, pulling him with her as they rushed down the stairs to rescue Ron from canaries and join Remus for lunch.

5. Chapter Fourth: Occasion

Author’s notes: As you may have noticed, these chapters are particularly long. Truth is, I want to finish this story in as little chapters as possible. That’s not a promise though, that’s a dream. So it’s not going to be over anytime soon. Also, for those of you who got used to my fast updates in “Hermione Full of Grace”, I’ve explained to some of you how that can’t happen for this fic, even if I prayed every night for the gift of Fast Writing. Let me explain again for the benefit of others. I finished writing all but the Epilogue of “Hermione Full of Grace” before I started posting it. I worked on it with my beta Aurabolt continuously, even while I was in the process of posting the chapters. So yes, HFoG is a child of Unending Revisions. This story, “Forever Knight”, did not have the luxury of being finished before posting. This story came to me after I finished HFoG and it clawed its way out of my brain. I wrote it, and I used it to reapply for my Portkey authorship, an authorship which HFoG didn’t exactly get me. FK was approved in a mere few hours, so this is my “application fic”. Let it be said that if Portkey had waited another few months before approving FK, I would have finished this within that time as well, probably with another beta-reader who does NC-17 fics (Aurabolt doesn’t beta NC-17 if he can help it.)

So in conclusion, you’ll have to bear with me concerning updates. Lol. Hopefully, that’s alright with you. ^_^

Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter is mine. Wait. That’s not right. I dreamed Harry Potter was mine. He isn’t. He’s Hermione’s. :P

Chapter rating: NC-17

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Chapter Fourth: Occasion

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Two nights before Bill and Fleur’s wedding, Ron said he had to go on ahead to the Burrow and help with the preparations.

“The tent won’t go up by itself, you know,” he said as he packed some of his belongings in a bag.

Hermione flopped on her stomach on his bed while Harry sat at the foot of it, both of them watching him move about the room.

“Mrs. Weasley must be beside herself with worry,” she said, paddling her legs idly as she bent them at the knee.

Ron scowled. “Understatement of the year, that. She’s biting everyone’s head off, bossing us around. And that was last time I saw her, which was three weeks ago! She must be a monster now.”

“Ron, don’t talk about your mother that way!”

“Well, it’s true!”

Harry smirked, making no comment. While he loved Molly Weasley, she wasn’t exactly the sweetest of women when provoked, or when under pressure. Hermione knew this, as she had been the target of Molly’s ire a few times in the past, but Harry knew what she meant, telling Ron to be respectful.

“I don’t think we’d mind going over there first thing tomorrow to help,” he said, leaning back on the bed on his elbows. “Remus said the soonest we’d get word from Azkaban was tomorrow evening, and I reckon all that waiting will drive Hermione and I nutters.”

Ron looked relieved. “I’d really appreciate it if you come a day early to the Burrow…” he looked at Hermione and hesitated. “That is… if you’re okay with it, Hermione.”

Harry looked at her in surprise. He hadn’t bothered to talk about it with her, but they’d been friends for so long that he always assumed they liked to do such things together. Maybe she didn’t want to help with the wedding preparations.

She looked at them both sheepishly. “Of course I’m okay with it. I’d love to help. Harry and I will be there, Ron, bright and early.”

Ron grinned. “Thanks.”

Arthur arrived to pick up Ron and was immediately warm to the idea of having Hermione and Harry over a day early.

When they were gone, Hermione smiled up at Harry. “We should tell Remus of our plans.”

She was just turning to go to Remus’s study when Harry held her gently by the arm.

“What was that about, earlier?” He idly played with some strands of her hair. He meant the gesture to put her at ease, and that, with his gentle tone always did the trick. “Do you really want to go help at the Burrow? We don’t have to, you know.”

She reddened, looking embarrassed. “I do want to help over there, Harry. I mean, half the fun of family weddings is helping with the preparations, in spite of what Ron thinks, but you know you’re going to have to deal with Ginny, right? I don’t know if I should be there when you do.”

He cocked a sheepish smile. “Yes, well, it might be awkward—“

“It will be.”

He shrugged a shoulder. “Then I guess that’s just the way it’s supposed to be. I have no intention of hiding what I feel for you just to make others feel more comfortable. Ginny’s… Ginny wasn’t exactly overly disappointed when I broke up with her, so I suppose it won’t be so bad.”

“So long as she doesn’t try bat-bogeying me, I can live with that,” she muttered.

“She’s going to have to grow up some time,” he muttered back.

“D’you think Molly would hate me?”

The serious look in her gaze gave him pause. “I—I don’t think so. Why would she?”

“Because you’re with me, instead of with her daughter, and she’s very protective of her children, particularly Ginny.” Her voice was soft and her cheeks were red. “I mean, back in fourth year, she really had it in for me, and then—and then that comment Arthur made last week when he and Ron first arrived…”

Harry’s brows knotted a bit. “About you having twins?”

“Yes. If Arthur had the notion that Ron and I should be together, then Molly is likely to have the same notion. Now I haven’t just slighted her daughter, but her son as well.”

“That’s rubbish, Hermione. If she feels that way about you then she should feel that way about me, too.”

She chuckled softly. “Oh, but she can never be angry at you, Harry. And really, it’s only right. You’ve only saved most of her children’s lives.”

Harry frowned. “Doesn’t give Molly the right to treat you badly, though.”

She smiled. “It’s not like I would hate her for it. I’m just expecting the worse, but I’m really hoping for the best. Anyway, Fred and George will be there to liven things up. Bound to be interesting, at any rate. Now, let’s go see to Remus, shall we?”

Harry knew enough to know that she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. It summoned a kind of protective instinct in him. She should never have reason to feel uncomfortable with the Weasleys, and he wasn’t going to let Molly or Ginny scare him into it, either. He made a resolution that he won’t let Hermione feel as if she had to deal with this by herself. He was going to be with her in this every step of the way.

They went to Remus in his study and found him reading some documents on his desk. They told him about their plans and he made no particular fuss about it. They were about to leave when Remus brought up Azkaban.

Harry felt Hermione’s grip on his hand tighten with excitement and he saw that she was about to say something when Remus raised a hand to shush her.

“I just found out that approval for visits to Azakaban take longer than I initially thought,” he said, lowering his eyes back to his documents. “We’ll have to wait two or three more days.”

Hermione sighed. He could hear the exasperation in it, but she made no complaints. There was nothing they could do. “Fine, then.”

Remus nodded. “For the meantime, do what you have to do. Never hurt anyone to have a bit of fun.”

From Harry’s perspective, that meant escaping the reality of their lives by attending storybook weddings… well, as far as grooms with mauled faces could be considered storybook.

With Remus properly notified, Hermione declared she would retire for the night.

Harry talked a bit with Remus before he took his own leave.

Harry barely had his knuckle raised to knock on Hermione’s bedroom door when it opened and he was pulled right in by the collar of his shirt.

Their lips crashed together and Harry welcomed that instant flare of heat that shot through his body, culminating in the hardness forming in his pants. Those first few seconds of kissing and grabbing her were a tangle of limbs, soft sounds of appreciation and breaths summoned laboriously through their lips. He was extremely delighted to note that she was in nothing but her knickers and he let his hands roam over her bare skin.

It took him about three seconds to lean back and pull off his shirt, then his lips were upon hers again, his breathing gone ragged, a slight moisture breaking out of his skin.

She pushed him to the bed and he was glad he only had his trousers to deal with. She climbed over him, knees to his side as she undid his belt.

He grinned through his swollen lips. “How did you know that was me? That could’ve been Remus, you know, and then where would you be?”

“Mortified and packing my things so I can leave and hide in some distant corner of the world where no one would find me,” she muttered, expertly sliding the canvas belt from its buckle.

“You know I’ll find you, don’t you?” he murmured, kicking off his shoes and socks as she worked. He ran his hands up her thighs. He loved her legs. They were perfectly shaped and smooth to the touch.

She grinned. “You know I’ll let you.”

He reached for his wand and used it to cut through her under-things. He smiled when they came undone and he enjoyed the view.

She pouted. “You better repair them later, Potter.”

Chuckling, he reached up and grabbed her, rolling her beneath him. His hands, lips and tongue began to take full advantage of her nakedness; running over the pleasant mounds and dipping into the hollows of her, coaxing her desire for him. The sounds she made when he touched her just right always made him want to abandon consideration so he could ravish her guiltlessly, but as always, he checked himself. Pleasuring her first always made the experience feel so much better.

His erection demanded to be noticed, and Hermione, ever the observant one, removed what clothing he had left, pleading him to take her already or she would go mad.

It was pure pleasure when he entered her, and moving inside her felt even better. They often found themselves caught in the drowning heat of it all, sweat beading out of them, their movements a torrid cadence. And when they said things to each other, gasping words of appreciation, Harry realized that he barely ever remembered what she said. He was sure it was the same for her. The only thing they knew for certain during these moments of sensual delirium was that they loved what they were doing to each other and that they had to keep doing it.

Harry felt a sense of urgency to this joining, like the fact that they might not be able to do this in the next two days was fueling some intense need to get all the sensations peaking. He wanted to be rougher, more dominating, and while these last few weeks with Hermione had taught them several things about what each other wanted, they, or at least he, had reached a point where he wanted to explore further into uncharted territory, but was still hesitant to express his desire to do so.

What if she hated it and complained? Or worse, what if she hated it and she said nothing? But then, Hermione had never been one to take things quietly, was she? She had a way of telling him that she liked something, and she had a way of doing things so that she didn’t have to say she disliked it. Maybe it was that wordless communication they had going, how she’d simply find a better position and he’d realize that she probably didn’t like the last one.

Oh, but this was different, wasn’t it? This new thought in his head about silk tied around her wrists and attached to the wrought iron bed-frame. He wondered, and imagining it was enough to fuel the thick desire already pulsing in him.

He groaned as he kissed her, listening to her soft moans so he’d know when he was pushing into her just right. But as he pulled back from her kiss, thinking those almost-forbidden thoughts as he stared into her eyes, her gaze widened.

“Harry…” she breathed. “Is that what you want?”

It was difficult to make sense of her question when the sensations of being buried within her was immensely overpowering. But then she raised her arms over her head, placing her wrists just where the railing of the bed was. He thought surely he was dreaming. One of many he had of Hermione, but he figured he shouldn’t waste time trying to figure that out.

He groped for a wand, probably it was hers, and managed to transfigure her torn bra into a silk scarf. She took the scarf herself, artfully looped it around the railing and positioned her wrists loosely within it.

“Nodare,” she whispered in his ear.

He didn’t even have to ask what it was. He muttered the spell, trying a basic swish and flick, and instantly, the scarf tied itself into a knot. And seeing her so bound drove him mad. He dropped the wand and sat up on his knees, his hands and fingers running over her as his hips moved roughly to meet hers. She was incapacitated, but she somehow managed to convey where she liked his touch best. She was responsive to this vigorous joining, encouraging the intensity of his thrusts. And when he pressed his thumb gently down on that exquisite bundle of nerves at the center of her, she gasped, bucked and tightened around him.

That was it. She let loose that cry he now knew well and it almost always pushed him to go right with her. This was one of those times and he just lost himself inside her, straining to savor every blessed second of his release.

When it was over, he fell upon her and kissed her. It was part reassurance that in spite of how different this time might have felt, it was still about loving her, and wanting her, and knowing her. While their lips were carefully joined, he undid the ties of the scarf, releasing her wrists.

Her arms promptly slid over his shoulders, staying there even when he rolled carefully to her side.

His own arms held her in his embrace and she snuggled. He saw her wrists. There were marks around them and he touched it gently.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“They don’t hurt,” she replied. “Probably be gone in the morning. If they’re not, it’s easy to put a concealment spell.”

He ran the pad of his thumb gently on the red welts. “I shouldn’t have—“

“Shut it, Harry. It felt amazing. We should do that again.”

His eyebrow arched before he let the smile escape his lips. He pulled her closer. “How did you… know?”

“Know?”

“That I wanted to… try that.”

She paused a moment before she chuckled. “I think you might have telepathically sent an image of it to me.”

“I can do that?”

She shrugged. “Maybe it had something to do with your occlumency. I’m not sure, Harry, but the image was so clear… and so hot. No wonder I wanted to do it as much as you did.”

And he thought he couldn’t find her any sexier. This strange new connection deserved exploring as it certainly saved them a lot of awkwardness. Really, there was so little time to be awkward when caught in the throes of steamy, intense sex.

Something poked at his back and he gladly realized it was his wand. He used it to summon the blankets bunched at the foot of the bed. The sheet was neatly folded and he could only assume Hermione arranged it.

Nestled under the blanket, he put out the lights in the room and pulled her closer against him.

“Are you ready for tomorrow, Hermione?” he asked in a soft, undemanding tone.

She paused a moment and understood what he meant. Tomorrow, at the Burrow, they would be “coming out”, and while he had his own insecurities about anyone but Ron and Remus knowing about how he felt for Hermione, the fear of Voldemort; that fear in him that seemed to rule his life, felt like a lame excuse to lose her. There would be no breaking up with her to protect her. That excuse seemed silly now compared to how much he cared for her.

“Yes, are you?” she replied.

He stared into her languorous eyes. “Never doubted it for a second. I do love you. Why is it that you can’t seem to get that into your head?”

She seemed surprised by that, and he was a bit surprised he said it, but it was true, wasn’t it? These last few weeks, in spite of the intimacy; in spite of what she felt for him, she seemed to have doubts about his feelings for her. It was like what she said the other day: She couldn’t believe they were together, and even if he wasn’t exactly the most self-assured bloke in the world, she was even worse about doubting herself.

He realized how harsh his question was and he squeezed her into his arms reassuringly. She didn’t have to answer that. He shouldn’t have asked it. He whispered more assurances in her ear, telling her to go to sleep already so that they could head out to the Burrow early the next morning.

Minutes later she seemed to relax, and soon, they were both asleep.

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Harry and Hermione arrived at the Burrow to the sight of Fred, George, Ron and Charlie Weasley struggling to magically transport what looked like a massive, rolled up tarp and several metal rods. It wasn’t so much that the things were heavy, as magic had a tendency to lighten loads, but Fred and George were, as usual, making a joke of it, which resulted in a lot of dodging and yelling.

The twins and Ron stopped arguing when they saw him and waved jovially at their approach. Charlie looked on with great interest. The last time Harry had spoken to Charlie, it was during the Triwizard Tournament, first task. Charlie had been one among many dragon keepers in the lot. His encounters with Charlie had been very brief, so Harry couldn’t really say he knew Charlie all that much. He was still mostly a name to Harry, and a rather distinct name at that, what with his exciting job and stellar Hogwarts history.

Charlie wasn’t as tall as his brothers, but he looked solid, and strong. There were parts of him obviously healed from burning, but there were no unsightly scars. His red hair was darker than his brothers and his blue eyes were as dark as Ron’s, but just like most Weasley boys, he had a ready grin.

“Nice of you to join us, mate,” said Ron with a lopsided smile.

Harry blushed, briefly exchanging sheepish looks with Hermione. They were a little bit late. They woke up on time but they… did unmentionable things that made them not on time.

So shoot me, he though morosely. I’m seventeen and I was in bed with a naked woman.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Clock didn’t go off when it was supposed to. Er—good to see you again, Charlie.”

Charlie nodded, flashing an even wider smile.

Ron’s eyebrow arched slightly at Harry’s excuse but he didn’t seem upset. “Charlie, you remember Hermione?”

“Of course he does! But the question is, does Hermione remember him? He’s crispier these days, what with all those dragons,” said George.

Fred grinned. “He’s not really lopsided, Hermione. He just lost an eyebrow to one Norwegian Ridgeback.”

Ron ignored them.

Charlie cocked a smile. “Well, yes of course I remember Hermione. And how could I forget? I’ve heard naught but Hermione this and Hermione that from Ron, lately, haven’t I?”

Hermione blushed becomingly while Ron cast Harry an apologetic look.

“Ron can’t seem to shut up about you,” Charlie went on, to Ron’s obvious dismay. “Brightest of Hogwarts, I think, is what he keeps harping about, and I don’t mind telling you that he’s not immune to your other charms, either—“

“Charlie,” interrupted Ron. “Mum told me to tell Hermione to go see her straightaway when she gets here. You don’t want to keep mum waiting.”

Charlie took Ron’s words in stride. “Well, of course not.”

“It was nice seeing you again, Charlie,” Hermione said, hurrying away.

For some reason, the twins followed after her, catching her between them and practically dragging her the rest of the way to the front door. They were speaking to her conspiratorially and her gaze shifted from one twin to another, utterly perplexed.

Harry watched them go, wondering himself.

“I suppose I’ll have to take care of this for the meantime,” said Charlie, looking at the mess his siblings left.

“Harry and I will help you in a minute,” said Ron. “Just take the rods for now.”

Charlie nodded, grabbing what he can with a wave of his wand and going on ahead.

“Sorry about that,” Ron said. “I haven’t told them about you and Hermione. It hadn’t come up.”

Harry shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets and going into his usual slouch. “That’s fine. Hermione and I talked about it. There’s no need for some big announcement. I think we’d be obvious enough once we get settled in.”

“Right. I’d expect Ginny’s going to be a bit testy about all this, even if you did break up with her last June.”

Harry said nothing. He nudged his toe at the tarp lying on the grass. “We can haul this out back before I go in to see your mum.”

“Leave it. Mum first. She’ll have my head if I don’t bring you in there to greet her.”

Ron led the way across the front yard and through the door. When they got to the kitchen, Molly and Ginny’s faces lit up.

Harry immediately caught Hermione’s gaze and she smiled a bit, ignoring Fred and George who were prattling on both sides of her.

Ginny jumped up from the kitchen table and grabbed his arm, kissing his cheek as she grinned. “I’m so glad you’re here today, Harry. You always put mum in a better mood and we can really use her good temper right now.”

Molly cast her daughter a sidelong glance as she approached Harry to give him a warm hug. “How are you, dear? You still feel a bit thin, but not as bad as the past summers. Remus has been taking care of you, which is good.”

“Actually…” he muttered. “You can thank Hermione for that. She sees to it that Remus, Ron and I are properly fed…”

He was hoping to get some kind of message across which he could tell Ginny seemed to catch on to and Molly didn’t.

The matron smiled broadly. “That’s Hermione for you, I suppose. Taking good care of my Ronnie.”

Ron cast Harry another apologetic look.

The twins snickered something about ickle-Ronniekins which prompted Hermione to frown at them.

“Hasn’t she grown lovely this summer?” Molly said, looking appreciatively at Hermione at the counter. “A bit taller, too.” She glanced at Ron and gave her son a wink.

“Mum!” Ron cried, unable to keep quiet any longer.

Hermione looked like she was going to explode. “Mrs. Weasley, I think I’ll help the twins out back with the flowers, may I?”

“Of course, love.” She hustled Hermione and the twins out back. “George, don’t let her carry the basket. It’s a bit too much for her to manage, I think. Fred, go fetch the ladder for her and make sure she doesn’t fall off it and break her neck.”

Molly watched them go fondly. She grinned and turned to Ginny. “Ginny, dear, doesn’t Hermione have a wonderful figure? Shed the baby fat, she did. I wager she’ll look lovely in a gown, don’t you think so, Ronald? Harry, have you had breakfast?”

“Y-Yes, Mrs. Weasley.”

Ron gave an exasperated sigh. “C’mon, Harry. Let’s see if we can help out back.” He grabbed Harry and Hermione’s rucksack and deposited it at the counter before dragging him out the back door.

“I’ll go too,” cried Ginny, bounding on after them.

Harry stifled a sigh. Every time he went to the Burrow, it felt like stepping into a whirlwind.

Charlie spotted them first, and this time, he had Bill and Arthur with him. The three elder Weasleys called them over to help with pitching the tent.

Harry sought Hermione and found her sitting on the grass with Fleur, sorting blooms from a huge, casket-size basket. He could hear snippets of their conversation and realized they were conversing in French. Fleur laughed at something Hermione said and held up a lily in Hermione’s hair. They looked like they were getting along. The twins were hauling a crisscross wooden rail which they were just setting down flat beside the two women. It was a lovely enough picture, with Hermione and her backdrop of flowers. But when she looked up and smiled at him, he was hopelessly won. He almost forgot about helping with the tent and actually began to take tentative steps in Hermione’s direction when Ginny’s voice cut through his hypnosis.

“Ugh, Phlegm,” said Ginny. “I don’t know how Hermione can stand to speak with her.”

“Fleur isn’t bad,” said Harry, his opinion immediately biased. Fleur seemed to like Hermione. Fleur was holding up flowers in Hermione’s hair. Therefore he was going to like Fleur from now on, and not just because she was part Veela.

Ginny glowered at him, probably remembering the time he had so readily called Fleur ugly for Ginny’s benefit.

Well, she should’ve known I was joking, Harry thought, pouting a bit.

Ron had him pulling his weight in the tent building while Ginny ran around handing out bolts and screws.

Fifteen minutes later, Arthur sighed. “Harry, be a good chap and go on over to Fred and George. Tell them they can stop having such a good time flirting with the girls and help us with this tent. Honestly, you’re putting more work in than they are!”

Grateful for the chance to be near Hermione, he hurried on off his ladder and tried not to be so self-conscious about Ginny eyeing him.

When he got there, Fleur was decorating the railing with George while Hermione stood up on a ladder, attaching flowers to an arch with Fred handing her batches from the ground.

“Umm, George? Fred? Mr. Weasley wants you over there helping with the tent,” he said.

“Was wondering when he’d catch on,” said George, getting to his feet.

“Was fun while it lasted,” said Fred, passing the bunch of flowers he had on hand to Harry.

Fleur chuckled, tossing her spectacularly beautiful tresses over her shoulder as she rose. “I sink I will zee if Bill needz me, no? ‘Ermione, à tout à l’heure.”

“A toute.”

She left with the twins.

“You and she seem to be getting along,” he said, looking up at her, his elbow on a ladder rung.

Hermione smiled. “She’s more accommodating in French. And if you get past her fantastically inspired vanity, she’s really quite sweet.”

“And what were the twins bothering you about?”

“Spell theory. They needed my advice on a… particular invention of theirs. I think—I think they’re pitching to make me a regular consultant for their business.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched.

“Harry, hand me some of those Lilies of the Valley, won’t you?” she said, pointing to the basket. “They’re the white ones that look like tiny bells. That’s it.”

He smirked, grabbing a bunch and standing beneath her as he looked up. “These?”

“Yes.” She reached for them and as she did, he laced his fingers with hers beneath the bundle. He tugged her gently down to him.

“Harry…” she complained softly, turning a bit pink.

“Hush,” he said in a low, gentle tone. “Just kiss me. I’ve been wanting to since we got here. Let the Weasleys know who got the girl…”

She reddened even more, but his words seemed to have convinced her and she bent over the ladder, letting her lips descend softly on his.

He tightened his grip on her hand, just so she wouldn’t move away so quickly. If they were going to do this for show, they might as well enjoy it.

The kiss was gentle, but intimate, their tongues brushing languorously against each other. His breath hitched with desire in spite of the knowledge that they were doing this in plain view.

A door slammed in the background, something he was only vaguely aware of.

They separated slowly, and Hermione let a breath out through her red, swollen lips.

“That was lovely, Harry,” she whispered.

He smiled fondly, running his thumb gently over her cheek before he finally let her get back to work.

Glancing nonchalantly to the tent area, he caught everyone looking. The men turned away immediately, getting back to their respective tasks. Fleur looked to be giggling but Ginny didn’t seem the least bit pleased. She stalked off, back into the house, and that was when Harry spotted Molly at the door, blinking as she held a tray of pumpkin juice in her hands.

Ron immediately went to assist her.

Harry was well satisfied. That settles that, then.

“I hope you’re happy, Mr. Potter,” said Hermione from the corner of her mouth.

He shrugged. “Not nearly. Now I want you desperately.”

“You’ll just have to suffer that. Molly will probably post double wards around the bedroom doors now that she knows.”

“Lots of woodland here…”

She shot a flower at him and grinned, though she said nothing in protest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was very little time for anything but working, eating and sleeping that eve of the wedding, and in a way, Harry was glad Molly made a fuss about him and Ron going with Bill, Charlie, Fred and George to that last bachelor’s night out. He could tell Hermione wasn’t all that thrilled about the idea of him joining the boys for a night of debauchery, though she said nothing. Even Ron noticed her unvoiced protest.

“I reckon we’re better off staying home,” Ron muttered to Harry aside.

Harry couldn’t fathom how Hermione managed to whip both of them. Wasn’t Ron supposed to be immune to that with her? Then again, Harry wasn’t sure Ron had completely gotten over Hermione yet.

Those that stayed home went to bed relatively early, and when Harry kissed Hermione goodnight in the hallway, she whispered jokingly that if Ginny killed her in her sleep, her Hogwarts: A History would go to him, as per her last will and testament.

Whatever Hermione and Ginny talked about before they went to sleep didn’t do much to improve things in the morning. They were visibly tense at breakfast and Ginny seemed to be ignoring both Hermione and Harry. Molly, thankfully, seemed to take it better, though she looked more confused than anything. Like she couldn’t quite believe things weren’t going to go according to plan.

Harry supposed Ron wasn’t the only one hung up on the One Big Happy Weasley Family thing.

Fleur was the only woman acting normal through it all, and when Fleur’s friends and sister arrived, Hermione was promptly pulled into her camp. Ginny glared and glowered but had little choice in the matter. She was a bridesmaid and had to be part of it all, as well.

The nighttime revelers lumbered into breakfast looking like hell. Thankfully, Bill already looked too much like hell for anyone to notice that he looked any worse.

Everything but the family were ready at midday, and the girls swept Fleur away to get ready with shrieks and sighs.

Hermione hung back a bit, watching the group of giggling French girls as they whisked Fleur to the drawing room that had been converted into her dressing area. She looked slightly overwhelmed.

Harry nudged her. “You alright?”

“I think I’ve been too long without female companionship. All that estrogen’s exhausting me,” she said, half-awed.

He smiled, taking her hand reassuringly. “You’ll be fine.”

She nodded, smiling back. She kissed him shyly and giggling erupted from the end of the hall.

The gaggle of girls sighed in chorus and cried “Ooh, la laa!”

Hermione looked like she was going to die.

Grinning, he pulled her again for a steamier kiss that had their audience properly shrieking in delight. She pulled away, breathless and he watched her retire to the dressing room. The girls grabbed her as one and sealed the doors.

The boys had more time to lounge around. The only problem Harry had was his hair, and since he knew no amount of gel could tame it, he let it run wild. There was no hope for it.

Ron got new dress robes for the occasion, thanks to Fred and George and it showed he was glad that for once, his Yule Ball Robes Days were over.

Fifteen minutes to show time, flower girls spilled into the hall laughing like wild fairies.

There was a distressed. “Oh, please, ‘Ermione! ‘Ou mus’ catch them!”

Seconds later, a perfectly made-up woman in a strapless gown made of shimmering taupe tulle floated by, running with her skirts hitched so that she wouldn’t trip over them in her three inch heels. The perfectly piled upsweep on her head was held up in what looked like crystalline string. It showed off the graceful line of her lovely neck. She had on an intricate arm band in white gold, shimmering against her coppery tan, and it matched the color of the thin sash cinched right beneath her breasts. She looked like some kind of Roman princess running free and Harry thought that just made Hermione look amazing.

Harry watched her go after the girls, leaving his seat in the parlor just to keep sight of her as she went. “Wow.”

He didn’t even notice Ron watching right behind him. “Was that just--?”

“Yeah.”

“She looked—“

“You said it.”

“Well, I didn’t realize she could be so—“

Harry turned to frown at him. “Mr. Yule Ball talking, here.”

Ron reddened. “Shut it. I knew she could look nice, but that…”

“Amazing, yeah. Come on. I think she needs help with the flower girls.”

They followed after her and found her preventing the girls from tormenting the poodles tied to one of the many mysterious Burrow pegs.

“Amelie! Josette! Leave those poor beasts alone and go back to your Aunt Fleur,” she pleaded as the girls giggled and threatened to fall on the ground in their immaculate finery.

Hermione looked up at Harry’s and Ron’s approach and sighed. “Help?”

There was no refusing her, especially now. Her understated make-up just made her look so much more glamorous.

Ron and Harry weren’t as passive in their approach of the girls. They simply picked both up and took them without a fight.

Sighing in relief, Hermione held the door open for them as they hauled the wayward flower girls back to the bride’s room. There was a strict “Girls Only” rule at the door so they had to deposit Amelie and Josette at the threshold. Hermione did not follow them, opting to stay with the boys.

“Goodness,” she breathed, leading them back to the parlor. Once there, she sought a mirror and tried to regain her poise. Satisfied, she held her hands out without the slightest bit of dramatic relish. “Well? How do I look?”

Harry exchanged glances with Ron. Would you believe this woman?

“Perfect,” they said together.

Harry shot him a scowl and Ron scowled back, though he had the grace to look away a few seconds later.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling and oblivious, if not blatantly ignoring their wordless exchange. “And you boys look splendid. We ought to go out, already. Sit with the guests.”

They did. Ron was whisked away a few more times to do some last minute things while Harry and Hermione sat among the many chairs beneath the tent.

The garden itself looked beautiful with flowers decorating the bushes and the many elegantly set tables throughout the lawn. But underneath the tent it was a virtual fantasy, with candles charmed to light but not burn and flowers spelled to stay fresh. The treatment of gossamer drapes softened the rigid lines of the tent and the pathway for the bridal march had been magically paved all the way to the altar.

The tent was filled with waiting guests who chattered among themselves.

Remus arrived looking rather dapper in fresh new robes and Tonks, at his arm, looked predictably quirky with orange hair to match her orange gown. Harry and Hermione waved to them but reserved talk for later. Besides, they lived with Remus. Not like they had much catching up to do.

Harry could feel a few eyes on him and he couldn’t tell if their gossip about him was favorable or not. He didn’t much care, and Hermione’s presence was reassuring. He took her hand and let his gaze rest on her face. She was such a pleasure to look at.

“Alright, Harry?” she whispered, covering his hand with her own.

He nodded, drinking in the details of her. “You’re beautiful.”

A deep flush rose in her face. His compliment now was apparently better received than his earlier one. “Th-Thanks.” She placed a demure kiss on his cheek for it.

He smiled. Loving how unpretentious she was.

Minutes later, Bill stood at the front with Charlie at his side. His other brothers, save Percy, stood behind them. Ron looked uncomfortable. He apparently hadn’t expected to be standing where everyone would see him, and he stuck out. Fred and George were tall, but he was taller.

The bridesmaids soon walked down the aisle. Ginny was predictably gorgeous, smiling in spite of the disagreeable mood she’d exhibited all day and yesterday. She was followed by two girls who winked flirtatiously at their corresponding groomsmen. Fred and George basked at their attentions. Ron looked like he was going to explode with embarrassment when the second of the two gave him a coquettish wave.

The Maid of Honor followed. It was Gabrielle. She was so pretty, even so young. She lit up the room with her promise of beauty.

When the bride arrived, it was as if everyone stopped breathing. There were absolutely no words to describe how ethereal Fleur Delacour looked. She was the epitome of magic; some kind of goddess in rich, white robes. She shimmered and glowed, and her face mirrored that of angels. The flower girls scattered petals at her feet, so much behaved than they were earlier.

The two bridesmaids and Gabrielle burst in perfect song; voices like heavenly hosts as Fleur glided to the altar.

“Wow,” whispered Hermione.

He looked at her, cocking a smile. “I said the same thing about you, earlier.”

She chuckled softly. “Flatterer.”

“Gryffindor’s honor,” he said seriously.

She caught his gaze and truly looked into it. The smile and blush that spread on her face told him she was grateful for the compliment, whether or not she believed him, and this time, she pecked a kiss on his lips.

Harry thought it was worth the wave of gossip he was sure it generated.

The rest of the ceremony took place and it was a romantic, solemn affair with lots of sniffling and sighing.

Harry glanced briefly at Hermione and saw that she was dry eyed, though the serene look on her face spoke of her feelings of the occasion. For all the times he and Hermione had looked at one another and knew exactly what the other was thinking, it occurred to him that she was a being of control; that she was almost always mind before heart, and again, it made him wonder if he had been special enough to turn that order around for her or whether, like most things about her, kissing him that night in Privet Drive had been a “logical” thing rather than an emotional one.

He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. She had certainly turned things around for him. Only a few weeks ago, he truly believed that there were some people meant to be alone; that there were those, like him, who simply weren’t allowed to love, or be loved, and that doing either had grave consequences. Now it was different. Now it was all about loving her and letting her love him in spite of everything that was happening; in spite of the responsibilities and the danger. And he wasn’t alone anymore.

The whole audience had stood, erupting in loud clapping and cheers, because Bill and Fleur were married, and it was a wonderful day when an unattainably beautiful woman like Fluer married an unspeakably mauled man for love and loyalty, but Harry wasn’t paying attention to this miracle. He was seeing to one of his own. He was kissing Hermione, and she was kissing back, neither of them caring if anyone saw, because as far as they were concerned, they were the only two people in the world.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The wedding had been a long, successful but tiring affair. Bill and Fleur had left the party hours ago for their honeymoon, but it was a bit past dark before the last of the guests left. The gibbous moon was up and the tents, tables and chairs had been left for packing up the following day.

Hermione and Harry had decided to stay until the next day to help put it all away. After which they would head on back to Grimmauld Place and try to get some research done.

In the meantime, Hermione sat out by herself in one of their favorite Burrow woodland haunts, tucking her dress around her as she sat on a log, staring out of the trees to look at the Burrow from a distance. It was quite a way by foot, but not much a problem by broom.

Yes, contrary to popular belief, she used a broom when she had to, and sometimes she even preferred it to apparating. So long as the distance was short and the flying was low, a broom, for her, was manageable. Let it never be said that Hermione Granger was not practical. Besides, she had used one of the older Cleansweeps, which was nowhere near as fast and dangerous as Harry’s devil-cursed Firebolt.

The house was alive, with shadows crossing brightly lit windows and distant sounds managing to filter its way across the fields.

There was nothing melancholic about her mood. She was, in fact, deliriously happy (Dark Lords obsessing to kill her boyfriend aside). She just couldn’t help but think…

What was that saying, again?

“The Gods could bear not too happy a mortal,” she whispered. She couldn’t even remember where she heard that. All she knew was that it was Greek and mythological.

There was a crack behind her, like apparition and she turned on her log, wand out and ready to strike.

“Easy there,” said a familiar voice. It was Remus, and Harry was with him. They were still in their wedding finery but they had loosened their bowties and taken off their dinner jackets, though Remus had his coat in his hand. They still looked dapper in their laid back couture. She hadn’t changed out of her gown either, and she still had her hair up, but she had taken off her shoes. Her feet were killing her.

She lowered her wand and smiled as Harry sat beside her, facing her on the log.

“What are you doing out here, all alone?” he asked, shadows of his worry evident.

On any other day she might have rolled her eyes at his paranoia, but he had been wonderfully attentive since they arrived at the Burrow; so lovingly considerate of her needs, that really, he didn’t deserve her flippancy. Kissing her in front of everyone; holding her hand in plain view; keeping her close when strangers approached her asking her questions; complimenting the way she looked… he had been a regular Romeo. A moody Romeo, yes, but she’d be wondering if she’d unwittingly bespelled him in some unnatural fashion if he wasn’t moody, so she supposed that was good.

“I just needed a breather,” she explained with an apologetic smile. “I kept well within the wards.” She tapped the tip of her wand to her temple, as if to remind him that she was still using the brains she was so known for.

He smiled at that, and seeing that she had eased him, she turned her attention to Remus.

“Hullo, Professor,” she said. She still called him Professor from time to time, more out of affection than any kind of formal address. “Needed a breather, too?”

Remus smiled that warm, kind grin of his that she found so comforting. “Actually, I rather intruded upon Harry to take me with him when he went looking for you. But I’ll only be a minute, really.”

Harry exchanged a quiet laugh with her.

“Don’t be silly, Remus,” she said. “You’re never a bother. Harry and I love your company, don’t we Harry?”

“Always,” said Harry with a grin.

This prompted a soft laugh from Remus. “Nevertheless, I have no intention of sticking around, as I have my own witch to look for. She has gone missing since she left with Fred and George about thirty minutes ago.”

“Uh-oh,” she chimed.

Harry took her hand and idly laced his fingers through hers. “I’m sure Fred and George will give her back.”

Hermione observed that while he was talking to Remus, his gaze never wavered from her face. She knew Harry was no ladies’ man, so it gave her fluttery feelings in her stomach, knowing that he was doing all this out of some kind of instinct; guileless and free of affectation. She cast him a pretty smile. It held promises of more, later.

She looked to Remus. “So what brings you here if you don’t need a breather and if you’d rather be with Tonks?”

Remus dug into his coat pocket and held up a small package. “This. It came from Azkaban this morning.”

She stared up at him, jaw dropping. Harry was quiet, as well. He was just as surprised as she was.

“Is that—“ she began, her voice rising slightly in a squeak. “Are you telling me—“

Remus tossed it at Harry and Harry caught it with fluid grace. Seeker instincts did that. “I took the liberty of corresponding with the Prison Keepers. Asked them what they got off Mundungus when he was brought in for incarceration. I had Tonks’ endorsement, of course, in her capacity as Auror. That’s the only locket they found on Mundungus when they caught him. I have no way of knowing if it’s the locket you are looking for, but if it’s the locket you want, it saves you a trip to Azkaban, doesn’t it?”

Harry was already ripping the package open. “You’re brilliant, Remus.”

“Don’t thank me just yet.”

Harry tossed the brown paper wrapper aside and opened the box. Hermione peered in and saw it; Slytherin’s locket. Or what they thought was Slytherin’s locket. She couldn’t really remember it all that much in detail, but peering at it, she knew it was the locket they couldn’t open. She watched Harry turn the box in his palm, letting the locket drop in his hand. For a moment, she was afraid his touching it would do him harm, but she remembered how they had all tried to pry the locket open and nothing really bad happened.

“Well, it’s this, isn’t it?” Harry said.

She nodded and held her hand out for it. He hesitated before placing it in her palm. She realized that he probably had the same initial reservations about it that she did and she stifled a grin. She examined the etched silver, marveling at how it hadn’t blackened through the years. She felt around it for magic and detected a bit, but it could have been a de-oxidizing charm. A lot of wizarding silverware had it. There was nothing to indicate that it was a horcrux. It would have to be researched a bit more thoroughly, but she knew she had some material to confirm it, and she had plans of requesting some records from the Ministry. Arthur may be able to help in that aspect. She wished she knew more about horcruxes and wondered if she could actually get Slughorn to tell her a few things now that it was a life and death situation. She also wondered whether talking to Dumbledore’s portrait would be able to give them some information about destroying it. Harry’s destruction of Tom Riddle’s diary had been organic; instinctual, but Harry almost had to pray its price with his life. If Fawkes hadn’t come along, he would have died. And judging by what Harry told her about Dumbledore and his ruined hand, horcruxes did demand a price for its destruction.

She felt Harry’s eyes on her and she looked up. He was smirking.

“What?” she asked.

“You’re thinking,” he replied.

He really did know her so well.

Remus chuckled. “Best I leave you to that for the meantime. I’ve got to find Tonks. I’m feeling a bit knackered… full moon’s coming up soon, you know.”

Hermione knew. Remus had explained to them that nearing the full moon, he surrendered himself to the dungeons of Grimmauld Place while Tonks took care of “certain matters”. She didn’t need to ask what those “certain matters” were. Ron asked, of course, and Remus cryptically (or perhaps not cryptically enough) replied, “I can’t exactly stroll on over to the local butcher’s for lamb chops as a wolf, you see.”

Wolfsbane Potion was generally good for controlling lycanthropy, particularly for Bill who hadn’t been completely affected. On a full moon night, it was certainly good enough to help Remus prevent transformation so long as the rays of the moon did not touch him, but the potion had a broader effect than that. Lycanthropy, just like any other disease, progressed through the years if left untreated. Werewolves who chose not to treat their condition would find themselves, in later years, more and more subject to the moon’s mercy, whatever its phase. The full moon would still remain a powerful catalyst, as it will always effect change in the lycanthrope whether it wants it to or not, but an untreated werewolf would discover that transformation, so long as there was a moon to look to, could eventually be summoned at will as the disease progressed. Of course, the stage of the moon affected the degree of transformation, so a werewolf was less wolf with a crescent moon than he would be with a gibbous moon, but it was a transformation nonetheless. Wolfsbane Potion prevented that progression of the disease, so those like Remus wouldn’t have to worry about transforming if he happened to stroll out of doors while the crescent moon was up.

So it would seem that Tonks took care of him while he was in the dungeons as well as his other affairs during those critical days of transition and transformation. Who took care of him before Tonks, or even Sirius, came around, was a mystery, and it made Hermione’s heart wrench at how alone he must have felt when there was no one.

“Take care, Remus,” she said. “Thank you for saving us that trip to Azkaban.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m good for something, aren’t I? I’ll see you two in a bit… or maybe not.”

Before Hermione could be mortified by the implications, Remus had disapparated.

Harry closed his hand over hers. “Moonlit night… stars… horcrux… romantic, innit?”

She laughed and held the locket up in the light. “I really do think this is the locket, Harry, but… we’ve a long way to go, don’t we?”

“Yes, which is why we gave up school for it…”

She stifled a sigh. She had willingly given up Hogwarts, there was no doubt about it, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t long for it. Hogwarts was a dream now; a pleasant one, where the walls and lessons kept them sheltered from reality, if not to hold them safe from it. Hogwarts was an illusion, perhaps a welcome one, but she meant what she said during Dumbledore’s funeral. The time for turning back was past. No more fun and games.

“McGonagall has replied,” he said, pulling an envelope from his trouser pocket.

This caught her attention and her stomach clenched, seeing that what he held wasn’t as thick as she expected. If it was McGonagall’s letter to her, she wasn’t sure if she wanted it to be that sparse. A curt, unfeeling reply from McGonagall would hurt her more than rolls of bitter disappointment.

He handed it to her. “At least it’s not a howler.”

“She wouldn’t—“ She stopped as a thought occurred to her, however unlikely it was. “Harry, did she give you—“

He chuckled. “No. No howler for me, or for Ron. She’s disappointed, but she did say that she understood what I had to do. I was half certain she would hate me for getting you in on it, but she said you and Ron had minds of your own; that she couldn’t blame me for getting you two to help me, even if she did want to blame me. She mentioned something else about you, though… she asked me to take care of you…”

Hermione was touched by McGonagall’s concern. She wondered if McGonagall asked the same thing of Ron.

With steady determination, she opened her envelope. It was certainly not twenty pages long, but it was ten personal pages. McGonagall was very disappointed, telling Hermione that she had such high hopes for her star student. McGonagall went on and on about how much good she could have done, finishing her studies and attaining her full potential as a student, and further still as a professional. Hermione felt a certain sting in her eyes, reading McGonagall’s lament. To someone who didn’t know McGonagall, it would read like a poor review of her performance at work, but to someone like her who perhaps knew the brilliant Headmistress more than any student in Hogwarts, this was as heartfelt as McGonagall had ever been. By the ninth page, Hermione felt wretched, and if wasn’t so embarrassing, she might have broken down in tears.

But Hermione came towards the end of the letter, and the temptation to weep weakened. What she read next meant so much to her. McGonagall said that for all that shall remain unfulfilled, she believed that ultimately, the heart’s convictions made more sense than what the mind dictated, and perhaps McGonagall was proud that the Gryffindor in her had prevailed. There was, after all, more to life than school and career. McGonagall confessed that after all that was said and done, she would rather Hermione held true to the principles of what was righteous responsibility, rather than what was academically excellent. This quest she chose to take up with Harry would be something Minerva McGonagall could look back on and say, “Hermione Granger, brightest witch I had the honor of teaching, learned in Hogwarts something that many wizards and witches with her brilliance notoriously never come to realize in their lifetimes: that the most important library in the world could only be found outside of one, where lessons were tomes bound by experience, and where knowledge was the liberating power of truth.”

When Hermione was done, she let the letter fall on her lap as she took deep breaths of the clean night air.

“Alright?” Harry asked. “How bad was it?”

“N-Not bad, actually. She sucked my soul out in the first nine pages, but this last part… I think I’ll love her forever for it.” She gave him the last page for him to read.

The corner of his mouth crinkled as he did. When he was done, he chuckled. “I think I would have fancied McGonagall when she was your age, eh? I’ve a thing for intelligent, adventurous women, see.”

“Thank you for sharing that, Harry. I’ve been wanting to have nightmares these past few nights but I couldn’t seem to induce them. Now I’ll have no problem.”

He grinned, moving closer so he could scoop her to his lap. “I bet McGonagall never looked as good as you do, now.”

She felt his hand run up her leg and the familiar rush of yearning instantly clustered in the pit of her stomach. It still appalled her how Harry can turn it on so instantly, like he laced his touch with something, activating these sensations within her whenever he wanted.

“We’ll stop all talk of McGonagall now, please?” she whispered, her breath catching as his hands crept higher, catching at her garter belt.

He gave a soft groan. “Unbelievable… could you be any sexier?”

Her stomach fluttered. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

They kissed, and Harry was already fiddling with the strings holding her knickers up, whilst she tried to undo his cummerbund when a crack cut through the haze of their foreplay.

Breathing raggedly, they pulled apart and whipped out their wands towards the sound, only to discover that it was Remus again, except this time he looked deathly pale under the moonlight.

“Listen to me,” said Remus without the slightest indication that he noticed how Hermione’s skirt was a bit hitched. His gaze was set on her face, and immediately, she knew that Remus hadn’t come for them, he had come for her. “Hermione, you must listen.”

Her gaze widened and panic suffused her. “What—Remus, what is it?”

“There’s been an attack,” he said urgently. “At your parents house—“

Something in her chest constricted and Remus’s next words became some sort of muffled tirade; like one of those Charlie Brown cartoons where the adults spoke with unintelligible murmurs. She caught snippets, about how the aurors protecting them were massacred and how her parents hadn’t been found.

“I have to go,” she said nonsensically, fighting to summon her senses. “I have to go now.”

She felt Harry’s strong arms around her and suddenly her whirl of thoughts stopped, aligning themselves so they can be coherent.

“Remus, what’s happening now?” came Harry’s steady voice.

“We’ve sent back-up, and the attackers seem to be gone. The area is clear of Death Eaters, as far as we know, but you can’t—“

“You know I’ll go whether you let me or not,” she said, feeling her convictions, or maybe her emotions, steeling her voice. She turned to Harry for confirmation and realized, to her surprise, that though Harry turned pleading eyes at Remus, it didn’t look as if he was supporting what she wanted to do. If the tightening of his grip on her shoulders was any indication, it felt almost as if Harry himself was holding her back. Anger began to take root and she started to struggle. “Let me go, Harry!”

He didn’t.

“Let me go!” she screamed, and he could only hold her tighter. “I’ll apparate! I swear!”

“Remus!” Harry cried.

“Don’t let her!”

And that one warning of Remus went straight to her nerves, piercing her sensibilities.

Something terrible has happened. Remus doesn’t want me to see!

She struggled a bit harder.

“Hermione!” Remus cried. “Listen! There are—there are things about this attack… it’s not like any we’ve seen—“

“Please, Remus,” she said, the terror in his eyes clutching her insides. What can scare a werewolf? She realized that the more she panicked, the tighter Harry would hold her. She had to calm down, or appear as if she was. She took deep breaths to loosen her muscles. “Please… Harry, I won’t apparate. I promise.” She turned pleading eyes at him and his gaze softened. He let her go.

She stepped away from him calmly.

Remus’s gaze stayed on her. “Right now, we’re trying to find your parents. We’re afraid they might have been—“

“They haven’t been taken,” she said resolutely. “There’s no reason for the Death Eaters to do that. They’re still in the house. I know it! I know where to look for them. You must let me go. I’m the only one who could find them. I put wards—“

Remus sighed. “Then we must wait here for aurors. I can’t let you go without an escort—“

Anger suffused her again. It was her house, and her parents! How can they expect her to stand back and wait around for an escort? She simply won’t do such a thing. She simply had to go.

“No. I will not wait around!” And without further argument, she raised her wand and apparated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry swore viciously, her quick disappearance raising his panic. Whatever it was Remus didn’t want her to see, she probably shouldn’t see it. “Remus—“

Remus was beside him in an instant. “Grab hold then, Harry.”

Harry put his hand on Remus’s shoulder and Remus took him on a side-along. The tug on his navel came and went.

The next thing he saw was Hermione cutting across the front lawn strewn with dead aurors and those who have come to collect them. The dark mark hung stark above the house, shimmering its ghastly green of skull and snake.

Hermione disappeared into the house.

Harry shot off after her, Remus close by to tell those who tried to stop them that they were there to retrieve the girl.

It took them another minute to get through.

When they crossed the threshold, Harry saw overturned furniture, ruined book shelves, shattered glass and blood everywhere. There were bodies; mangled with missing limbs. Some of them looked like they had been thrown against the walls with considerable force. It was a massacre; carnage. This looked nothing like a Death Eater attack. Death Eaters left bodies, yes, but there was as little blood as possible. The deadliest curses didn’t ask blood from its victims.

“Good lord,” Harry breathed. None of these were Hermione’s parents, because if it was, Hermione would be right there. She was searching for them. He turned determined eyes at the back up aurors. “Where is she? The girl that came through here—“

“Up the stairs,” said someone.

Harry didn’t bother to give thanks. He found the stairs and took two steps up at a time.

It took Harry another moment to realize that though the Granger home was no mansion, it wasn’t exactly small, either. It was bigger than average, as was expected from two working parents with a lucrative profession. It didn’t make things any easier at the moment.

Remus seemed to have similar thoughts. “You go down that hall and I’ll take this one here.”

They separated and Harry frantically searched the rooms. He called her name and prayed that when he found her, he would find her parents, too, hopefully alive and well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione pulled down the attic stairs with her eyes blinded by tears.

I told them to hide in the attic, she thought desperately. Magic protected. Spells and such… they should be safe. They should be safe. Please let them be safe!

Since third year, she had worked on warding the attic with charms she had created in school. It was a game to her, really, claiming the attic as her “laboratory” of sorts, and while she had childishly protected it with magic because it was her “high security work area”, she had actually put up formidable warding charms to keep magical intruders from penetrating its doors. When she turned seventeen, she strengthened the wards with spoken spells. It was a virtual fortress now. When she learned from Arthur that her parents were being protected by the order, she immediately told her father that if there was anything to indicate that their house was under attack, they were to immediately hide in the attic. She told them the attic would keep them safe. She was so sure it would.

But after having seen the horror that was her front lawn and living room, she felt bile rising in her throat at the fear that had so potently crept on her.

Frantically, she scrambled up the stairs in the darkness of the attic. “Mum! Dad! Are you here?”

There was no reply and she pulled herself up, ripping some of her skirt at the stairs as she rose. Her struggles pulled the stairs up with her and it cut her off from the light downstairs. She was sealed in and she desperately searched for the light switch. She found it and flicked it on.

“Mum? Da—“

Something dripped on her cheek, and then her fingers. She looked. It was blood. The floor was covered with it, making it slippery as it soiled the hem of her gown and the soles of her stocking-clad feet. Her heart hammered, threatening to break through her ribcage.

She turned her gaze up and found herself looking into the ghastly dead eyes of her parents. They hung from the ceiling, as if they had been pinned there by some invisible force and their throats were slit open from ear to ear. Blood poured, raining down on her face and body. The horror of it slammed into her system and all she could see was gruesome red.

She screamed. That was all she could do. Hysteria clouded her mind. She didn’t even realize their bodies were falling until her father’s face closed in on her. She stumbled back, barely missing the collision, and their bodies hit the floor with a sickening thud and splat. There was more blood just as the lights overhead shattered.

Darkness bathed her, but she saw two pinpricks of gold coming at her: Eyes. Slanted; demonic.

She screamed a second time before a body slammed her to the far wall and she felt teeth sinking savagely into her neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The blood curdling scream that pierced the house struck Harry like ice. He followed the sound without thinking and almost collided with Remus down one hallway.

“Hermione!” Harry cried. “Where are you?”

There was a thud, right above them, followed by breaking glass. Harry looked up and saw the gossamer material of her gown dangling from a groove cut into the ceiling.

“Attic!” Harry cried, grabbing the chain to pull down the doors. It wouldn’t budge. “Remus!”

Remus pulled with him just as she screamed a second time. The scream was filled with pure terror and it was followed by a crash and clatter. Her screaming stopped, and the silence, he realized, was so much worse.

Harry couldn’t think. There was so much emotion running through him right now, and the thought that they couldn’t pull the attic door open made him yell in frustration. “Remus, apparate us, now!”

“I can’t! It’s warded! She warded the attic!”

Aurors were pouring into the hallway and Harry felt rage clawing at him from all sides. He wanted to scream, “Somebody do something!” as more breaking glass and clattering came from above.

He desperately wanted to hear her voice again; anything that would tell him she was well enough to cry for help.

Blinded by fury, he stepped back and gathered his magic. He shot a reductor hex at the door and it bounded right back. Everyone had to scramble to get away. It caught the hallway door behind Harry and it was wholly reduced to bits, wood chips flying in all directions.

“Don’t do that again!” Remus said sternly as he brought his wand up for a second try.

“Hermione!” Remus cried. “If you’re in there, lower the wards! Do it now, Hermione!”

There was an explosion from above, like someone had blown through something; a wall maybe. The sound reverberated through the house and it prompted every able-bodied man in the hall to grab the chain and pull. Harry was among them, and it was through sheer will that he didn’t break out in tears at the apparent impossibility of the task.

And then Harry felt magic waning.

“The wards,” said Remus. “They’re going—“

The attic door yawned open and the entire group tumbled back as the springs gave way.

The shriek of hinges only made the sight that followed all the more horrific.

Bodies; two of them, stumbled down the stairs, trailing blood in their wake from their open throats.

Oh God.

Harry didn’t even bother to find out if these were Hermione’s parents. He needed to get to her. He needed—

There were shouts from the attic, and he realized a moment later that it came from the huge hole that punctured the outmost wall. Moonlight streamed through the opening, illuminating the room.

Harry pushed up the stairs, stumbling and slipping on the blood.

He heard someone cough and he turned at the sound.

There was no thinking at what he saw. His emotions took over, and instinct propelled him.

All he comprehended was that he crashed to his knees beside her as she lay on the floor in her gossamer gown.

Her eyes grew wide at the sight of him and her breathing became labored.

Blood stained the front of her dress and blossomed continuously. There was a wound beneath it, but he couldn’t see. There was a steady flow of blood coming from her neck as well, and her mouth was soiled red.

His tears came unbidden as he took her in his arms and held her. Trembling, he muttered a charm to staunch the wound on her midsection. She cried out as the wound hissed, but it didn’t seem to be working. Blood continued to soak the front while more was seeping from beneath her and Harry stared at the creeping pool in horror.

“Sword,” she gurgled, flecks of red splattering out of her mouth.

God, no…

He pulled at his shirt and wiped the blood from her mouth. He was screaming for help and immediately heard people scrambling behind him.

“Hermione, you have to hold on,” he said. “You have to. Don’t—don’t die on me—“

Her eyes grew glassy with tears. “S-Sorry…”

“No,” he choked. “Don’t say sorry. No! Help is on the way. Hold—“

“Harry…” she whispered as another pulse of blood overflowed from her lips. “Dying…”

“Oh, God.” He held her closer, feeling himself beginning to rock back and forth. Helplessly, he pressed his hand to the wound. Her blood continued to stain his fingers and his gaze grew liquid with tears. “Hermione, please—“

He was pleading for her to hold on. Stay alive. Help would come. She had to stay alive until then.

She kept his gaze as her breath trembled. And then the tension in her brows eased, tears spilling from her eyes as she grew absolutely and utterly still.

Her brown gaze stared blankly up at him.

His breath hitched. “H-Hermione?”

She made no reply. No response.

He shook her and she didn’t even blink.

She can’t be dead. She can’t be dead!

Harry pressed his ear to her chest; praying, pleading to hear the beating of her heart.

There was nothing but utter silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I hope that wasn’t very shocking. I wanted a… delirious happiness crashing and burning straight to hell kind of feel…

Mel Granger, thankfully, solved the mystery of the Charlie and Hermione acquaintance. Thanks, Mel!

6. Chapter Fifth: Blood

Author’s notes: Finally, we get to this vampire thing, eh? Stressful, this chapter.

Standard disclaimers apply. JKR, I vant to bite you… on the ankle… until you give me Harry Potter. I’ll settle for an autographed blow-up doll of him, though.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Fifth: Blood

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mediwizards came, tearing him away from her body. He made a desperate grab for her, but someone was pulling him back. It was Remus; maybe. He hardly cared.

He didn’t fight, anyway. He needed them to get her back. He needed them to revive her.

Ron’s sudden arrival caused more of a struggle with those around him. He was a large man; strong. It took three aurors to hold him.

Harry couldn’t even hear his own furious screams. And he watched as the mediwizards worked to revive her.

There was a steady stream of beams from the mediwizards’ wands, blue and pink rays aimed at her chest. The beams would bathe her in their glow, before dissipating into nothing.

Several minutes later, the mediwizards looked at one another, their faces resigned to the inevitable.

No…

One of the mediwizards reached over to press her eyelids closed.

No.

They were noting her official time of death.

No!

Harry knocked them aside and pulled her limp, slender body back into his arms.

He wasn’t sure what he did next. All he knew was that he was screaming her name, and that he was fighting back the crippling despair that was pounding onto him in waves. He was holding her tight as he wailed against her shoulder. He was vaguely aware of Ron nearby. Maybe it was Ron’s hands that were gripping his arms.

He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

This isn’t happening, he thought furiously. This is a nightmare. I’m going to wake up and she will be there; alive; smiling. She’s not dead. She’s NOT DEAD.

“Harry…” said a choked voice from behind him. “Harry, please.”

SHE’S NOT DEAD!

He hadn’t even realized that he had been screaming it out loud.

Stored glass and ceramic figurines began to explode; wooden tables split into bits through some invisible force and the walls groaned with the stress of the power buffeting it. Perhaps the house was mourning, too.

Shouts from the people around him did nothing to temper his magical outbursts.

In the next minute they were tearing him away from her and he couldn’t understand why they had to do that. Why can’t they just leave him alone with her? Why did they have to take him away?

Someone was struggling to hold him back.

“Harry!” It was Ron, and there were tears running down his face, too.

Harry didn’t care. Nobody could possibly understand his grief. Nobody!

He lashed out and the shriek of wood grew louder. Maybe he hit somebody. He wasn’t sure, but the next thing he remembered was a wave of drowsiness, and seconds later, the world went absolutely dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry woke up in the emergency ward of St. Mungo’s. There were no healers surrounding him or even bustling about. He had been placed in the farthest corner of the facility, and the only ones there to greet him were Ron and Remus.

He sat up from the hospital bed, frantically transferring his gaze between the two of them. “Tell me I dreamed it. Tell me it was a nightmare!”

Neither Ron nor Remus spoke. Harry didn’t need for them to say anything, anyway. He was covered in dried blood. Her blood.

Ron’s face was streaked with tears, his eyes red and puffy. Remus didn’t look any better.

Harry crumbled within himself, right there on the hospital bed. His strength was spent, and the screams stayed inside him. The tears wouldn’t come, like they’d crusted and clotted inside him, causing him worse pain than if he had even tried to force them out.

He brought his hands to his head as if it was going to explode from his grief.

Bent over, he struggled to find some measure of control for his raging emotions in the silence of the room.

He didn’t know how long it took him to compose himself, and he wasn’t even sure if he was in any condition to do anything remotely connected to her, but he asked Remus to see Hermione.

Remus could only stare at him, perhaps trying to figure out if Harry was in his right mind.

“Please,” he said in an utterly defeated tone.

After a while, Remus nodded and gestured for him to follow.

Harry touched his feet to the floor. His legs were going to hold him, and his legs were cooperating well enough to move him forward.

God, I can’t do this…

But I have to.

As they walked beyond the curtains of his bed, Harry struggled to speak. “Hermione’s parents… are they…?”

“Yes,” Remus replied. “It was their bodies that were—in the attic—“

Harry tried to settle the roar of revulsion at the memory of it.

Hermione… had you found them that way? Or were… were you made to watch as they were killed?

It was too horrifying for Harry to seek answers. Either way, he wouldn’t have wanted that for Hermione.

God… if I had just held on to her. If I had just—

He closed his mind to those thoughts. The danger was supposed to have passed. There weren’t supposed to be any Death Eaters left to harm her…

Silently, Remus led him to the healers in charge while Ron trailed behind.

The healer said she was in the morgue. She would be prepared for examination in an hour’s time.

Harry felt his stomach clench. “They’re going to—“

Remus turned apologetic eyes on him. “They have to. It’s—it’s standard procedure for… this.”

Death Eater victim, he thought. He swallowed to control the bile that threatened to rise from his stomach.

The other Weasleys were in the waiting area, turning grief-stricken eyes to him as one. And Ginny, who had refused to speak to Hermione before and during the wedding, was still shedding tears as she sat between her mother and father.

Bill and Fleur weren’t there, and for a brief moment, Harry felt a wash of rage, but he steeled himself, thinking that there was absolutely no use destroying their day of days with news of Hermione’s death. Even in grief, he had no right to be selfish.

As he stood there, he really didn’t know what to tell them. What did they expect him to say? Thank you for coming? He wasn’t feeling the least bit thankful about anything.

Ron spoke for him. “Remus and I are going with Harry to see her. We’ll be back in a bit, alright?”

There were silent murmurs of assent and Ginny’s quiet hiccup punctuated it.

The healer gestured for Harry to follow and he did, as Remus and Ron flanked him.

They were led to the lower levels where there were even less people to break the stillness. The doors to the morgue stood wide and unimposing and the healer ushered them through them.

The room wasn’t very big, and there weren’t any covered bodies left out in plain view. Instead there were slots built into the walls, rising high up into the ceiling. The bottom-most shelves had numbers, designating each column, and along the side, written up the wall, were letters. The room was almost freezing cold.

The healer went to one side and flicked his wand at a compartment. A scroll slid out and the healer tapped his wand on its surface. A line on the scroll glowed red and a hiss permeated through the room.

The healer looked up one wall and Harry followed his gaze. A block several feet up slid from one of the slots, a faint shimmering sound disrupting the silence.

Harry’s stomach dropped and he closed his eyes.

He felt someone squeeze his shoulder. “You don’t have to do this now.” It was Remus.

Harry struggled to speak. “I have to.” Or I’ll keep telling myself it didn’t happen…

The enchanted platform slid to the examination area, right where they stood. There was a blanket over her and the healer muttered an incantation to remove the magical casing surrounding her.

The healer looked to Harry for confirmation and reluctantly, Harry nodded.

The blanket was folded back, down to her shoulders and there she was.

Harry thought he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He thought that the first sight of her remains would have him turning and fleeing, but he supposed he was remembering her blood and pain. Now she was clean of all that. Her pallid skin was bereft of the stains of death and her hair was free of blood. There were bits of her neck on the other side of her that were torn open and he averted his gaze from it, concentrating on her face. Her eyes were closed, of course, but he wasn’t going to say she looked to be asleep, because she wasn’t. He had seen her asleep. Watched her sleep in his arms. This was utterly different. She wasn’t going to wake up again.

He placed his hand on her forehead. It was cold like ice.

A deep abiding sadness seeped through him and his hand trembled.

He loved her so much. And the pain of losing her was just so unbelievable. He had wept when he lost Sirius and he had grieved for Dumbledore, both deaths wringing sorrow from the very depths of him, but what do you do when a piece of your soul has been ripped away and shattered? What comfort could be had when right now his heart just kept breaking, and breaking, and…

I can’t… I can’t do this. I can’t just—just go on living, can I? How can I do that when there’s this abyss inside me that seems to go on forever?

He felt himself losing it.

What am I going to do without you, Hermione?

He managed to blink back his tears as he took controlling breaths. He might have whispered her name before closing his eyes and finally turning away.

He walked out of there without looking back. There was a hallway and he needed to cross it. There was a lift, and he used it to rise through the levels. There was a lobby, and he left it. When he was outside, he didn’t know where he wanted to go. He just wanted to get away.

He turned and Remus was there. He hadn’t the words to make sense of it all.

“Do you want to go back to Grimmauld Place, Harry?” Remus asked.

Mutely, Harry nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He didn’t know if he could trust himself to do anything.

Remus’s grasp on his shoulder was firm, and with a gentle yank, Remus apparated them both.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry found the silence of the dark room appropriate as he lay on her bed. Her scent on the pillows lent a painful reminder of her, but strangely enough, he didn’t want to forget. He didn’t want to block out the images of her. He needed to remember her being in this room; being with her as they talked; laughed; made love…

He remembered Crookshanks. Where was that beast? She had told him she left Crookshanks with her parents, but he hadn’t seen the cat-kneazle in the house.

Shifting to his side, he stared out of her window, the London sky hazy over the city.

How did this happen? How did this all go to hell so quickly? Where did last month’s paradise that was Hermione go?

Just that morning, they had been so happy. He had never seen her so beautiful and they were kissing, and holding hands, and they danced to lovely music. They had read letters under the moonlight and they were going to make love, right there beneath the trees.

What had happened?

What happened?

He couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t fathom it.

Harry was trying to understand just when and how it was all going to sink in. And when the shock of it wore off, he had to wonder what he was going to do. Was he going to rampage all over London, blowing up things and people?

If I ever live through this… if by some miracle I find a way to—to move on… The words were like a curse to him. He thought that the person who invented the words never knew what love and loss was like if he thought anybody can just “move on” like some tourist moseying through some dinky museum… I’m going to kill those Death Eaters. Every single one of them will die for this. And Voldemort... I’m going to make him suffer for everything and everyone he’s taken away from me. The last thing Voldemort will hear is Hermione’s name and he’s going to know that she is the reason I’m sending him back to hell…

Hermione.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his tears to stop, but that was impossible. He wept. There was just absolutely no way he could get through this without shedding his tears in private.

Several minutes later, he regained control of his emotions and sat on the edge of her bed. He bent over his knees and composed himself. He took deep, cleansing breaths as he continued to stare out of the window for long minutes at a time.

He didn’t know how much time had passed, with him staying just like that, before he heard the sound of footsteps outside. Seconds later, someone opened the door.

Light sliced into the room, illuminating Hermione’s dresser where he could see her colorful beaded necklaces and her white hat with the dainty lavender ribbon decorating it. He closed his eyes, remembering how she would hold different beads to her neck, determining which ones she liked best.

“Harry?” It was Ron.

He didn’t reply. He wanted Ron to leave him alone.

Ron didn’t. “Harry, there’s… been a development.”

Development? thought Harry bitterly. What in hell does that mean? What the fuck do I care?

“Sod off, Ron,” he said. “I can’t deal with that Order shite right now.”

“It’s about Hermione.”

Harry didn’t react.

Ron went on. “She’s—“

“Gone. That’s all I know,” said Harry, a choke catching in his throat. “Nothing matters anymore. And I can’t—I don’t even know if I realize it yet, Ron. It hasn’t… it hasn’t sunk in. I’m thinking about it right now and it seems so outside of me… so please, just leave me alone—“

“She’s not dead, mate.”

Harry’s heart constricted and he turned to look at Ron, his eyes blazing furious as he got to his feet. Ron had come into the room and Harry went to him, ready to attack him as he pointed to the door. “Get out. Now! Or I swear I’ll—“

Ron made an exasperated sound and stood his ground. “Harry, shut it and listen to me. They found something in her blood. And—I’m not entirely sure what they’re saying, but they—they seem to think that whatever it is that’s inside her will—well, it’ll make her rise back to life.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry burst through the fireplaces of St. Mungo’s, dismissing the soot on his face and clothes. He waited impatiently for Ron who followed seconds later.

“This way,” said Ron, gesturing to the doors.

Harry stormed through them and down the long corridors that followed.

Their brisk walk brought them to the “Special Injuries Unit” where Remus and Arthur rose from the waiting room chairs to meet them.

“Where is she?” Harry immediately asked.

Remus nodded. “I’ll get the healer to explain—“

“Where is she?” Harry growled more forcefully.

Arthur held him by the shoulders. “Harry, calm down—“

“I want to see her,” Harry said. “And I want to know what’s going on.”

“Please!” Arthur cried desperately. “We’re getting to that. I implore you to sit and have this all explained, alright?”

Harry was about to go on another rampage when he felt a hand squeezing his shoulder. He turned and it was Ron, raw pain in his gaze. Seeing Ron like that did more for Harry than anything Remus or Arthur had said. He realized only then that Ron was hurting almost as much as he was.

“I’m asking you to calm down,” Ron said. “I—I want to understand what’s happening… for her.”

Harry felt the fight leaving him and he expelled a deep breath. He was being a prat—a big one, particularly towards Ron. “Alright. Alright, then. I’m sorry. I’m just—“

“It’s alright, Harry. No need to explain.”

Remus shifted his gaze between the two of them contemplatively before he left to call the healer over.

Harry sat on one of the many chairs. Ron sat across from Harry and Arthur took to leisurely pacing nearby.

Harry stared blankly at the floor, fingers fidgeting.

What Ron had told him at Grimmauld Place hadn’t quite settled into his system yet. He was only just beginning to absorb the shock of Hermione’s death when Ron showed up at the door. Harry wasn’t quite ready to climb out of that hole he was digging for himself, and he refused to cling to hope even if his mind was telling him to do otherwise.

Ron was in no better shape. He was biting on his fingernails, his gaze on nothing in particular.

Remus returned, healer in tow. The healer wasn’t a tall man; a bit round, but not terribly stout. His healer robes were gray, with vertical black stripes. His hair was a peppered black, the line of which crept high upon his forehead. His dark brown face was pleasant and compassionate; even his eyes seemed to be made for soothing aches and pains.

Healer Kearney wouldn’t have seemed so small if he wasn’t in such towering company. Harry was the smallest of them and even he had to look down to make eye contact with the healer.

The healer gestured for everyone to sit.

Arthur sat with them as the healer was made to settle nearest to Harry.

“This is Healer Kearney,” said Remus. “He’s the primary healer for Hermione’s case. Healer, this is Harry Potter.”

Healer Kearney was not introduced to anybody else and he merely gave Harry a nod. “I’ll get right to the point, then. Ms. Granger was attacked by a vampire approximately four hours ago. The bite marks on her neck, of course, are the prime indicator for the examiner to test for a vampire attack, the results of which are obvious. She also sustained a sword wound to her abdomen, but in this case, that is merely her secondary cause of death. There is evidence that there was an attempt to clot the wound and minimize the loss of blood.”

“That was me,” said Harry, managing not to choke on his emotions. “I tried… was that wrong?”

“Not really,” said Healer Kearney. “It didn’t make anything worse. That was the best you could have done under the circumstances, but as you know, it didn’t do any good, either. The blood loss wouldn’t have stopped because she was already infected at the time. With open wounds like hers, the infection seeks the easiest and most effective means of killing her. In this case, it expelled her life blood through her wounds.”

So far, Harry was not hearing what he wanted to hear. “What infection are you talking about?”

“Vampirism,” said the healer. “Muggles call it a virus. For us it’s a veneficus. Literally, ‘poisonous magic’.Lycanthropy is a veneficus contracted by a were’s bite, or in some cases scratches from its claws. In this case, vampirism is a veneficus contracted by a blood exchange between the vampire and its victim. Necessarily, the vampire drinks the blood of its victim first, releasing dormant veneficus into her entire system, then the vampire can either choose to let its victim die from blood loss or choose to let its victim live by giving its own blood for the victim to drink, in which case the veneficus is awakened in her system and proceeds to infect her. The vampire blood acts like a catalyst to the veneficus it released inside her, and eventually, the activated veneficus will ‘reanimate’ her dead body.”

Harry frowned, and he focused on cramming this information into his head.

Ron’s eyes widened. “So, are you telling us that you expect her to rise… as a vampire?”

Arthur seemed troubled, but Remus remained stoic.

The healer nodded. “It’s the only way, or else she won’t rise at all. Every once in a while, we get a wizard or a witch in this hospital that have provisions in their hospital records for this sort of… situation; that in case they die of a vampire bite, they authorize this hospital, or some other particular person to… execute them. Usually, this means a decapitation. It’s to prevent reanimation in the off chance that the vampire activated the veneficus inside them. In the absence of provisions for execution, we let the family or spouse of the victim decide. In Ms. Granger’s case, she lists three decision makers in particular order. The first two are her parents, who have—tragically—passed on. The third and last decision maker is Mr. Harry Potter.”

Harry blinked. “M-Me?”

Healer Kearney nodded calmly. “Yes. You understand, Mr. Potter, that if there had been no one else left to decide, the standard procedure would be to let her rise. But since you have been given this decision, you may, or may not choose reanimation.”

Harry gaped. “Y-You want me to decide if I’ll let her live or—or have her head cut off?”

Ron made a horrified sound.

The healer merely nodded.

Harry couldn’t believe they had even asked. He rose indignantly to his feet. “Oh, well, you know me! I like the thought of someone lopping off parts of her! Why not her head… ARE YOU SHITTING ME? No one and I mean no one cuts off her head. Do you understand? Should I even be telling you this?”

Remus looked unmoved. “Now, Harry—“

Harry stared at him, shocked. “Do you want me to say otherwise? God, Remus!”

Arthur raised his hands for calm. “Of course he doesn’t! Calm down, Harry.”

Ron stood right by Harry. “Well, I say let her rise. And if in some twisted, parallel universe Harry lets them execute her, I won’t. Do you hear me, dad? I won’t!”

Arthur looked to Remus helplessly.

Remus stared at them with an unwavering gaze. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t let her rise. Just that… it’s not easy to live with an affliction, Harry. You don’t know what it’s like, and I’m just a werewolf. Twenty-seven days of the month I can lead a relatively normal life as a human. It will be much different for Hermione. She doesn’t get to transform back into a human. She will be a vampire for all eternity. No walking in the day. No eating in restaurants. No sleeping on a bed. She’ll need to stay in a dungeon, and sleep in a coffin, and thirst for human blood.”

“I’ll give her that blood if I have to!” Harry cried. “I’ve read about vampires too, Remus, and I know what she’s going to become.”

Remus shook his head. “There’s no knowing a vampire until you’re staring one in the face. I’ve met a few. Werewolves have a tendency to seek them out every once in a while. We’re natural servants of them, you see. They’re not human, Harry. Not the tiniest bit. They have their own culture; their own ways. They are nothing like you, or even me. You have to understand this before you make this decision.”

Harry clenched his fists. How can Remus even put this to question? This was Hermione they were talking about. They had a chance to have her back. He could not understand why Remus was telling him not to let Hermione rise.

He shook his head, glaring at his guardian. “Do you want me to have her decapitated, then?”

Remus sighed. “That’s not what I want. I want to see her again, same as you. I’m just… well—“

“What? What are you trying to say?”

“Nothing. Just… Harry, long after the lot of us… dies, she’ll be alive. She’ll be immortal. She’ll be alone.”

Harry actually gave pause at this.

Immortal…

“Hermione won’t ever be alone,” Harry said resolutely. “People will find her and will want to be with her. She’ll always have someone to turn to.”

Remus was about to say something more but stopped, clamping his mouth shut.

Harry took this to mean the discussion was over. “Healer Kearney, we’ll let her rise.”

Ron nodded, clapping Harry’s back to show his approval.

Remus exchanged looks with Arthur but said nothing.

The healer nodded. “Very well. We expect her to rise in about an hour; maybe two. So we must take this time to get you oriented with this entire procedure.”

“There’s a procedure?” Harry asked.

“Yes. At any rate, it begun the moment we found out the veneficus was in her blood. We immediately moved her to the dungeons—“

Harry’s mouth dropped at this piece of information.

“Hang on,” said Ron. “Dungeons?”

Healer Kearney patiently went on. “The newly risen almost always have a violent thirst for blood. They will always seek the nearest source, and unattended, they can kill enough people to sate their blood lust. A regular hospital ward is no place for someone with this condition. Vampires are strong, and lethal. It is imperative that they are brought to the dungeons before they rise and are properly restrained.”

“Restrained?” Harry said indignantly. “Like how restrained?”

“Shackled, Mr. Potter. Hand and foot. I assure you, those shackles are as much to keep her safe as everyone around her. She will be given a comfortable bed, anyhow. The best to be had. We feel that the newly risen have enough to deal with without having to wake up to a lumpy mattress. Besides… a vampire’s resting place is an essential part of them. We try to make the transition as easy as possible.”

Harry could not seem to advance his thoughts. “With shackles?”

Healer Kearney was not the least bit bothered by Harry’s objections. “We have called in the best Initiator vampire society has to offer. He charges exorbitant fees in his private practice, but certain… organizations have so kindly provided the funds to pay for his employ in the Special Injuries ward of St. Mungo’s. His name is Cicero Iswold and he will help Ms. Granger cope during this very critical time. Guiding the transition of human to vampire is no small thing, Mr. Potter, and it is therefore best left to professionals, at least from the rising to the first two weeks of Ms. Granger’s new life.”

Harry frowned and made a dismissive gesture. “Yes, whatever.”

“There is no whatever for the newly risen, Mr. Potter,” said a voice from somewhere within the room. Everyone searched for the source of it and found two expensively clad feet emerging from shadows Harry didn’t even realize were there. “Rising from the dead as a vampire is more horrific than anybody realizes. More often than not, the victim’s last memory is beastly eyes and fangs closing in on them, usually preceded by images of death and blood. You see, it’s seldom that a vampire turns more than one victim a night. Usually, it kills everyone else first—violently—and then saves the victim for last. By that time, the victim would be too terrified to do anything else but scream bloody murder.”

Harry felt his insides constrict. He had heard Hermione’s screams; had heard her terror. He didn’t even want to imagine what it had been like for her.

Healer Kearney smiled. “Mr. Potter, this is Cicero Iswold. Initiator extraordinaire.”

Cicero Iswold stepped further into the light and came into full view. He wore expensive robes over his expensive suit, a briefcase clutched in his hand. His eyes were of the clearest blue, almost transparent, and his hair a dark chocolate brown with what looked to be strange highlights of red. There was a beautiful quality to his face, like he was so unattainably pure. Everything from his perfect hair to his perfect shoes was impressive, except for one thing.

Harry scowled. “What are you, twelve?”

Ron looked down at Cicero’s puny frame. “Thirteen, maybe.”

“Ron!” Arthur cried, though he looked as perplexed as Ron and Harry were.

Cicero looked elegantly unaffected. “Sixteen when I was turned, actually, but it’s been two hundred years for me since. My birth parents, unfortunately, weren’t the tallest folks in the neighborhood so I’ve been getting flack about how I look for two centuries. One gets used to it.”

“You’re one of them,” Harry said in awe. “A vampire, I mean.”

Ron inched away from Cicero, bumping into Arthur.

“Of course I’m a vampire,” Cicero said. “I can’t properly help the newly-risen if I didn’t know about rising, myself. And mister…” he eyed Ron intently “… Weasley, you needn’t worry about your neck. I’ve fed. Your blood is safe from me. But be that as it may, if you intend to see Ms. Granger through this new life of hers, it wouldn’t do to be so ignorant of our ways, either, unless you’re planning to be afraid of her your whole life. Incidentally, your fear will only taunt her blood lust. It’s like you putting whipped cream and a cherry on your neck and inviting her to pudding.”

Harry would rather not have images of Hermione and Ron experimenting with whipped cream and cherries. “Mr. Iswold, I’d like to know exactly what it is that you do.”

Cicero smiled, the tips of his fangs barely showing through his lips. “Ah, you are eager to understand. This is good. Come, let us sit down and I will explain as best I can. Healer Kearney, thank you for your help. I can take it from here.”

The healer nodded, saying his goodbyes to everyone before retiring further into the ward.

Cicero took a moment to glance at Remus, eyebrow arching. “You are a werewolf.”

Remus smiled mildly and nodded.

“You’ve a pack? A master?”

“No. I choose not to be part of a pack. And I… prefer not to have a master.”

Cicero shrugged. “Who was your Initiator?”

“Albus Dumbledore.”

Cicero’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, one of the best a were can have. Very caring. Perhaps a bit too much.”

“Indeed. He built me a house in Hogsmeade and grew a whomping willow tree to protect me during my transformations.”

Cicero nodded. “I was sorry to hear about his death. He was a great man. The vampire community mourned his loss.”

Harry had to feel a bit amazed at that. All the creatures of the forest and water had mourned Dumbledore’s passing. He never realized that vampires did, as well.

They couldn’t exactly attend the ceremony, could they?

Cicero turned his translucent blue gaze back to Harry. “No, we could not.”

Harry was startled for a bit before he frowned. “Not the first time I had my mind read. That’s not entirely polite, just so you know.”

Cicero smiled apologetically. “No, it is not. I apologize, but one of the gifts I acquired after I turned was mind reading, and it’s not even a conscious effort on my part. I just hear thoughts, particularly when a person broadcasts. I have a more difficult time blocking it out. But then, I was a muggle when I was turned. Ms. Granger’s case will be different. She was a witch. While she will still be able to perform some spells, a considerable number of her witch abilities will be cancelled out by her vampire abilities. First thing you have to understand for this transition, Mr. Potter, is that Ms. Granger is no longer human. She may look like one; or act like one… she may even love like one, but she isn’t one. That’s the awful truth.”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “Humanity is sometimes a state of mind.”

“Funny how you say that. We don’t even know if she will be the same Hermione when she rises. There are many factors to consider when a person is turned. Sometimes, the trauma of their death is so great that all that’s left of them is a shadow of their former selves, and it’s all downhill from there as they give in to the madness of blood lust. In such case, there is very little I can do in terms of reintroducing them back to their family and friends. If madness has taken Ms. Granger’s mind, you cannot expect her to return to you. If she does, it’s only to slaughter the lot of you without conscience, and then she will seek those of her kind: those who will identify with her state of… preference. You must learn to accept this possibility, Mr. Potter.”

Harry looked at him apprehensively and caught Ron’s worried stare.

“You know I don’t really think she’s mental when I say she is,” Ron blurted. “That’s just a figure of speech, Harry. There’s really nothing crazy about her… well, most times…”

Harry shot him a glare just as Arthur did the same.

“Mental doesn’t even cut it, Mr. Weasley,” said Cicero. “We call it madness, yes, but perhaps the saddest part is, they will eventually gain control of their faculties and actually realize that they enjoy this lifestyle of blood, death and power. But we are getting rather sidetracked… there’s still every possibility that she will rise as the same sweet, hauntingly beautiful and caring Ms. Granger you know… except that she drinks human blood and sleeps in a coffin…” He chuckled softly.

Harry couldn’t even begin to understand how Cicero found the humor in it. Sure, the guy’s been alive for two hundred years, but weren’t there just things that stayed un-funny?

Cicero was not the least bit deterred by his tough audience. “As an Initiator, I will help get her through her critical first two hours. It’s very fortunate that her rising is in perfect time. She’ll wake up and we can get her through the initial blood lust, which can be a bitch, I tell you, and then she’ll go back to sleep. Day break is but a few hours away. I already have my coffin in her rising chamber—“

Harry’s brows knotted. “Your coffin?”

“Why, yes. I will be there when she first rises and I have to be there when she wakes up the following night. It shall be like that for the next three nights or so, depending on how quickly she gets through the first blood lust.”

“So, what, you’re going to let her drink your blood all those three nights?”

“Gods, no,” said Cicero patiently. “Vampires only drink each other’s blood for emergencies and—ahem—sex. I’m thinking Ms. Granger won’t much be in the mood.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at the little man. “I’m thinking you’re right, you puny little bastard.”

“Now, Mr. Potter… I never take advantage of my clients. It isn’t proper and it’s bad for business. I will provide Ms. Granger with human, living blood, and it shall be done in a clinical, professional manner. It’s part of my service. Incidentally, I’d like to know how she swings.”

“Swings?”

“Heterosexual? Homosexual? Bisexual?”

Ron’s eyes widened while Arthur and Remus blushed.

Harry steeled himself. “Heterosexual, as far as I know.”

“Good enough,” said Cicero, nodding. “I’ve found that the newly-risen are more comfortable feeding off their gender preference. Most heterosexual males, for example, wouldn’t touch another man’s neck with their lips no matter how hungry they get. Rip into them with their nails, yes, but tender suction… forget it. I’m a businessman. I could not afford the cost of clients slaughtering the food source on a daily basis.”

Harry expelled a breath. “So let me get this straight… you’ll bring someone in… to feed her?”

“Essentially, yes. Mind you, if she rises as the person you knew, she will find feeding difficult. There is a natural revulsion for people to feed off what they still believe to be their own kind. There’s an element of perversion to it, admittedly, but a vampire has to learn to live with that, or suffer hunger which will eventually be painful. And she can’t substitute human blood with animal blood either. Living off animals is not a healthy option. Animal blood lacks the essential life force that human blood has. Most animals don’t have souls, and that fact makes animal blood incapable of nourishing a vampire with what keeps vampires beautiful, and elegant and altogether enviable… at least to those of the vampire persuasion. Prolonged ingestion of animal blood can lead to real madness, decay, and at the very least, ugliness. I don’t know about you, but if I’m going to live forever, I’d rather be beautiful while I’m at it.”

Ron sniffed. “I don’t know why, but I suddenly had an image of Draco Malfoy in all his conceited glory when you said that.”

Cicero laughed. “Ah, Malfoy. Long history of vampire ancestors, that.”

“Not surprised.”

“Yes… they do seem to have an uncanny ability to suck the psychic energies out of people around them. Psychic vampires, I call them. They replenish their strength by making everyone feel utterly inferior.”

Remus grinned. “A distinct Malfoy trait.”

Cicero shrugged. “I can’t say I disapprove, considering. Now where were we? Ah, yes, feeding. I can help initiate Ms. Granger to this necessary fact of vampire life. I’ll even teach her… table manners, so to speak. Tell me, what is her type of male?”

Harry blinked. “What?”

“You’re looking at ‘im,” Ron replied, nudging his chin in Harry’s direction.

Cicero seemed vastly amused by this. “Dark featured, skinny intellectual, eh?”

“I’m not skinny!” Harry cried. “And she doesn’t love me because of my looks! Well, maybe she does, a little…, but—“

“Your looks will do, Mr. Potter,” said Cicero. “It will help her adjust if the person who feeds her has physical features similar to her male type. It’s familiar and comforting, though it’s necessary that they never look too much like the ones they date. It’s a delicate psychological balance…”

Harry scowled. “I’m beginning to get the feeling that this feeding isn’t as professional as you make it out to be, Mr. Iswold.”

“Well… there’s of course a sexual element to the entire process of feeding. It’s true enough for humans and the food they eat…”

Harry’s eyes flashed. “Excuse me? And you expect me to step back and watch you throw men at her like that? No bloo—shite, I feel ridiculous swearing like that, now…”

“As I’ve said, I try to keep it as professional and clinical as I can.”

A determined gleam came over Harry’s gaze. “I can feed her. I don’t mind. Saves you the trouble of making arrangements with anybody else.”

Remus shook his head. “Harry—“

Cicero sighed. “You most certainly will not feed her at this time, Mr. Potter. You won’t even be allowed in the rising chamber these next three days.”

Harry’s gaze bore through him indignantly. “Now, wait just one minute! I can’t let her wake up with a bunch of strangers! She’ll be terrified! She’ll look for me! She’ll—“

“Be ravenous,” interrupted Cicero smoothly. “Hungry beyond imagination, and even if she recognizes you, she will gain nothing feeding off someone like you who doesn’t know the first thing about dealing with a newly-risen vampire. Do you think I prowl the streets and bribe just any willing bloke to give blood? The humans in my employ are professionals. A lot of them have been working for me for years. This isn’t an orgy, Mr. Potter. That’s what I’m trying to make you understand!”

Harry leaned back, monstrously displeased. “So she can’t see me in the next three days? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. Believe me when I say that seeing you in the next three days will be very traumatic for her. If she sees you and is unprepared for the fact that she’ll look at you and think, ‘Hmm, I desperately want to know if my darling Harry Potter’s blood is sweet or robust,’ it can push her to madness. Is that what you want, Mr. Potter? Drive her insane because she wants to rip into your throat in spite of her heart telling her she doesn’t want to hurt you?”

Harry let Cicero’s words sink in. “No.”

“Of course you don’t. So you will let me handle this. You may keep tabs on her progress, of course. I will always be glad to discuss such matters with you on a regular basis, but in the next few days, I’m afraid I’m going to have to be her best friend.”

Harry and Ron’s gaze flickered.

For the first time since this tragedy occurred, Harry felt real jealousy. This blood-drinking business with other men was one thing, but their friendship with her… that was supposed to be untouchable. That was supposed to be constant. Now Cicero was telling them that even that had to be set aside for the time being.

“Not as easy as you thought, is it?” Remus said.

There was no spite in his tone. In fact, there was nothing but kindness in it.

Harry sighed. “Just do what you have to do, Mr. Iswold. But please… take good care of her. She’s the most important person in my life.”

Cicero smiled gently, nodding. “I always take care of them, Mr. Potter. You can’t be in this business and not care. It makes for bad vampires, and honestly, bad vampires are such a bother.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The crush of jaws shot pain right through her but Hermione found that she couldn’t scream. She couldn’t even move. The creature had her pinned against the wall, house junk and debris falling all around them.

The teeth withdrew. She felt that much, but the creature’s lips remained. He sucked, with the gentle flick of his tongue coaxing the beat of the vein in her neck. The pain disappeared, and she felt blessed. She generously tilted her head to the side, willing him to drink his fill.

Vampire… Her thoughts were swimming. She knew, even in this euphoric state, that she was being drained of life. He’s bespelled me. And even if that thought bothered her the tiniest bit, there was very little she could do.

“I knew you’d come,” said the vampire in its silky, lulling voice. “Your father said you would…”

“Dad…” she breathed. And for a moment, her forehead creased as she remembered, and she saw her parents’ bodies. Tears pooled in her eyes as the horror of it came at her again. She would never forget. She would never be able to. Their blank gazes. The dark, crimson tide of blood. The coppery scent of death. She choked on a sob. “You killed them…”

She could hear shouting from beneath the trap. Someone was trying to get to her. It was a voice she knew well, but for now, she couldn’t exactly place who the voice belonged to.

“Shhhh,” said the vampire. “Don’t cry.”

She struggled a bit and the vampire smiled. He was still but a shadow with slanted golden eyes.

“What a strong will Potter’s whore possesses,” he said, sounding impressed. “No wonder he chose you. You are proving to be more interesting to me than those wizards let on and you are certainly lovelier than I imagined you to be. The banality of your parents suggested nothing of your better qualities, but I had to admit, their constant praise of you intrigued me. And by showing them my interesting in you, it was quite easy to get them to invite me into your home…”

Never invite a vampire into your home. Vampires gain immunity from common deterrents when you invite them into your home… they gain even more power, like resistance to garlic, religious objects and magical ward charms made by a fanciful child…

She opened her mouth to try and cry out, but he shushed her again.

“I think…” Mischief gleamed from his eyes. “I think I won’t kill you after all…”

She watched in terrified fascination as his fangs gleamed and he bit into his wrist. She heard the distinct squishing sound of breaking skin. He held up his fist as blood flowed from his wound and she thought he was going to punch her, but instead, he jammed his open wrist against her lips.

The scream that climbed out of her throat was muffled and useless; the gush of his blood sliding against her tongue. She tried not to swallow. She tried to spit. But he clamped his other hand over her nose and she couldn’t breathe. Her fingers clawed to remove his hands, but he was strong, and she couldn’t resist the instinct to survive by taking gulps of air through her mouth.

She swallowed and rasped for breath. She was helpless as he chuckled at the success of his methods. She swallowed again, and again, just so she could breathe. She needed precious air to fill her lungs.

There were explosions from beneath and he grabbed her by the throat again.

“I suppose I’ll have to be going, now,” he said. “And worry not, love… this won’t be the last you’ll see of me.”

Hope surged at the thought that he was going to leave her alive.

There’s a way, she thought desperately. There’s a way to expel the veneficus he sowed inside me. She prayed that he would leave. If she didn’t want to turn, she had to be treated with potions now.

But he smiled as he looked into her eyes. “Oh, Hermione… I do know what you’re thinking. You cannot fool Janus.”

It was the only warning he made. She heard the whisper of steel slicing through the air. She saw the tip of the blade pulsing in the darkness. His hand on the hilt was skilled and menacing.

He twirled the sword deftly before he plunged it right through her.

She gasped, shocked at what he had done, before the icy pain exploded through her body.

He slid out the blade, dragging agony through her a second time before he tossed her to the floor.

She hit the floor hard, splotches of silver flashing in her eyes.

The pain from the sword wound rippled through her as she felt her life gushing from her wounds. She coughed, blood gurgling up from her throat.

Then the entire attic exploded, wood and glass flying above and around her. The charms around her attic door were knocked out of place by his magic.

When the explosion settled, she found that she was suddenly bathed in moonlight and blood.

Janus turned to her and she saw him. He was tall, slender and lovely. His porcelain skin gleamed in the light of night and his short locks of black hair framed an almost feminine face. He smirked before he turned to his exit and vanished.

The next thing she saw were the warm green eyes of Harry. He was holding her. Trying to stop the bleeding. He was saying things to her. She couldn’t exactly tell what those words were.

She saw his tears, and for that, she felt a deep well of sadness within her. She was dying, and she was going to leave him behind.

Harry was going to be alone again and she couldn’t bear the thought, but she couldn’t stop life leaving her, either.

She wept for him one last time before the darkness finally took her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She opened her eyes to a dim room.

The smell of earth and stone wafted to her nostrils, mixed with the intoxicating scent of lamp oil. The light of the fires flickered against the ceiling and in her disorientation, she couldn’t even make out what the ceiling was made of.

Her bed was soft. And warm. Her head pressed against a perfect pillow.

Slowly, she tried to move, but she heard chains.

Cold steel bit into her wrists, and the surprise of it caused her to jerk. Her ankles were bound as well, and while the length of the chains seemed to allow her some measure of movement, she was unable to quash the panic that began to rise in her chest.

The memories poured into recall and her heart began to pound with terror.

The blood, she thought as her chest constricted. She began to hyperventilate. I can smell…

There was a second heartbeat thrumming in her ears, and the rush of blood in someone’s veins flooded her mind. It was like music to her ears, and that horrified her. She clamped her shackled hands over her ears and it muffled the sounds, but she couldn’t stop the scent snaking into her senses.

It was wonderful. There was no coppery smell. Just the aroma of sweet promises and warmth. It would sate the unbelievable hunger growing within her; take the hollow pain away. She needed it. Wanted it. She longed for the feel of skin against her lips. The rush of life gushing into her mouth and on her tongue.

No.

She cried out, squeezing her eyes shut as a throbbing pain in her mouth took over.

Someone placed a warm hand on her forehead and she felt waves of comfort coursing through her body from the touch.

“Breathe,” said an accompanying, gentle voice. “Breathe, Ms. Granger…”

She followed that sound, taking painful gasps through her lips. It was more familiarity than necessity. She didn’t even think there was real breath passing through her, but it helped.

The illusion helps…

Some of her panic subsided, and the pain in her mouth ebbed, but the unmistakable sound of heartbeat and flowing blood remained. The hunger for that blood still raged, and she knew, without having to find out, that she had grown fangs.

She remembered Janus. Remembered what he had done. And even passing from death to un-death, her mind remained functional.

Hermione knew what she had become, but for that moment, she refused to believe it. Maybe if she denied it enough, it would undo itself.

Tears sprang into her eyes as she took in everything that had happened to her; what she found in the attic; her parents; what Janus had forced her to do; and Harry… the despair in his eyes. She could almost hear the little boy in the cupboard under the stairs. “Don’t leave me!” his eyes had pleaded desperately.

Her heart broke and she began to sob, shaking her head.

“Do you remember who you are?” asked the voice, unimposing in its quality.

Through the scent of blood and life, she could detect the nearer smell of his cologne. It was surprisingly soothing, however unfamiliar it was.

It was mixed with clean skin and soap, but that scent was not his. It was from someone else. There was another person in the room, and she yearned for that person.

She looked up, aching to see the face of the man who held her.

As if detecting her need, he walked to the side of her bed, his hand shifting to settle on her head. She saw him, saw how young he was, but his eyes were old. Ancient.

His gaze was filled with kindness, even if she could detect that ever-present hunger in them. She wasn’t afraid. She and he were the same, after all.

She focused her thoughts; trying to summon coherence. It was the only anchor she could think of now. “You’re more than a hundred years old,” she said.

She didn’t know how she knew that. It was a feeling, really. Maybe he had told her telepathically.

He smiled slightly. “Two hundred. It’s always hardest to be accurate between a hundred fifty to three hundred… do you remember what happened to you, Ms. Granger?”

She closed her eyes, willing the painful memories back. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

“I was bitten, and… and Janus made me drink…”

He stayed silent and she opened her eyes. She saw more compassion radiating from him, a plaintive curve on his lips.

“You know what you are, then?” he asked softly.

Tears leaked out of her eyes again and she sniffed. “Please… sir…”

“Cicero.”

“Cicero… have my—have my friends left me because I’m… I’m like this?” She couldn’t bear the thought.

His brows knotted, his hand smoothing back her hair. “No,” he crooned. “Of course not. Your friends… Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley… they are right outside this facility. They can’t be here with you now because I forbade them to be here. For now, it is better this way, but I promise you, they are right outside, waiting for me to tell them that you… remember who you are.”

She could tell that he was telling the truth and her heart fluttered with relief. “I—I want to see them… I want to—“

He shook his head. His resolve was firm, though his regret was evident. “No. You cannot right now. Not for a while. Not until we can control your hunger.”

Hunger…

The pain in her mouth began again, her fangs elongating even more.

The other stranger in the room with them… he was alive. His blood was warm. She needed it.

No! God, no! It’s wrong. It’s monstrous. Sacrilege and sin!

She squeezed her eyes shut, as if it would force the hunger back. “No…”

“You must,” said Cicero quietly. “There is no other way. I can assist you in some manner; like putting the blood in a cup and have you drink it from there. But you understand that such is an illusion, and that you deprive yourself of the pleasure of feeding from its natural vessel.”

“I don’t want to enjoy it!” she cried, bringing up her hands and clamping it over her ears. Her nails dug into her temples, drawing her own blood.

Cicero was not impatient. “You must learn to. You are immortal now, Hermione, and if you’re going to live forever, you must at least try to take pleasure in doing so. If you refuse this truth, you will only give yourself over to eternal madness.”

The heartbeat in her ears quickened. His living blood was calling to her. Beckoning her to taste. She fought the urge, but it was beginning to grow painful inside her. It blossomed into agony and her gaze widened in shock.

“I will be here to teach you,” Cicero said. “Concentrate on my voice and I will help you through it.”

He broke eye contact with her, and for that moment, she felt horribly insecure. But he was gesturing to someone; beckoning the other to approach.

She looked, and she saw him with her vampire eyes. He was light of frame with dark, short hair. He had a young, pleasant face, like he could be your neighbor’s son; or that quiet boy you had a secret crush on and tried to catch a glimpse of when he went to work at the local grocery.

He was not timid when he approached them, but he did not seek to intimidate, either. His kind gaze matched Cicero’s, and for a moment, Hermione forgot to be afraid.

Then it happened. The pallor of his skin pulsed underneath, flashing translucent to the beat of his heart and flow of his blood. He glowed with life, and she could see where his blood coursed thick.

Neck… wrists… thigh…

She shut her eyes. “No! I can’t…”

Cicero’s voice broke gently through her panic. “This is Allan. He is a student at Oxford University and on weekdays, he works at the university bookstore. He is a scholar, and he helps his mother support his two younger sisters…”

God, I don’t want to hear that! In what sick world do you introduce yourself to your food? she thought bitterly. She shook her head.

“Yes, you must know their names,” said Cicero firmly. “If you wish to maintain that shred of humanity you have left, you will know who they are; respect who they are. If you can’t even know their names, or know what they do, they will be nothing but cattle to you. Is that what you want, Hermione?”

His words sunk in, and breathing deeply, she let herself realize the truth of it. Slowly, she opened her eyes and looked at Allan, before turning her gaze back to Cicero. “No,” she said softly. “I… I want to respect…”

“Yes. Of course you do. Allan?”

Allan met her gaze. “Hullo, Hermione. Scared?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He smiled kindly. “It’ll be alright. Cicero will take care of you. You listen to him and you’ll be fine. He’s the best in the business, after all.”

Cicero chuckled. “How long since your last raise, my friend?”

Allan cocked a smile.

“I pay Allan for this service,” Cicero explained. “This means I have to provide him with certain supplements and potions to keep him healthy. Understand, Hermione, that you don’t have to kill for blood, and you don’t have to force it from people, either. There will be those who are willing to give… some too willing, but we’ll get to that later on. For now, Allan is willing to feed you.”

Again, her tears leaked. Her need for Allan’s blood was roaring inside her, but the thought that she would feed off someone was revolting.

Cicero bent over her. “You must listen to his voice. It is imperative that you do. Keep yours senses sharp. Try to maintain control over your mind as you feed. Remember, if you abandon all sense, you can kill him. Do you want to kill him?”

“No.”

“Then stay aware. I will tear him off you, if I have to, but I’d rather you try to control yourself. Listen to him, and listen to your conscience. Allan?”

Cicero’s hand left her forehead to be replaced with Allan’s.

“Ready, Hermione?” Allan asked.

Her breath trembled as she nodded.

He bent over her, speaking to her about focusing on the tone of his voice, explaining to her that he would be counting, and all she had to do was visualize the numbers as he said it. He crossed his arm over her and gently put his wrist over her lips.

Her instinct and hunger took root like claws. Her hand came up to grab his wrist and she sunk her teeth into his skin. She heard him hiss, but the explosion of sensations that went through her as his blood flowed from her tongue down to her throat was positively orgasmic.

Vaguely, she could hear his voice, piercing softly as his life pulsed against her lips.

She could feel her eyes rolling to the back of her head at the ecstasy, and it was delicious beyond belief. She could hear his heartbeat with his voice. The heartbeat was strong still. She could still feed off him. His blood was still the blood of the living.

“Hermione…”

Her name… from his lips.

“Hermione…”

Be aware. Stay aware. Or you’ll KILL HIM.

The horror of it clenched in her stomach and withdrawing her mouth, she screamed and shoved him away from her.

She turned away from him in shame, covering her face in her hands as she tried to curl herself into a ball. The length of chains hampered her, and she found this frustrating, but she resigned herself to the fact without much of a fight.

She wept, disgraced by what she had done. “I’m sorry!” she cried. “I’m so sorry! I’m sorry…”

Her apologies poured out of her, even as Allan’s life giving blood pooled soothing warmth within her.

She didn’t know how long she had been crying before she felt a hand squeezing her shoulder.

“It’s alright,” came Allan’s wistful voice. “You did well. You’re fine, Hermione. I’m fine. Hermione?”

“Please… don’t…” she whispered. She didn’t know what she didn’t want him to do. Perhaps she wished he wouldn’t touch her.

Cicero whispered soothing words to her, telling her she did well for her first time, reassuring her Allan was fine. In a while, he coaxed her to look at Allan, and while tears marred her vision, she could see that Allan was standing, and that he was smiling at her, though his wrist was wrapped in a thick bandage where some blood was already getting through.

Cicero handed Allan a vial and Allan drank it down, grimacing at the taste.

As she began to relax, she realized, to her horror, that the hunger hadn’t completely gone. It wasn’t as bad, but it was there, and it was still whispering to be sated.

I can’t take from him again. I’ll kill him. I know I will!

“You want some more, don’t you?” Cicero asked.

“Make it stop,” she whimpered.

Cicero smiled plaintively. “I can’t. You will have to feed again, but not now. Now you have fed enough to keep the pain of hunger away. The first feeding determines how much control you have on your instincts. You simply must not abandon reason, or you will want nothing but blood and death. Your first effort is commendable. You did not take more than was necessary from Allan. We will hone your control. It will get easier in time. In the next three days, you will want to keep feeding. The first blood lust is a beast. I will teach you to tame it, and eventually, you wouldn’t have to feed all the time. You will be able to go days without having to draw blood.”

She focused on the words and realized she was grateful for Cicero’s help. She appreciated his care, but she needed someone far more. “I… I want to see Harry. Please? I want—“ It was a need—she realized—far more powerful than the blood. Thoughts of Harry set the hunger aside, and she wanted to cling to that. “I want to be with him…”

“I’m sorry, but you cannot. Not yet.”

She heard the finality in his voice, so she tried not to cry, though her lips trembled a bit. She was so wracked with emotion that on any other day, she would be disgusted with herself. She would be scolding herself for being impossibly weak, but she supposed today she could allow herself some leeway. She had died. That was a pretty good excuse, wasn’t it?

“It is almost daybreak,” he said. “I will put you back to sleep and you will rise tonight. When you do, I will be here, and we will do this again.”

“Is—Is Allan—“

“No. It will be someone different. Allan will need his rest. I will be bringing a boy named Ethan. He is as kind as Allan, though he can be a bit of a flirt.”

Hermione couldn’t help but worry. Allan had strangely grown on her. She didn’t know if she could shift the comfort she felt for him so quickly to another, but she supposed she would have to trust Cicero.

Cicero stared into her eyes and she felt him stroking her mind. Sleep…

It was merely a suggestion, but she couldn’t help giving into it. Slowly, her eyes closed, letting sleep take over.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry sat in the waiting room with Ron, Remus and Arthur. It had been an hour since Cicero had descended into the dungeons to attend to Hermione’s rising, and while Harry understood why he couldn’t be there, it pained him to think that Hermione would be waking up to strangers.

His three companions in the waiting room had engaged in quiet conversation throughout their vigil, and on several occasions, Remus made mention of what he knew of vampires.

“There are factions of them,” said Remus. “Like societies. The kind of vampire you are will dictate the company you keep.”

Harry tuned in and out of their discussions, always letting his thoughts drift back to her.

Several minutes later, the soundproof wall dividing them from the dungeon’s entrance yawned open.

They all got to their feet anxiously.

Cicero stepped out, his “assistant”, Allan, in tow.

Allan looked a tad peaky and his wrist was wrapped in a bandage.

Harry eyed him with slight hostility before turning to Cicero. “Well?”

Cicero smiled wanly. “Hermione is in her right mind so far.”

A collective sigh of relief escaped them all.

Cicero went on. “Usually, this is a good sign. While there have been instances that madness develops later on, I do not see this happening to Hermione. She was relatively more docile than most newly risen I’ve encountered, but that’s because her will is strong. As she grows more comfortable in her new form, you will find that she will develop a certain… ferocity, but that is a defining vampire trait and it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a bad thing. I am proud to report that she responded well to Allan, treating him with respect and consideration.”

Harry stifled the glare that he desperately wanted to shoot in Allan’s direction.

“It will be another couple of nights before I can let any of you see her,” Cicero said. “By that time, I hope to have her prepared enough to deal with it. In the meantime, you must prepare her… chambers. Here is my card.” He gave his card out to all of them. “I assume you know how to use a telephone, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nodded.

“Call the office number and ask for Jaime. Tell her you’re calling to arrange Hermione Granger’s placement in your home. She will basically see to everything. All you have to do is give her your address. Now, be mindful of the hours. Jaime is a vampire. She likes her sleep.”

Harry squinted at the card and saw that their hours were from 9 pm to 5 am.

Talk about a dead end nine to five…

“I shall be retiring soon,” said Cicero. “You can come back later after sundown, if you wish, though you still won’t be allowed to see her. But if you do stop by, I will gladly report on her progress. In the meantime, you might want to acquire and read the following books…” He handed Harry a list. “They best explain how to cope with vampirism in the family.”

Harry looked the list over briefly. It wasn’t a terribly long list, but the titles ranged from Understanding Vampires to I Drink Blood, I Don’t Eat Raw Liver. It was fascinating, if not outright disturbing.

“Now… if you will be so kind, please see Allan out of the hospital. He’s a muggle and I’d imagine he could get lost in these halls. I’d rather not have that happen to him, as he’s one of my more trustworthy employees.”

With that, Cicero turned and closed himself back into the soundproof anteroom.

“That sounds promising, doesn’t it?” Arthur said.

Remus smiled plaintively. “Best we could hope for at the moment, at least.”

“I wish he’d told us more, though,” Ron grumbled, exchanging looks with Harry. “Sounded a bit too clinical for me…”

Harry nodded in agreement. He had so many questions for Cicero about Hermione, but Cicero had popped in and out, droning on about the technical details. He supposed it was too much to ask Cicero for a more personal narrative.

“She wanted to see her friends,” Allan suddenly said. “She was afraid you had abandoned her because of what she’d become.”

Harry’s heart constricted.

“But Cicero assured her you hadn’t,” continued Allan upon seeing the looks on their faces. “He made her understand that he was the one who forbade you to see her.”

That was slightly comforting.

“H-How was she?” Harry didn’t know exactly what he wanted to ask. He had no idea how to deal with the idea of coming back from the dead, but he supposed Allan would understand what he needed to know. At least he hoped Allan understood. The guy had done this before, hadn’t he?

“She was very frightened at first, but Cicero and I managed to calm her. She knew what she was the moment she got to thinking, and I think that made things easier for all of us. Smart girl.”

Ron smiled a bit. “Still the know-it-all, eh?”

Harry didn’t know what to make of that comment. On the one hand, he was probably supposed to be proud of her, yet on another, how horrible could that have been for her? Knowing with certainty that she wasn’t…

Human.

He shook that thought away. “You—You didn’t have to hurt her, did you?”

Allan looked only mildly surprised with this question. “No. We didn’t have to use any kind of force. She’s a gentle soul. She asked for the lot of you, and then later she asked for Harry.”

His breath hitched at that. He wished he could have been there for her. He wished…

It was rather odd that this person didn’t know who he was. He supposed he had gotten more used to that than being anonymous, which was sad. This muggle obviously knew things that most of his kind didn’t, considering he was standing calmly inside a wizarding facility and he had just given blood to the newly risen, yet Allan stood there, unaware of the very things so known to the Wizarding World. If muggles and wizards could be so different… how much more different could a vampire be?

Harry was beginning to feel very, very weary.

“We should all get some rest,” Remus said, gesturing for them to head for the doors. He patted Allan’s shoulder as a gesture of thanks.

“She mentioned another name,” said Allan.

Arthur smiled. “Ron?”

Allan shook his head. “No. Janus.”

Harry didn’t recognize the name in the least.

“I think it was the vampire who turned her,” said Allan.

Janus. Harry found himself committing that name to memory, wrapping it in his rage and marking it. I’m going to find that bastard and I’m going to kill him for what he did to her. I’m going to string up his—

Arthur and Remus exchanged looks that Harry recognized at once to be significant.

“What?’ Harry asked.

Arthur hesitated.

Remus sighed. “If we really want Harry on the board, we must share information like this with him.”

Ron exchanged looks with Harry, and if Harry wasn’t mistaken, he detected fear and apprehension. Things—familiar things—were coming down around them. The things that made them children were slowly, but surely, being torn down for adulthood.

Harry knew that for him, it had come to him in various ways and aspects. It started with Hermione awakening feelings and emotions in him that used to be unfathomable, then he went to Godric’s Hollow where he basically walked into his past so he could look forward; then the horcruxes, the board, Hermione’s death, Hermione’s rising, and now this…

He didn’t know how Ron went about his own path, but they were coming to another intersection, as they always did being the best of friends. Just that some intersections were more pleasant than others. He’d imagine this little crossroads was just as horrible as the one they shared mourning Hermione’s death.

Nodding, Arthur sighed. “That information I delivered; the one Ron accompanied me for… it was a list of new Death Eaters. There have been a lot of recruits, of late, and most of them are names we could not trace. Janus was on that list, and he was reported to be an important person. The only problem was we couldn’t match his identity to any records we have. It seems… we know now why this is so. We did, of course, consider the possibility of dark creatures. Voldemort has, after all, managed to get the giants, dementors and werewolves to ally themselves with him, but… vampires have always been a rather—er—“

“Snooty lot?” Allan contributed.

For a moment, Harry forgot Allan was part of the conversation.

They stared at him, all of them realizing that maybe they shouldn’t have been speaking of these things in front of him.

Allan put his hands up. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I know nothing about… well, whatever that is. All I know is Vampires can be dreadfully snobbish. They are only concerned about themselves, how beautiful they are and why so many people find them fascinating. Some have a social conscience, like Cicero, but in general, they can’t be depended on to—well—‘ally’ themselves with anyone. That would be getting their hands too dirty. They don’t want that. That’s what werewolves are for.”

Remus looked quite uncomfortable about that.

“Allan, sit over there and wait,” Ron said, pointing to a distant corner.

“Right,” said Allan, shamefaced and walking to his corner.

Harry turned to Arthur. “Is there any way we can track Janus down?”

Remus caught on quickly. “Now, Harry…”

“Remus, I’m going to make him pay for what he’s done. Don’t tell me you don’t understand that. You wanted to kill Peter Pettigrew as badly as Sirius did.”

“Frankly, Peter Pettigrew’s a lot easier to kill than this Janus person,” said Remus. “A vampire like him… he has to be notorious for something horrible. He would definitely have to be dangerous. Nobody from the Granger home survived to tell the tale, Harry, but everything suggests that there weren’t that many Death Eaters involved. Nobody saw them, for one, and nobody saw Janus when he left. He moved too fast, that’s why. There had to be a wizard, of course, because someone had to cast the dark mark, but what if… what if Janus did it all by himself? You heard what Cicero said. Wizard vampires don’t necessarily lose all their magical powers. He could have massacred the lot of aurors and Hermione’s parents then cast the dark mark by himself. Vampires are killing machines, in themselves, but what if he’s ancient? That would make him far worse.”

Harry glared. “I’m not afraid of him.”

Ron frowned. “Well, I am. Harry, if you’re going to do this, I’m going to ask you nicely to make sure you know what you’re getting into. I don’t think I can cope with both my best friends being vampires, and that’s being optimistic. What if Janus decides you’re not fit to be raised? You’ll just be dead.”

Not the most eloquent speech, but effective enough. Harry certainly felt the full bluntness of it and actually made him pensive.

Arthur nodded, clapping his son on the back. “At any rate, we expect Harry to use this information I’ve given him responsibly. We can depend on you for that, right Harry?”

Grudgingly, Harry nodded.

“Good! Now, let’s take our young friend over there and head on home. It’s been a rather long day, don’t you think?”

Longest day of my life, Harry thought.

Arthur led the way and Harry lagged. He didn’t want to leave Hermione behind but he knew there was nothing he could do for her now. It was very depressing.

Ron fell back with him and Allan sort of stayed to the side.

When they rose to ground level and stepped out of St. Mungos, Allan turned to them and smiled.

“You’re Harry, right?” Allan said, looking at him.

Harry arched an eyebrow. “Yeah…”

Allan jerked his head to the side. “Come here for a minute.”

Harry arched an eyebrow at Ron questioningly. Ron shrugged. With that, Harry approached Allan who pulled him even further aside.

“Give me that book list.”

Hesitantly, Harry did.

Allan brought out a pen and crossed out a few books while marking a few with asterisks. “Those are redundant… this is really important… this one can be read when you just feel like it…” He looked up and grinned. “I’m going to let you in on a book that I really think you’ll need, my friend.”

Harry looked at him warily.

Allan began to write something at the bottom of the list. “You and Hermione… you’re—erm, together? As in… you know…”

Harry reddened. Was this necessary? “Umm… we…”

“I figured as much. Then you have to get this book.” Allan shoved the list back into Harry’s hand and pointed to the bottom where he had written: So Your Sweetheart’s A Vampire, 8^th Edition by Angel N. Buffie. “You have to get the 8^th Edition, mate, or else you won’t have the chapter about Vampires and leather.”

Harry blinked. “She—um—I don’t think she—“

“Get the 8^th Edition anyway. The newer the better, eh? Check page 281. Very sexy.”

“Right.” Harry couldn’t believe he was committing the page to memory.

Allan gave him a pat on the shoulder and smiled. “Well then, I’m off. I’ll probably never see you again, but it has been interesting. It always is around here.”

Harry finally found it in himself to cock Allan a grin. The guy wasn’t all that bad… once Harry got over the feeding thing…

Alright, maybe I won’t get over that anytime soon, but I suppose he did help Hermione. “Thank you, Allan. For all your help, I mean.”

Allan waved his thanks away. “All part of the service. Listen, I really got to go. I’ve a Trigonometry exam in a few hours…”

“Er—sure…”

“Gotta cram, you know, so… ciao!”

“Uh, yeah. Ciao…”

Allan walked off with his hands shoved into his pockets.

Harry headed back to his companions.

“What did he want?” Ron asked.

“Nothing. He was just saying goodbye.” Harry could feel his face warming.

“Muggles can be so barmy,” Ron muttered.

Arthur took out his wand. “Well, grab hold, then. Time to head on home.”

Ron took his father’s coat and Harry took hold of Remus’s.

With a quick flick of their wands, Harry felt that yank within his navel as they apparated back to Grimmauld Place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I am forever thankful for your reviews, and a lot of you have been so helpful.

For some reason, I feel compelled to remind my readers that this is more a romance than anything else. I’ll have some kind of action/suspense back story, indeed, but romance is my primary genre. I’m just really a sap junkie, and that’s the truth of it. Angst is good, too.

7. Chapter Sixth: Daytime

Author’s notes: I would like to give special thanks to Lady Diamond for fixing the mess that was chapter 5. Ladies and gentlemen, her beta-reading has—and will—save me from eternal fanfic damnation, and hopefully, she will believe me capable of redemption throughout this story. ^_^ And if you find something particularly brilliant in the last chapter and this one, it’s probably her doing, not mine.

Also, thank you to all good souls who offered to beta. I am touched. This fandom is amazing.

This is one of those… introspective chapters. It’s necessary, but not much happens.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Sixth: Daytime

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry realized just how exhausted he was when he crossed the threshold of his room in Grimmauld Place. Physical aches he didn’t realize were there made their presence known and one glance at his bed made him think that he could sleep for three days straight. But as much as he wanted to collapse in the warmth of his sheets, he felt he needed to bathe, again.

He had, earlier, so he could get the blood of Hermione off him. Now he needed to wash off something else, because he wasn’t quite sure he had gotten over his grief yet, when he believed that he should have with utmost certainty. Because Hermione was alive.

Alive… not exactly…

He pushed that thought away, repulsed by it. How could he even think that?

All he needed was a bath; wash off the anguish he had suffered at the thought—no, the reality of her death. It hadn’t been a nightmare. It had been real. She really had been dead. She had died in his arms as her blood seeped through his fingers. He had been completely unable to help her. He just knew he would be having nightmares about it for months.

He took a quick shower, pulled on one of his battered old shirts (he actually had a lot of those, as he hardly ever bought anything new while living with the Dursleys) and a pair of plaid pajamas. As he rubbed a towel into his wet hair, he looked at his bed.

It was terribly empty.

It wasn’t so long ago that he could look on the same bed and find Hermione nestled beneath the sheets, usually naked. He remembered how he stood a bit away for several seconds, praying that she would shift and have some part of the blanket fall away from her to show a patch of skin. Whatever patch it was, he had always thought it sexy enough to deserve passionate admiration, usually expressed by his lips and hands. It was the best way to wake her, after all.

Without thinking twice about it, he threw the wet towel on the edge of his bed and left his room to go to hers. Maybe it was a bit weird, but he didn’t care. If he couldn’t have her, he wanted to be surrounded by echoes of her. Her “rising” was still just a concept to him; almost abstract. Everyone was telling him it was real, but there was a desperate need for him to see so he could believe. The shock of her death hadn’t completely worn off yet, and now he had to absorb this new shock of having her undead. Being in her room might help balance things a little. His reality was disturbingly off-kilter in the last few hours.

He got into her bed, throwing the blankets over himself and taking one of her pillows to bury his face into it.

Her scent was on it. Strongest of all was her shampoo, but it mixed with what was ineffably her, without the country-apple sweetness. He sought that familiarity and found comfort in the fact that he was wrapped in a cocoon of who she was.

He fell asleep quickly enough.

His sleep was not as restful as he had hoped. His dreams were not filled with blood and gore, but they were extremely disturbing. He had been standing at the threshold of some door, seeing Hermione beyond it. Her back was to him and she was walking away while everyone else stood at the door before him, preventing him from passing. He kept saying that he just wanted to see her, but Remus kept telling him he couldn’t, that now was not the time.

Harry woke up at nine in the morning immensely irritated with everyone.

He cleaned up, dressed and resolved to get some things done to keep himself occupied.

Harry was surprised beyond belief when he was greeted with a “Wotcher, Harry!” just as an orange lump of fur leaped atop the counter beside him.

“Tonks,” he gasped, just when Crookshanks rubbed his muzzle against his arm. “And Crookshanks…”

“Found him at the Grangers,” Tonks said, her pink hair shimmering as she lit the stove burner underneath a pan. She was wearing torn jeans and a strange asymmetrical hooded black track-shirt with a pink pentagram on her chest. Her black boots and black studded belt completed whatever look she was trying to make. “Poor beast had been locked in a closet, hissing, spitting and yowling. Didn’t want to be picked up by just anyone, either. I suppose I should feel privileged that he chose me.”

Harry picked Crookshanks up off the counter and held him close. Neglected as the beast was by Hermione in the last month, Harry knew how fond she was of her cat-kneazle. Harry rubbed behind Crookshanks’ ears and the feline purred audibly, eyes fluttering closed as his tail whipped to tuck itself around him.

He wondered if Crookshanks even sensed what had happened to his mistress.

Tonks was looking at him contemplatively. “Alright, there?”

Harry took a seat at the kitchen table. He could only assume Tonks knew all about it. Remus would have talked to her already, and Harry really didn’t mind. Remus needed someone to talk to as much as anyone.

Harry smiled wanly. “Better than last night, I think.”

Tonks nodded, tossing oil into the pan. “Horrific, what happened. And I can’t even imagine what Hermione’s going through. You going to see her today?”

“Well, I’ll be going to St. Mungo’s, but I… I don’t think they’ll let me see her. Cicero said I couldn’t.”

“Cicero?”

“Initiator.”

The term seemed to mean something to her. “I suppose it makes sense that they’d be stricter about such things with vampires than they are with werewolves.”

Harry’s eyes flickered in surprise. She couldn’t have been around during Remus’ turning, was she? She was too young, then. She probably didn’t even know Remus existed. Then again, she and Sirius were second cousins, once removed…

Tonks must have understood the question in his eyes. “I can only assume. From what I’ve read, you understand.”

“Right.” Harry wondered if Tonks had to read So Your Sweetheart’s A Werewolf, or something like that. “So you’re here while Remus is…?”

Tonks nodded. “I’ll be taking care of Remus and all his affairs while he’s sitting out the full moon. He’s not likely to go furry in the next three days, I reckon. So long as he doesn’t miss taking his wolfsbane and he stays away from the rays of the moon, he’ll stay human, but Remus would rather not risk anyone’s safety by running free about the house during the full moon. He’d rather stay locked in the dungeon. Nice, dark and windowless down there. If I were so inclined, I might find that kinky.”

Harry was glad he wasn’t drinking anything at that very second, because he would have spewed all of it through his nose. As it was, he thought maybe he was going to explode. Hearing Tonks refer to anything remotely sexual translated into Remus doing things with her. It was almost like hearing your parents talking about it, and that was just psychologically catastrophic.

“Erm…” He just didn’t know what to say.

Perhaps detecting his unease, Tonks grinned and waved her wand to move something from the counter to the table. It was a brown paper parcel.

“St. Mungo’s sent it over,” said Tonks. “Hermione’s personal effects.”

He stared at it, half expecting Tonks to tell him that Hermione’s blood-covered gown was inside it. Shrunken to fit in the bag, maybe. The mere thought made his stomach roil, not because the blood was disgusting, but because he had watched Hermione die in that gown; had felt her blood on him as she faded away and there was nothing he could do about stopping it.

“They only kept what they thought was important, Harry,” said Tonks. “And I assure you, if there was blood on any of it, they would have scourgified it off.”

Harry reddened, wishing he wasn’t so transparent.

Setting Crookshanks gently aside, he took the parcel and tore off the top. Gingerly, he let the contents spill on the table. To his utmost relief, there was no dress. It was her wand, the glittery ribbons that had been holding her hair up, her intricate armband and lastly, the locket.

He had completely forgotten about it. He hadn’t even realized the locket had been on her. Probably kept it in her sash and it had simply stayed there…

Tonks cracked eggs into the cooking oil and tossed in the sausages.

Harry palmed the locket a bit. “Tonks, is Remus different during the full moon? I mean, aside from being the poster boy for Helena’s Hair-Gro Potion and being in dire need of a manicure…”

She chuckled. She didn’t reply at once, though she was smiling.

“Well?” he insisted. “Is he?”

“He is. He’s very different.”

“How different?”

She cleared her throat a bit. “More alpha, I suppose, is the best way to say it. You know how quiet he is, and gentle, and really quite sensitive… for a man. No offense.”

Harry realized in mild surprise that there was none taken.

She continued. “But when the full moon approaches and actually comes around, furry or not, he becomes fiercer. More aggressive, even in the way he talks. He gets this thing in his voice, like he growls when he talks, and his eyes sometimes glaze black. He’s more ruthless, too.”

“Ruthless?”

“Like on any other night he wouldn’t think of hurting a fly but on the full moon he would definitely find it in himself to kill a man to avenge the death of his best friends.”

“Oh.” Harry definitely remembered that night. He supposed that in retrospect, Remus was never the type of person who would want to kill, especially for vengeance. That was more up Sirius’ alley. “Do you—umm—mind so much that he’s different?”

She grinned. “Well, it’s a little complicated. It’s refreshing, that side of him, and I must say it can be terribly sexy, but I don’t think I can stand to have him that way all the time. I mean, if he was that way all the time, I think he’d classify as a complete pain in the arse. With that said, having that side of him in three-day doses is exciting and appealing, unfortunately this supposed sexy Remus Lupin is also a very dangerous Remus Lupin, and I can’t quite enjoy that side of him to its fullest potential, if you get what I’m saying.”

Harry’s eyes widened and wished she hadn’t elaborated that much. Now he just had another thing he could add to his nightmares. He supposed talking to Tonks hadn’t been a good idea.

There was a sound at the stairs and Ron soon came around lugging a huge book with him.

“Hiya, Tonks,” said Ron. “I smelled breakfast. Told you I would.”

Tonks laughed softly and Harry figured that meant Ron and Tonks had already seen one another earlier.

“Didn’t expect to see you up this early, mate,” said Ron. “You must’ve gone to bed at five.”

“So did you,” said Harry.

Ron shrugged. “I thought I’d do some reading in the library.”

Harry arched an eyebrow in wonder. “That’s… unusual.”

Ron held up the battered brown book. Embossed in silver leaf was: Bloodsuckers: Understanding Vampire Borrowing and Lending.

That explained things, and Harry appreciated Ron’s intentions, but he couldn’t help but give his best friend a dubious look. “Ron, she’s your best friend, not your loan shark.”

“It was all the library had on the subject,” said Ron, turning slightly pink. “And I just felt I had to read something.”

“Well, Cicero gave me a booklist, if you recall. I’m going to go buy the books today. You can come along if you want.”

“Yeah, I’ll go with you. Keep me occupied.”

Harry understood that completely. Neither of them wanted to be sitting around, thinking about what happened. It was harrowing enough for both of them last night.

Tonks looked over her shoulder at them. “Going to Diagon Alley, then?”

“Yeah. Is that alright?” Harry didn’t intend to sound cheeky, but he supposed he did.

Tonks arched an eyebrow. “I’ll let the aurors in Diagon Alley keep a lookout for you. It’s for your own safety, Harry. And Ron’s, too.”

“Fat lot of good aurors did for the Grangers and Hermione…” Harry was sorry the moment he said it and Ron, even with his emotional range of a teaspoon, knew enough to kick him under the table. Stifling the cry of pain Ron’s sledgehammer of a foot brought him, he gave her an apologetic look. “Merlin, Tonks, I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to say... You lost a lot of friends last night, too. I’m a big arse git…”

She expelled a breath and smiled wanly. “It’s alright, Harry. And I’m sorry, too. I can’t help but feel that we should have been more prepared. Even if we were dealing with an ancient vampire.”

“It wasn’t anybody’s fault.”

“That’s what I try to tell myself.” She transferred the cooked eggs and heaping sausages in a plate and put them on the table.

Ron got up to make some toast while Tonks cooked more breakfast.

Harry wondered if she thought they had bottomless stomachs. He looked at Ron and realized Tonks was just being perceptive.

She looked at him uneasily. “Listen, Harry, when Hermione becomes more… available, we’ll need to ask her about what happened that night; get as much information from her as we can.”

Harry frowned. He couldn’t bear the thought of asking Hermione to relive the horrors of it, but he supposed it really had to be done. If they were going to put a stop to it; if they wanted to find the ones—or one—who did it, then Hermione would have tell them as much as she could remember. “I’ll talk to her when she’s able, then.”

She nodded. “The sooner the better.”

Harry got up to set the table and in another few minutes, they were all seated and eating.

An owl delivering the Daily Prophet came and Tonks took the paper. She paled the moment she saw the headline and Harry dreaded asking her what it said.

It was Ron who found the courage. “Well?”

She shook her head and folded the paper over. “You don’t want to know.”

Harry didn’t, but he reached for the paper anyway. The first thing he saw was a picture of him, Ron and Hermione, arms around each other in their school robes as they smirked and winked at one another. Hermione was between them, all three of them stifling their giggles, as if they couldn’t believe how ridiculous it all was. Harry remembered the picture from the previous school year. An upperclassman was taking pictures of Hogwarts and its students, saying he wanted to make some sort picture book before he left Hogwarts forever. He also said that their friendship was a Hogwarts fixture of sorts. They had felt a bit silly, letting him take the picture, but he supposed it was a good picture, what with the lake as their background. What bothered him now wasn’t the picture itself but what it had been used for.

Picture book indeed.

The caption said, “Happier days. Hermione Granger (center); alive, healthy and well.” And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the headline said: “Muggle-born and her family slaughtered in their home!”

Of course there has to be an exclamation point, because Lord knows, bold typeface isn’t enough to get a reader’s attention, he thought bitterly.

It went on to report about the massacre in the Granger home, the dark mark, and what little details the investigative team revealed to the press. It was, of course, mentioned that Hermione was a top student at Hogwarts, was best friends with Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, a.k.a. The Chosen One and is even rumored to be his girlfriend. Sources confirmed that they were very cozy just yesterday during the Weasley-Delacour nuptials and that her death had left him distraught, undependable and slightly barmy. He was not available for comment.

Harry thought he would be sick. The least they could have done was give Hermione and her parents a bit more respect. What the hell is wrong with these people?

Ron took the paper when Harry set it wearily aside. After a quick read his freckled face blossomed even redder. “They just couldn’t lay-off on the Harry Potter angle, could they? No respect for how terrible the entire thing was.”

“None.”

“I wonder how long until they find out she’s been turned.”

Harry shrugged, sighing and rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. “Not long, I’d imagine.”

“Let’s hope the vampires use their muscle to keep that part of the story quiet,” said Tonks. “They like their privacy. Don’t want anything calling attention to them. They’ve already filtered that report, at any rate. Do you see any mention of them?”

Harry was surprised to realize that there hadn’t been the slightest clue that vampires were involved. “No mention.”

“So…” Ron said cautiously. “How is this going to be played then? You’re going to let the rest of the world think Hermione’s dead?”

Harry stared at him. It hadn’t even crossed his mind, but Ron had definitely hit on something important.

Tonks was unfazed. “I’ve no idea yet what the Auror Department or the Order intends to do about that, but frankly, I’d rather everyone kept believing what they’re told to believe. We don’t know whether the Death Eaters wanted her dead or turned, so I’d just as soon not say anything further than what people think they know; at least not until we talk to Hermione. That’s just my opinion, of course. Not like I have much say in it if the top people decide otherwise.”

Harry gave her last sentence a brief thought before he shook his head to clear his mind. “In the meantime, what are we going to do with the ton of condolences Ron and I will be getting on account of it?”

Ron cursed, obviously realizing it just now as Harry said it.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Tonks replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’re her grieving best friends. People the world over will take pity on you and ‘understand’ that you’re in no condition to be answering letters of condolences.”

Harry exchanged looks with Ron. Harry imagined he looked as miserable as Ron did.

They continued with breakfast, and they decided they would head on to Diagon Alley in about an hour.

It was around the time they were clearing away the plates that the owls began to come. At first they came in twos and threes, and then they began arriving in droves, some of them with flowers, some with Muggle-religious items like special cards and prayer books. The kitchen table and floor quickly began to fill up and Harry desperately wanted to close the windows so that the owls would stop.

Sighing, Tonks said she would take care of it all, telling them that they should go on ahead and do their errands. She handed Harry a list, asking him to be a dear and pick them up for her from the nearest Muggle grocery. He promised he would see to it.

Guilty about leaving her but wanting to get away, Harry dragged Ron to the fireplace and flooed them both to the Leaky Cauldron.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Diagon Alley was about as busy as one would expect on a weekday. There was constant activity, but it was relatively more subdued than the weekend crowd. There were no children running rampant, for one, and the adults weren’t on break from work yet. It was yet another hour before the lunch rush.

Harry made a quick stop at Gringotts to withdraw some pocket money before heading straight for Flourish and Blott’s.

Ron followed him through the ringing doors and looked over his shoulder. Ron had been trying to spot aurors since they left the Leaky Cauldron. If there were any around watching them, Ron hasn’t found them yet.

Harry, meanwhile, had been thinking up a way to get Ron to separate from him in the store and keep busy. Not that he didn’t like Ron’s company, but Harry wasn’t exactly prepared to share an awkward moment with Ron when he picked up that book Allan so magnanimously added to the reading list.

The solution came to Harry as soon as he looked at the list. Quite simply, he folded the list in half, ran his nails over the fold to give it a razor-sharp edge and ripped the list in half. It was a very obsessive thing to do, considering he was the sort of person who wouldn’t bother making precision folds before rending paper in two, but he supposed he was a bit jumpy. Buying these books cast another shade of reality to the entire Hermione-Is-A-Vampire business that he wasn’t exactly sure he was ready for.

He gave the top half of the list to Ron while waving his own half. “Go look for those while I go look for these.”

“Would these be in the vampire section, then? Because you know how all proper bookstores have to be organized.”

It took another moment for Harry to realize that Ron was being a bit sarcastic. He shot Ron a slight glare before heading off to consult with a store clerk.

Harry was glad that there wasn’t just one section for vampires. The books on the list, while all of them about vampires, fell under such categories as Self-Help, Health and Diet, and Creatures. Allan’s book fell under the Relationships section. Harry decided he would run by that section first, and quickly.

It took him several moments to find the book, and when he did find So Your Sweetheart’s A Vampire, it wasn’t the 8^th edition. He considered just letting it be. 7^th edition was probably almost as good as 8^th, but an attendant happened to pass by and calmly said, “That’s not the latest edition.”

Harry half expected that he would be judged for merely holding the book and he found himself beginning to explain. “It’s—er—for research… school, you see. I have this report to submit…”

Of course, school was all the way in Scotland and the term hadn’t begun.

The attendant seemed exceptionally bemused, or maybe just discreet. Harry supposed it was her way of saying, without words, that she didn’t care if he wanked off on the books because it wasn’t hers or anyone’s business what readers did to them. “Then you’ll want the latest one.” She plucked a book a bit further down the shelf and handed it to him. It was the 8^th edition.

The attendant left.

Harry eyed the book for a moment and felt that common urge to skip through the preamble of pages so he could get to the most important part. Sometimes, in regular books, that meant towards the end. In this case, perhaps it was towards the end as well, because the book couldn’t have contained more than three hundred pages. But he had a specific page in mind, and with guiltlessness that would have scandalized Hermione, he moseyed to page 281 without a thought.

When he got to the page, there were no naughty pictures (as he might have expected). There was simply a symbol there, embossed in silver and gold. There was a shimmering red disc at the center of the intricate circle. On the page opposite were words that sounded like a spell. At the bottom of the page was the caption: See that which you both desire.

Curious, he touched the symbol and read the spell out loud in slow, halting syllables. Latin tended to bog down his reading skills.

His mind threw him into a vision-like trance of ripping off Hermione’s clothes, buttons popping and fabric tearing, in a room filled with lit candles and delicate, spicy aromas. His skin felt hot and hers felt hotter. She was beautiful, and erotic and she was whispering his name in that wonderful, sensual way of hers that drove him mad. He felt a savage urge to throw her over the soft bed of silk and rose petals, so he did, and began to do exactly what he wanted do to her.

When he felt that inevitably embarrassing twitch in his pants, he slammed the book shut and it tumbled from his fingers to his foot. It bounced merrily off his trainers and went splat on the floor.

He found himself back in the bookstore, with the soft jazzy wizarding music in the background and the wild sensations leaving him in a vicious rush. He gasped as the tingling underneath his skin disappeared and his heartbeat immediately slowed to a normal tempo, as if he hadn’t gotten so wound up so quickly just seconds before. Whatever effect page 281 had on him, it had all but disappeared.

Now all he could be was utterly shocked.

What in bloody hell… He looked around frantically—guiltily—trying to block out the memory of his vision. Shite, can she even bend that way? And what if someone had seen me while…? Only a perv would have a stiffie in a bookstore!

Then it occurred to him that he had had several stiffies in the library at Grimmauld Place.

Yes, but usually Hermione is actually there to help it along.

He felt an urge to hate himself for thinking that.

Dazed, he dropped to the floor to pick up the book.

“Oy, Harry, there you are.”

Harry knocked over a stack of magically balanced books nearby, awkwardly burying that book underneath it. He cursed Ron for showing up but was glad that the books had spilled so fortuitously. “Yes, Ron?”

Ron came up beside him, scanning the shelves idly. “There was only one book on the list you gave me and I’ve found it. Need help finding the books in your half of the list?”

Harry looked up in surprise. “There was only one on yours?”

“Yeah. You crossed out the others.”

“I didn’t cros—well, that doesn’t matter. You can go find Common Vampire Ailments by Ann Neamik.”

Ron shrugged. “Alright. You okay? You look a little flushed.”

“I-I’m fine. I’ll join you at the counter as soon as I’m done looking.”

“Right.”

Ron left and Harry rolled his eyes at his own awkward attempts at dignity. He fished his book out from beneath Daddy, Why Do You Have Fangs? and tucked his now illicit purchase inconspicuously in his arms.

Whose bright idea was it to invite Ron along to this potentially embarrassing errand, anyway? That’s right, Potter, yours!

He wondered whether there wasn’t an age requirement for the book he was trying to buy.

He headed out to the other sections to get the rest of the books. He was glad to discover that they weren’t very thick tomes. The thickest one was the relationship book, and even that was just a little over 281.

Now I’m obsessed with the page, he thought morosely.

Thirty minutes later, he had the three books in his list on hand. He had given in to the occasional distraction, browsing through a few other books. He didn’t suppose she would be very bored in her current disposition that she would have leisure time to herself, but he found himself looking over a leather-bound notebook with blank pages.

She might find use for a journal. She might like the normalcy of chronicling things… as they are…

He took the notebook and grabbed a quill with some ink. He hoped he could get Cicero to pass on the present for him; just to let her know he missed her.

Ron was waiting for him at the counter with two books and an extra tome that was thicker than could be expected from Ron. He put the two books on Harry’s pile and held the rest back.

“You bought a book for yourself?” Harry asked.

Ron reddened. “Don’t be daft.”

He didn’t explain any further and Harry thought it best not to pry since he wasn’t exactly forthcoming with his purchases either.

Harry paid for his selections and Ron paid for his, after which they headed back out on the street.

“Think we can go by Fred and George’s for a minute? I need to get a new spell-checking quill,” said Ron.

“Haven’t replaced the one that ran out on you last April?”

“Yeah. And it’s really bad now. It’s turning all my Ss into Cs and my Rs into Fs. It’s very embarrassing when I have to write ‘sock’ and ‘rucksack’ in my letters.”

Harry would imagine so.

They arrived at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes front steps where the display was as garish and explosive as ever. Multi-colored lights flashed at the marquee and a throng of customers, in spite of the relatively sparse Diagon Alley crowd, were flowing in and out of the shop doors.

Harry let Ron step through the doors first to lead the way and Ron wove through the aisles, directly for the enormous shelf of quills. The twins had stocked up for the up and coming school year and the quills and inks gleamed new under the store lights.

Ron was quietly deciding between a blue or black quill when the twins jumped them from behind.

Harry found himself amongst tall stalks of red once again, remembering how he had been with them just yesterday. His insides ached, just thinking of Hermione. He wished she were there. He wished he could hold her hand while they watched Fred and George bother Ron.

Seeing the rack of love potions “disguised” as common beauty products, he imagined her joking about spiking his coffee with amortentia and he would quite naturally say that love potions were cancelled out when the emotion was already there.

This was the first time, ever, that he had stepped into Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and felt this depressed.

“Gerroff me!” Ron growled as the twins urged him to try this prototype and that. Ron told Harry that the last two times the twins managed to convince him, his ears turned bunny and he giggled like a fairy.

When Ron had successfully thwarted them, they set their sights on Harry. Harry thought they were going to go into their usual flamboyant welcome, giving him “complimentary” gift packs and such. But while they didn’t exactly stop smiling, they got this look in their eyes, something Harry was surprised to realize was not pity but shared grief.

George clapped Harry on the back. “Alright, Harry? Any word on Hermione today?”

“Not until later. The—umm—one taking care of her won’t be available to report until tonight,” said Harry quietly. “She’s just sleeping now.”

Fred smiled. “Will you give something to her for us, then? She might need a bit of a picker-upper, eh?” He rushed off to the counter, disappearing behind it for several moments.

“We put this together for her this morning,” George explained. “Thought maybe we’d try to brighten her days at the dungeon.”

Harry cocked a tiny smile. He couldn’t help but appreciate the gesture.

He was expecting Fred to come back with a basket of jokes and blood candies (he might have found that funny, anyway, in a… twisted sort of way), but he found that Fred and George were indeed full of surprises.

Fred did hand him a basket, but it was filled with chocolate, prettily wrapped “surprise” boxes and miniature balloons that enlarged on command. Fred also handed him a bouquet of charmed flowers, enchanted to stay fresh for longer than it was wont.

“The flowers are from Charlie and Dad,” Fred explained.

George pointed to the basket and began speaking in a confidential whisper. “There are about half a dozen of our best fake wands under there and two go’s of our Patented Daydream Charms. Ginny and mum have letters for her in there, too.”

“Charlie told us that she’d appreciate the chocolate even as… you know,” said Fred. “If she doesn’t, she can always pass ‘em over to Ron. He’ll eat anything.”

Ron shot them a glare.

Harry felt a bit overwhelmed. “Th-Thanks, you two. This… will mean a lot to her.”

Fred smiled. “No problem. We felt really, really awful last night, when we thought—you know—so this is as much for us as it is for her. You should’ve heard mum and Ginny. We thought they were going to make themselves ill, the way they carried on crying.”

“R-Really?”

George nodded solemnly. “Ginny was worse. I think she felt wretched that she’d been nasty to Hermione all day that day. Listen, Harry, we didn’t have time to tell Bill and Fleur last night about what happened, and they won’t be getting the Daily Prophet where they are, but we’ll definitely let them know, today. Don’t think they don’t care—“

“Please don’t tell them,” said Harry, much to Fred and George’s surprise. Harry hastened to explain. “I don’t want them ruining their honeymoon on account of what happened, especially now that Hermione’s… not really—gone. Hermione wouldn’t want that for them, either. Tell them after they get back. But let them enjoy their time together, for now.”

The twins cast him doubtful glances.

“Really,” Harry insisted.

“Fine, then,” said George. “We’ll hold off for a couple of days. But Harry, I think they’d want to know, anyway.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, well, I don’t imagine being half-mauled for the rest of your life gets you that many breaks. Let the bloke have his honeymoon with his unbelievably gorgeous wife.”

Fred laughed. “Bill’s probably enjoying French cuisine as we speak, eh?”

“Well, he’s enjoying something, Fred, I’ll tell you that.”

Ron frowned. “You two are impossibly single-minded.”

“Yes, because as nineteen year old wizards go, we’re supposed to be less ‘single-minded’ than a seventeen year old bloke whose been hoarding our Witchling Magazine back-issues,” said George.

Harry’s eyes widened at Ron. He didn’t know whether he should laugh or demand that Ron share.

Fred nodded. “When you say ‘less single-minded’, does that mean we’re supposed to be double-minded or half-minded?”

“Well, we are twins.”

“A quarter-minded? So then we’d be half-minded put together.”

“Shut it, you!” Ron cried. “I do not hoard. I borrow. And I only wanted the one with the article on Holly Coats. She’s a riveting stage actress, you know.”

“’Coat, Un-Coat’ I believe, was the title of that article,” said Fred. “Interesting interview, that. I rather fancied that ‘un-coat’ part.”

“One of the best issues,” said George. “Hope you didn’t ruin it, Ron. The magazine aims to please but the least you can do is aim your pleasure somewhere else.”

“Enough! Harry and I are leaving!” Ron cried. “Put the quill on my tab and thank you for the presents.”

Ron hustled them out of the store as Harry tried to toss proper goodbyes to the twins.

When they got back out on the street, Harry smirked. “Borrowed it for the articles, eh? I suppose the literature’s pretty good once you get past the scantily clad witches waving to you from the pages.”

“Mr. Chastity and Virtue over here,” Ron muttered sardonically. “If you weren’t getting so much ‘tender loving care’ from Hermione, you would be drooling over those magazines same as the rest of us poor fools.”

“Drooling? Is that what you call it nowadays?”

“Well, I’m sorry. I’m being cryptic: In lieu of shagging a beautiful woman for real, the pitiful masses have to wank-off on their pictures instead.”

“When you put it like that, it sounds very sad.”

Ron sighed and shook his head. “It sounds ten times meaner coming from someone who’s had some. Like you’re gloating, actually.”

“Oh, shut it. I’m not gloating. And I’d rather you not talk about it like that. What Hermione and I have—“

“Isn’t just about sex. I know. And amidst this deep, profound and emotional connection you two have, the sex—fortunate bastard that you are—just happens to be abso-bloody-lutely fantastic.”

Harry shot him a wry look. He was of the opinion that his “fortune” was preceded by the worst luck in the world (e.g. Fighting a possessed professor and then destroying him without the slightest idea how it got done; getting bit by a basilisk and then healed by a phoenix; getting lost in a labyrinth with a psychopath and managing to get away, etc., etc.) and that Ron was forgetting that aspect of his life again because Ron’s teenage hormones compelled him.

“Well,” muttered Harry. “Whatever romantic thing I was going to say will sound stupid now, won’t it?”

“You can always whisper your sweet nothings in my ear, darling.”

“Right. And you phrased it so appropriately for our ‘single-minded’ conversation, too. It’s not how I would say it, but that’s the gist of the matter, I suppose. Whatever works for you.”

“Not to mention those killer legs of hers,” added Ron absent-mindedly, as if taking Harry’s words to heart. “I tell you, the shape on them can murder a man, dead. Tapering to really nice ankles. Bless short skirts…”

Harry was beginning to get peeved. Hermione wasn’t Holly Coats, so her legs were not open to discussion. “Ron, in this dimension, it’s not polite to talk about your best mate’s girlfriend’s legs like that.”

“Right. Sorry.”

They began to walk up the alley to the Leaky Cauldron.

“You miss her already, don’t you?” said Ron. “I know you slept in her room.”

Harry hadn’t realized Ron had noticed, and the fact that Ron did, made him feel strangely violated. “Thank you for stripping me emotionally naked in the middle of Diagon Alley.”

“Fine. Far be it I’d force a macho man like yourself to talk about your feelings.”

Harry sighed. Then again, none of it was Ron’s fault.

“Look,” Ron muttered. “I’m not asking you to bare your soul or anything like that. That’s just gross. I’ll just feel less weird if I knew I wasn’t the only one being—you know, stupid. Because I miss her, even if it’s been barely a day since…”

Harry always thought that he was only a bit better than Ron as far as emotional ranges go, so now he felt bad for shutting the emotional door on Ron’s face. “I don’t know about being stupid… that’s your lookout…” He grinned a bit and Ron shot him a sardonic sneer. “But I do miss her, too. I’m anxious to see her again. She died, Ron. Now she’s alive and—and it feels like she’d been gone a hundred years and this is the first time I’ll be seeing her again after I missed her every single day of those hundred years.”

Ron cocked a wan, understanding smile.

They entered the Leaky Cauldron and used the portal to go to Muggle London.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was almost three thirty by the time Harry and Ron got back to Grimmauld Place. They’d taken a late lunch out in a Muggle restaurant and Ron had spent half the time being fascinated by bits of muggle curiosities. It was a welcome distraction, and Harry figured it had a little to do with the fact that once they got back home, he’d have to sit down and face the inevitability of the state of things.

They had to use the front door to get into the house. While anyone can floo out of Grimmauld Place, there was no flooing in. They had to floo from some place nearby, take a bus and walk up the front steps. Ron was ecstatic to take a muggle bus. He couldn’t have imagined that transportation could move so slowly.

Tonks welcomed them back in, helping them with their packages.

Harry noticed that the unreasonably plentiful pile of letters and flowers had been moved to the parlor, and that Tonks had left the window open for owls to come and drop their packages off. She had left water dishes and pellets, too. A few owls lingered atop the parlor chairs. Evidently, some owls expected to carry something back.

He wearily wondered whether he had to answer all that mail.

After they helped Tonks put away the groceries, Harry deposited the Weasley gifts in his room while Ron said he was going to get some shut-eye. He requested that Harry wake him up when it came time to go to St. Mungo’s.

Finding alone time, Harry sat himself down and began the one letter he was willing to write. Three revisions later, he sighed and decided to go with what he had. It was, at least, the most honest and heartfelt one he could come up with. He folded it carefully and stuck it in the journal he had bought for Hermione. He then went to the library with his books. He was glad that he could look over the books by himself. Aside from the embarrassingly erotic page 281, he really did want to skim through the other books. He wanted to be able to have some understanding of how to cope.

Harry remembered an incident in sixth year, when Professor Binns told them (yes, he was actually listening that time) that they would be having a test for the following meeting, and that it would be an open-book exam. History class being what it was (a time to reflect… on one’s sleeping time), Harry and Ron didn’t even bother to open their books and prepare. It was open-book, after all. How bad could it be? Hermione, of course, had warned them constantly, telling them that open-book exams were usually more difficult than usual, hence the need for constant reference. Harry ignored her warnings at first, opting to—well—snog Ginny, but as the day of the test neared, it was as if Hermione’s warnings came back to haunt him with increasing frequency, so by the time the day of the test came, he actually had a panic attack and found himself cramming as much reading as he could between morning and History class. Sure enough, when he sat in front of his exam, books and his sorry excuse for notes laid out before him on his desk, he hadn’t a blessed clue on how to answer a single question properly. There were three, and all he could do was spin bullcrap with quill and parchment. Harry thought that anything was better than nothing. He was a Gryffindor, right? Leaving blank spaces would be like forfeiting a Quidditch match, and he would never do such a thing.

As it turned out, Harry wasted a fair amount of ink and effort, however valiant (or as Hermione would term it, “desperate”) his attempts were. Professor Binns did not give credit for “trying”, especially because being a ghost, the poor Professor dwelled less and less on the abstract the more reality left him behind. So the reality of the matter was Harry just missed the facts completely. At least Ron could say he flunked the exam with flying colors because his answers were intentionally hilarious. Harry just flunked miserably, because his answers were unintentionally laughable. For what it was worth (which wasn’t much at all), he scraped a few measly points, though they were nowhere near hanging by the hair of a passing grade.

Harry learned three essential truths that week. The first truth was that Hermione, particularly when it came to lessons, was almost always right, so for future matters pertaining to school and perhaps even life, he would do well to take that into consideration. The second truth was that when you think you’ve got enough free time during the weekday to snog your girlfriend senseless, then you’re probably skiving something far more important. The third most important truth was that there was absolutely nothing pleasant about being that unprepared, and that he never wanted to feel that kind of inadequacy again. For all his encounters with Voldemort and his evil Death Eaters, it was Professor Binns’ history test that taught him the horrors of what it was like to get caught with one’s pants down.

So now, with Hermione’s vampirism looming ahead, he was going to take the third truth particularly to heart.

He started by arranging the books in order of priority:

Vampires For Dummies

So Your Sweetheart’s A Vampire, 8^th Edition (Dating tips, relationship trouble-shooting and moving in together.)

Bloody Mary’s Not A Drink, She’s In the Basement, 1996 Edition (A comprehensive and useful comparison of vampire and human [pop-] culture.)

Underworld: Vampire Society (What it’s really like down there.)

Common Vampire Ailments

Harry didn’t think he’d be able to read all of it on time for Hermione’s homecoming, but if he could read Potions and History textbooks, he could very well take the time to read these.

Taking the first book from the pile, he opened it to page one.

“A general overview of all things vampire…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry carried all his books from the library and deposited them underneath his bedside table. He wasn’t the least bit done with the first book, but time had flown as he read and he had barely noticed. That seemed like a good sign. However draining a book “For Dummies” was supposed to be, it was interesting enough to keep him focused.

He carried the book down to the kitchen and thought about fixing himself a sandwich. He had missed lunch. So had Ron, which was a bit of a shocker. He supposed Tonks, unlike Hermione, hadn’t felt the need to take care of a house full of boys (not that two boys and one man in a mansion was a crowd). Tonks was more laid-back that way. Besides, Harry supposed a werewolf was handful enough.

He caught Tonks in the kitchen boiling some tea. She looked disgruntled.

“Alright, Tonks?”

“I’m just taking a break,” she muttered. She did not elaborate on her irritable mood.

“How’s Remus?”

“Go ask him yourself.”

Harry found pause and began to seriously consider going down to the basement, a.k.a. dungeon, to check on their resident werewolf. Other than that catastrophic episode in third year, Harry had never really taken a keen interest in Remus when the full moon came around. That was probably understandable, considering Remus had wanted to eat him that first and last time they faced off. But Harry also realized that Remus used to have Padfoot, Prongs and even Wormtail to get him through those nights he was a werewolf. Maybe now was a good time for Harry to reach out, in the spirit of that same brotherhood, because he was James’ son after all. Besides, Remus would stay human so long as the rays of the moon didn’t reach him.

“I think I will,” said Harry.

Tonks gave him a faint smile as she daintily sipped her tea. Of course with Tonks, dainty meant dribbling only a little tea from the side of her mouth.

Taking his book with him, Harry made his way to the dungeon.

The trip down was a dim one. There were no torches to light the passageway so Harry could either carry the one mounted at the entrance or cast a lumos to light the way. He decided to use his wand. It was lighter and he was almost certain Remus’ chamber would have its own torches anyway.

He carefully descended the winding stairway and soon reached the bottom where there was a long hallway. There was a pinprick of light flickering at the distant end.

The stone was dry and dusty, so there were very few creatures living between the rocks and corners, but there was the occasional spider, which pretty much meant Ron wouldn’t be making an appearance anytime soon.

When he finally reached the first lit cavern, he saw a short row of stone cells sealed by thick iron bars. It wasn’t a particularly vast room, and there was only a small section where Harry presumed a “guard” could stand and see everything. There was a dark corner where a massive iron door was situated. It was either some kind of high-security cell or the torture chamber. Judging from the Black’s political leanings, a torture chamber wasn’t farfetched.

He spotted Remus in the farthest cell. He was hunched over a table piled with books. He had a bed and a rather genteel looking tea table with a teapot and a cup. Of course, the pile of raw meat sitting beside the sugar bowl rather ruined the effect, but he was an Englishman and a werewolf, after all.

“Tonks, dear, I hope I didn’t upset you too much. You know how moody I get this time of the month,” said Remus without lifting his eyes from his book.

Harry never thought he’d ever hear a grown man use the time of the month as an excuse for his mood swings, but lo and behold. Only in the wizarding world. “Not Tonks, I’m afraid. Sorry.”

Remus looked up and smiled. “Harry! Well, this is a surprise. I should’ve smelled you coming, of course, but I suppose I wasn’t paying attention. So, what brings you here?”

Harry shrugged, pulling up a chair that Tonks likely sat on to keep Remus company. Harry sat himself as near to Remus’ cell as allowed, just a little past the line marked on the floor with chalk. “No particular reason. Just visiting, really. Catching up on your reading?”

“Nothing important, actually. Mostly fiction. I tend to get bored with my usual scholarly tomes around this time, so I catch up on my muggle literature. It’s fascinating how muggles write about the worst people; serial killers, war criminals, rapists and murderers… but they build it around a nice, intricate mystery with lots of blood and gore.”

Harry was beginning to understand what Tonks meant by Remus becoming less his gentle self. “That sounds riveting.”

“It is! Better these than answering those bloody crossword puzzles… what’s that book you got there?”

Harry held it up for Remus. “Vampires For Dummies. Just want to be ready when Hermione comes home. It’s interesting reading, anyway.”

Remus nodded sagely. “Vampires… an interesting study, particularly when it comes to Defense Against the Dark Arts. They’re notoriously difficult to kill. Silver can’t kill them per se; many make that mistake, but silver can hurt them, and if you’re going to cut off their heads, it’s better done with a silver blade. Cuts through their flesh much easier than a regular steel sword.”

Harry fidgeted at the subject matter. That was rather brutal of Remus, but that was excusable, considering the state Remus was in. “Erm… right. But—um—I don’t really want to be cutting off her head at this time… never, actually.”

Remus seemed surprised and he laughed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t telling you to—I’m sorry, Harry. I get a little savage around this time…”

“That’s alright. I understand. So… what else do you know about vampires?”

Remus settled more comfortably on his seat. “Well, there are many myths and misconceptions surrounding them, mainly because these muggle writers botch up the facts. Reflections, for example. Vampires have them. They can look into a mirror and see themselves. There is just absolutely no logical or magical reason why they shouldn’t have a reflection. Half the vampires of the world would go mad if they couldn’t see themselves, because how else would they make themselves beautiful? They’re a vain lot, I’ll tell you. A race of buggery metrosexual men and high-maintenance bitch—er—women.”

Harry was just slightly shocked at Remus’s use of the b-word, and he began to gain a true understanding of what had Tonks so exasperated.

Remus was blushing madly. “Pardon me for—umm—that word. I never mean it in a very bad way. It’s just that I’m a little… wolfy right now and I inadvertently refer to women as… well, it’s a dog-thing, but it’s still very embarrassing. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. Tonks hates it like anything, as you might imagine.”

Harry would imagine so.

Remus’s eyes roved to Harry’s book again. “Vampires… aren’t always as bad as people say they are, but then the really nasty ones far exceed the worst stories about them. Cicero’s a primary example of a good vampire, and then there will be Januses. Vampires have common traits, though, like vanity and ferocity, but I suppose even that is proportionate to the kind of person they were before they were turned.” He sighed. “I will not lie to you. This is no small adjustment in your relationship.”

Harry stared at him in surprise.

“It will be difficult,” Remus continued. “And you will have gaps that will seem impossible to bridge. But I suppose… I suppose I’ve seen human and vampire relationships prospering, or something like it, at least.”

“W-What do you mean by that?”

Remus chuckled. “I’ve not been among vampires for so long, and I’m sure many things have changed since I last… socialized with them. I’d rather not elaborate, lest I give you cause for unnecessary anxiety. You have enough to worry about. I’m just saying that if your heart tells you that you want this relationship, then you must be willing to deal with the most difficult and unusual issues that will arise from it. I know that—I know that it was so natural for you and Hermione. It was as if you and she didn’t even have to explain things to each other. The two of you just worked; you fit. And you were so passionate, too—“

Harry’s eyes widened before he descended into unbearable levels of embarrassment.

Remus smirked. “Oh, don’t you look at me like that, Harry. Even if I didn’t have super sensitive werewolf ears—yes, I heard, which is why silencing charms are so handy—it’s obvious enough with the way you… well, are with each other.”

“Good God,” Harry moaned, running his hand down his face. If he could melt through the floor, that would be a blessing.

Remus waved dismissively. “No need to be embarrassed Harry. We’re both adults here, and such is the nature of relationships. The point is, don’t despair if things seem so different. I suppose you can say I’m rooting for you two because… well, Tonks and I… we’re not exactly the most ideal couple, either. If you and Hermione manage then perhaps Tonks’ optimism about she and I has merit.”

Harry didn’t know if two sober blokes such as themselves should sit there and encourage each other to carry bravely on in their dysfunctional relationships. Weren’t they supposed to be sitting in a pub somewhere and banjaxed out of their wits for this sort of thing to seem less pathetic?

“Just remember,” said Remus sagely. “If you love her at all, you’re going to cut down on garlic. Vampires are horribly sensitive to the stuff. If you eat pizza and you kiss her, it won’t be pleasant. Besides, it’s never a good idea to kiss anyone after eating garlic, vampire or human.”

“Right…”

“Are you going to the hospital tonight?”

“Yeah… I don’t think I’ll be allowed to see her, though. I’ll be dropping off some presents. From the Weasleys and myself…”

“Good! I’ve something for her, too. It’s a little something from a werewolf to a vampire.” Remus dug through his books and brought out what looked like a coin-sized disk made of glass. It had something red embedded into it and the disk had a hole at the top where one could pass a chain through. Remus held it up so that Harry could see it through the bars. “It’s a Blood Moon Charm. That’s what the vampires call it, at least. If she’s ever in any dire danger and has no one else to turn to, I’d know if she calls on me. I can either help her myself or send someone who can better assist her. It’s akin to this werewolf as servants of vampires thing, but less binding. At any rate, I’d offer help of any kind to her whether or not she’s a vampire. Call this a gesture. It might give her a sense of security; that she’s never alone.”

Harry wagered that Hermione never knew just how many people cared for her. “I know she’ll appreciate it.”

Remus tossed the disk through the bars and Harry snatched it deftly in mid-flight. He turned it over in his palm, studying it carefully.

“You’d best head back up,” said Remus. “It will be nightfall soon and I’m sure you’re anxious to let her know she hasn’t been abandoned.”

Harry nodded. He rose from his seat.

“Oh, and Harry, please tell Tonks that if she is better disposed than when she last stormed out of here, I would really, really like her company again.”

Harry cocked a smile. “Sure, Remus. I’ll give her the ol’ Harry charm.”

Remus smirked. “You do that. Goodness knows the whole wizarding world goes maternal when it comes to you.”

Harry never saw it that way but supposed it was mostly true when the wizarding world wasn’t ripping into his character, mental health and love life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry did pass Remus’ message along to Tonks and Tonks showed no sign of being huffy about it. She even said that she would be going back down to the dungeon shortly.

He looked out of the kitchen window and saw that the sky had grown dim. In another half-hour or so, it would be nightfall. He should be heading out to St. Mungo’s.

He was just about to go to Ron’s room to wake him up when Tonks called his attention.

“By the way, Harry. If you’re wondering about the services for Hermione’s parents, McGonagall’s taking care of it with her parents’ administrators. So you needn’t worry about that, alright?”

He stared at her. The funeral arrangements for Hermione’s parents had completely slipped his mind.

It was then he felt a surge of insecurity. How in the world could he have believed that he was ready for any of this? If he fancied himself grown up enough to deal with it all, then how could he have forgotten something so important? What else was he forgetting? What other responsibility was he not ready for?

Perhaps seeing the frightened look in his eyes, Tonks came over and gave him a brief embrace. He was too dazed to make any sort of response.

“It will be fine, Harry,” she said. “I know you might not like the sound of this but… the fact is you’re a victim in this, too. Everyone is willing to pitch in to lessen the burden on you, Hermione and Ron.”

Harry gave a start. She was right: he didn’t want to be a “victim”. He wasn’t. It was never within the constellation of his thoughts. He was destined to fight Voldemort in the end. Being a victim, or thinking himself one, would help no one. Yet right now, he might have to grudgingly admit that the real-life concerns were beyond him. He hadn’t even considered the inevitability of speaking to Hermione about her parents. It was all suddenly very overwhelming.

“You go on ahead to St. Mungo’s,” said Tonks. “All you need worry about for the time being is Hermione and yourself.”

Harry nodded, though he was not nearly assured of the state of things, not because he didn’t trust McGonagall, but because he was slowly beginning to mistrust himself.

Troubled, he made his way to the rooms on the second floor to rouse Ron from sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8. Chapter Seventh: Nightfall

Author’s note: Many, many thanks to my beta-reader, Lady Diamond. ^_^ If you see any mistakes on the text, that’s my doing, not hers. I have a tendency to add a few things here and there post-beta. ‘-_- So if you find yourself reading a perfect chapter in the future, the credit must go to Lady Diamond, because I will never, ever be able to write anything without any errors in them. Typos are ingrained in me. Bad grammar is my chronic affliction.

So here’s Chapter Seven, as promised. Came around soon enough, I hope.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Seventh: Nightfall

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry and Ron arrived at St. Mungo’s Special Injuries Unit laden with presents. There were more people walking in the halls and there was actually an active nurse’s station.

Harry could feel eyes upon him as he passed personnel and he hitched his load a little higher, positioning the flowers and inflating the balloons so that they covered his face partially. He didn’t know if Ron had noticed; probably not. His lanky best friend had a distant look in his eyes, as if he hadn’t quite recovered from his nap that afternoon.

They sat in the waiting area to rest for a bit.

“D’you reckon she’s already awake?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded. It was dark outside by the time they had left the house. He had read that vampires only slept way past nightfall when they needed to recover from exhaustion or injury. Other than that, they rose immediately after the sun had completely disappeared behind the horizon, as if the sleeping spell the sun cast on them was temporarily lifted. The spell would fall once more upon the rising of the sun. Ancient vampires, and the occasional three hundred year old, were capable of resisting the lulling solar light, so long as they stayed well beyond its rays, but they still needed sleep, if only for a few hours before nightfall came again.

Hermione should be awake, and Cicero should be awake as well.

Harry was just about to set the presents aside to look for Healer Kearney when the healer emerged from behind the double doors to meet them.

Healer Kearney smiled. “Just as I expected. You’ve come to speak to Mr. Iswold?”

Harry had an urge to ask if Hermione was permitted to see them but knew it would be futile. He merely nodded in response to the kindly healer’s inquiries.

“Very well. Wait here.” Healer Kearney left through the same double doors.

Harry settled back in his seat and saw Ron pull something from a parcel he carried. He gave it pensive inspection.

“That a book for Hermione?” Harry asked.

Ron’s cheeks turned a bit pink. “She might like it. It’s a history book, after all.” He held it up and the cover said Four Founders.

Harry could see Hermione appreciating it. It was a relatively thick tome; the sort that Hermione liked to curl up with in one of the big, soft chairs by the common room fire. And while she might not have time to read the book while she was recovering, she would love the book, anyway.

Several minutes later, Cicero emerged from the sealed anteroom. He looked as pristine as ever, though he wore the same suit they last saw him in. If he had slept, it did not show. Nothing about him was rumpled or disheveled. It was as if he had slept standing up. He was, however, slightly more pale than vampires are wont to be.

He hasn’t fed, thought Harry. He eyed the small man for a moment before deciding that other than Cicero’s lack of color, the vampire looked perfectly composed. At least he doesn’t look like he’s going to rip into us…

Cicero smiled, fangs hidden behind his lips. “Good evening Mr. Potter; Mr. Weasley. I am glad to know that Ms. Granger has such good friends looking out for her.”

On any other day, Harry could do small talk, but not tonight. “Please, Mr. Iswold. How is she?”

Cicero gave them a wan grin. “A tad lonely, Mr. Potter. First thing she asked when she woke was whether she would be allowed to see you and Mr. Weasley, but I told her I cannot let her see you.”

Harry knew that would be the case, but he was disappointed to hear it, anyway.

“We’ve brought her some presents,” said Ron. “Can you pass them on to her?”

“Of course,” said Cicero. “The presents will help, I assure you.”

Harry remained quiet as Ron handed the presents over one by one, telling Cicero which came from whom.

When Ron was done, he looked to Harry.

Harry brought out the journal and quill set he purchased from Flourish and Blotts. His letter was tucked safely inside the journal.

He handed the present over in its paper bag, but as Cicero took it, Harry gave in to an impulse.

“Mr. Iswold, may we speak to Hermione? Even for just for a while.”

Cicero frowned, clearing his throat a bit. “Well, as I’ve said—“

“We don’t have to talk to her face to face,” Harry added hastily. “Healer Kearney summoned you, didn’t he? He didn’t go down into the dungeon. He went somewhere else and informed you of our presence from there. Maybe we can talk to Hermione through the same device. Please? Just for a few minutes.”

Cicero paused a few seconds before replying. “I suppose that could be arranged. I’d have to ask Ms. Granger, of course, but I’m quite certain she’ll want to speak to you. However, I’d have to ask you to come back in a few hours. Is ten in the evening alright for you?”

Let me check my fabulously busy schedule.

“That’s perfectly alright, Mr. Iswold,” said Harry. “Ron, you alright with that?”

Ron smirked. “I’ll cancel high tea with the Queen.”

Cicero nodded. “It’s settled, then. Be here at ten and I’ll have it set up with Healer Kearney. In the meantime, I’ll deliver these packages.” He adjusted his burden then glanced briefly behind Harry and Ron. “Ah, they’re here.”

Harry turned and saw a young couple walking across the waiting room. The man had dark brown hair and blue eyes and he was dressed like a muggle. The woman was petite and pixie-like, with long black hair and grey almond eyes. She wore witch’s robes and her wand was tucked into her sash.

She eyed Harry’s scar speculatively for a brief moment before Harry found the sense to turn his head away from view.

“Need help with that, Cicero?” asked the woman, tearing her gaze away from him.

“Oh, no. I’m fine.” Cicero turned his attention to the man and smiled welcomingly. “I’m glad you made it here on such short notice, Ethan.”

The man called Ethan smiled. “Please… like I can say no to you.”

Cicero chuckled softly. He did not introduce them and let them walk through the anteroom door. He gave Harry and Ron one last glance and said, “Ten,” before disappearing behind the door.

“I’m not even going to ask what those two are going to do in there,” said Ron.

Harry sighed. It was only just a bit past six so there was a lot of time to kill. “I’m going back home for the meantime, read some books. How about you?”

Ron shrugged. “I ‘spose I’ll go and read with you… or play chess with Remus. Tonks said he could play so long as I move the pieces for him. I guess she doesn’t want Remus getting too close…”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. He was surprised that Ron was willing to keep Remus company at all (what with the spiders in the dungeon), much less play chess with the werewolf. It seemed Ron’s emotional range was making vast improvements.

Hermione would be proud.

He glanced longingly at the sealed doors. Moments later, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, come on then. Don’t just stand there, daydreaming!” said Ron.

Harry grinned at the familiarity of Ron’s ribbing. He turned to leave with Ron, clapping his best friend’s back in appreciation. “Right. I’ve actually got this interesting book for you to read. It’s called Bloody Mary’s Not A Drink…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione closed her eyes, shuddering at the aftertaste of Ethan’s blood. It had been a good ten minutes since she fed off him, but there was something about the taste of his blood that lingered and satisfied.

The turmoil she had felt feeding off Allan had been no different when Ethan’s turn came, but she was much hungrier now than the first time. Cicero explained that it was the prolonged deprivation, that it was still part of her initial blood lust, and that the first taste of blood always provoked it. He assured her that so long as she remained disciplined, the hunger would eventually wane to something manageable enough for her to lead a relatively normal routine in life. Disciplining the hunger, in fact, would be the main focus of that day’s lessons. Cicero also explained that he had chosen Ethan as a feeder for a reason. He did not say more, only promising that they would talk about it after she had fed, and that she should remember to exercise control.

Ethan was, as Cicero warned, more a flirt than Allan. While Allan’s boyish sensitivity was endearing, Ethan’s playful urging summoned something entirely different from her, and she couldn’t be resistant even if she wanted to. He had an obvious willingness to please, and it had been trying in the extreme to control herself. Unlike Allan, Ethan had offered his neck, and she had—much to her horror—responded less brusquely, more… sensually to his encouragement. It hadn’t even been a conscious effort on her part. It came to her instinctively; the gentle touch of her lips; the slow extension of her fangs; the tender caress of her fingers.

She had sucked on his lifeblood, her eyes closed as she felt the nourishment and pleasure coursing through her. And in spite of the hunger, she had found herself imagining. It was no longer Ethan in her arms. Cicero had to remind her to stop, and when she let his words permeate through her senses, she was horrified enough to find the will to do as she was told.

Shocked, she pushed Ethan away, and while the shame she felt was no less than what she had felt for Allan—nay, it was even worse—she found herself staring at Ethan instead of hiding herself. Eyes wide as she gazed at him, she couldn’t believe what had just happened.

Ethan, though pale with blood loss and staggering on his feet, pouted. “Aw, I thought you were enjoying yourself!”

She gaped at him, the taste of him still on her tongue. He had been delicious, but she couldn’t quite explain why. That frightened and scandalized her all at the same time.

Cicero came around to support him, sighing as he helped Ethan to a chair. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ethan! Stop teasing the poor girl. You know why she did what she did.” He handed Ethan a vial and Ethan drank it. Ethan then dug something out of his bag. It was a bottle of milk chocolate.

“You don’t mind, do you, Cicero?”

“Not in the least.”

Hermione had kept staring at Ethan as he drank from his bottle and Cicero bandaged the punctures on his neck. Ethan had winked at her, which had caused her to look away, mildly mortified.

Cicero had excused himself then, telling her she should reflect on what had happened while he stepped out for a bit, and that if she needed anything, Ethan would be there to help. She hadn’t wanted to have anything much to do with Ethan then, and she had watched Cicero go, spying a girl through the dungeon door.

It bothered Hermione slightly that she looked upon the girl hungrily. Was this hunger never going away? But then Cicero shut the door, and the presence of the girl was cut off. It gave her the focus to mind Cicero’s last instruction.

Now, lying on her side, she desperately sought answers to the brief loss of inhibition she had felt with Ethan.

While feeding on Ethan, she realized something that both horrified and excited her: She had imagined holding Harry in her arms, had pictured herself running her fingers through Harry’s unruly hair. She had wanted to wrap herself around him; hold him close. It had intensified the experience of drinking and she hadn’t wanted it to end, because aside from the hunger, there was something more; something sexual.

She hadn’t pushed Ethan away because the thought of killing him had frightened her; she had pushed him away because she had felt guilt. It felt almost as if…

As if I was cheating on Harry.

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fists to her lids. She gave a slight moan. “Good lord… what have I done?”

“Gave me one mother of a hickey, I think,” said Ethan.

She hadn’t expected him to reply; much less reply like that. Now she felt worse.

“I’m sorry.” It sounded more like a whimper. She peeked from behind her hands and saw that he was leaning back on his seat, perfectly relaxed while he drank his milk chocolate. He was grinning. She didn’t know how he could be so off-hand about everything. Then again, Allan had been quite at ease, too.

“Don’t be,” he replied.

She sighed, taking deep breaths of nothing. The undead didn’t need air, but it was a soothing exercise nonetheless. “I can’t help it. I’m sorry about many things right now, but mostly, I’m sorry that I feel like I cheated on my boyfriend.”

“Relax. Your boyfriend doesn’t consider it cheating when he enjoys a treacle tart.”

“Well, he doesn’t give it a hickey, does he?”

“That’s what you think.”

She frowned before giving a resigned chuckle. “I do wish you weren’t so accommodating. If you acted the git, I can very well tell myself that I’m only feeding off you to survive this hunger.”

Ethan made a noncommittal shrug. “My vamp friends tell me it’s never pleasant to feed from someone you don’t like. Or from someone you’re not attracted to. Of course, if you frighten them and they begin to smell like fear, you’d love to sink your teeth into them, no matter how repulsive you think they are, but other than that, their blood would taste flat and—well—bloody. Like copper and salt.”

She arched an eyebrow. That was most interesting. “The taste of the blood—“

“Has most to do with how you feel about the person and what the person feels about you. The way you feel or respond to the feeder affects the way he responds to you. So if he already likes you to begin with and he feels your acceptance of him, it just makes the blood taste much better.”

“So the feeder’s health has nothing to do with it?”

“A feeder’s health is still a factor. A bloke who jogs everyday would taste slightly better than an overweight couch potato, and an anemic’s blood would have a somewhat runny texture, but if the blood’s flavored just right…”

Hermione shuddered. I am NOT exchanging recipes. It’s not right. It’s—

The heavy dungeon door opened and Cicero stepped in carrying a load of packages, flowers and balloons. His eyes were a bit droopy and his cheeks were mildly flushed, but he was as poised as ever. He smiled in Ethan’s direction. “Alright, Ethan?”

Ethan gave him a thumbs-up sign.

“D’you mind giving us some privacy? There are a few things I need to discuss with Hermione.”

“Sure thing. I need to go, anyway. Piña colada night at Grimm’s Fang-Tango.”

“Well, have fun. Oh, and Mia’s still outside. She’ll help you out of the facility.”

They made their goodbyes and Hermione thanked him rather shyly. Ethan winked one last time before finally leaving.

Cicero set the packages at the foot of her bed and brought out a wand. “Healer Kearney said you could use this wand to lengthen your chains a bit. Enough to let you sit up, at least. I’m afraid the wand’s spell-specific, so you can’t do more than that with it.”

“I understand,” she said, taking the wand. “Did he give you an incantation?”

“Duplico. Once for each shackle.”

Hermione nodded and began to lengthen her chains. The links doubled in number for each limb. It was an interesting transfiguration spell, which probably wasn’t as simple as it seemed, but the wand made it simple enough for any wizard or witch to use, whether or not transfiguration was their specialty.

She was sitting up when she handed Cicero the wand back and he pocketed it.

He smiled and gestured to the packages at her feet. “These are for you. From your friends. They care for you a great deal.”

She crawled to the foot of her bed and began sifting through them, her eyes misting over. She took the flowers first, and put her nose to them, closing her eyes at the fresh scents. She smiled and saw that the flowers were from Charlie and Arthur.

Cicero scrambled for a vessel to put them in. The hospital’s plastic pitcher was used for the meantime. He filled it with water from one of the dungeon taps and propped the entire set up between books so it wouldn’t fall over.

Hermione longed to transfigure the pitcher into a nice crystal vase, but the flowers were beautiful enough to lend comfort for the meantime.

“Who—umm… brought these?” she asked nonchalantly as she played with the purple and pink balloons.

Cicero gave a knowing smile. “Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley.”

She said nothing, the ache in her heart too great. She wanted to see them so badly. Harry, especially.

She sifted through the presents. She was delighted by the twins’ gifts, was warmed by the letters Molly and Ginny sent her, and was curious about the charm that Remus sent her.

“Ah, chocolate!” said Cicero, pleased. “Someone knows his vampires! It’s one of the few human delicacies that we can still enjoy. Go on, then. Have some. It does nothing to sate the hunger, but its flavor would be most welcome. You’ll see.”

Hermione craved the normalcy of chocolate. She opened the pack and shared it with Cicero. The chocolate was blessedly chocolaty. It tasted the same and it was immensely soothing. Cicero went on to say that she could eat as much of it as she wanted, too, without worrying about gaining an ounce. It had a bit of an intoxicating effect, though, so she should be mindful of how much she ate.

It was while nursing a truffle that she turned to Harry and Ron’s presents. She hugged the journal and the book, lying back down and holding them against her chest. “I will see them again, won’t I? You’re not just telling me I will when you’re actually thinking that I won’t, are you?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you about that, Hermione.”

“Good.” She opened the book Ron gave her and she read the short note in Ron’s huge, cramped and right slanted handwriting:

Dear Hermione,

Thought you might like this. It was either this or an Arithmancy book, which looked bloody boring, if you asked me. I figured this would make better reading. History isn’t so bad, actually, just that Professor Binns isn’t the most lively professor to have for the subject.

We all hope to see you again soon. We miss you.

Love,

Ron

She smiled at the Ron-esque tone as she traced the familiar curves of his script.

Setting the book aside, she opened the journal and something fluttered out of it. She sat up and saw that it was folded parchment. On the flap was Harry’s handwriting: “To Hermione.” The letter was sealed with a bit of wax and a basic decorative imprint. Unlike the Malfoys and Dumbledores of the wizarding world, those like her and Harry didn’t have fancy family seals.

She broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. Though the letters of his script were close together and slightly pointy, his words were spread apart. His lines weren’t perfectly straight, but neat enough. That she could feel the indent of the words through the surface of the paper was telling of just what kind of person he was.

Dear Hermione,

This is, officially, the third attempt I’ve made at beginning this letter. The fact is, I don’t want to be writing to you. I want to see you and be with you, and I want to tell you everything I’m feeling, face-to-face. I’ve missed you so horribly in the last twelve hours that I’ve had to keep myself busy just so I won’t go mad. Cicero promised I’d be allowed to see you in a few days. I think he even said you could come straight home after he releases you, but until then, I’m just beside myself worrying about you.

I can’t ever express what a nightmare it was when I thought I’d never see you again. It was the worst few hours of my life, so not being allowed to see you is just killing me.

You probably know by now that everyone sent presents. Everyone wishes you well. And if you haven’t figured out what to do with the journal I’ve given you, I will be truly worried, because my Hermione would know exactly what it could be used for.

She smiled at this. Yes, she did know what she could use the journal for. She had already decided that she would quill her experiences, being what she was, now. She could record her progress and perhaps even make a study of herself and the inevitably new lifestyle she would lead. She glanced briefly at the quill set Harry sent with the notebook. Aside from the basic black ink, there were tinier vials for red and blue.

She continued to read.

St. Mungo’s sent me your things: Your wand, you hair ornament and the locket, so don’t you be worrying about those. Just focus on getting better. I don’t know how long I can endure being kept from seeing you, but believe me when I say that I managed to find a passable distraction. You’ll be pleased to know that I’ll be spending a lot of my hours reading, so rest easy. I’ll be productive whilst pining over you.

Again, she smiled at this. Harry knew it would make her feel better, which was why he wrote it in.

Just remember that you’re always in my thoughts and dreams, and when you get out of the hospital, I’ll be right here for you. Whatever difficulties we have to face, we’ll be able to get through them together. We always do. Don’t be afraid.

I love you, and I count the hours until we see each other again.

Harry

She thought that if she were ever the slightest bit inclined, she would swoon, but that was more Lavender and Parvati’s style than hers. Instead, she just sat there, staring at the letter while she longed to be with him.

She sighed as she folded the letter carefully.

Cicero cleared his throat. “I’ve arranged for you to speak with them.”

Her eyes widened as a smile blossomed from her lips.

“But you can’t be in close proximity of them just yet,” he added hastily. “There’s a magical object you can speak through. It’s the muggle equivalent of a short-wave radio. Its audio is clear enough and it will serve its purpose.”

That was slightly disappointing but she was willing to take as much as she could get. “Oh! Can I speak to them now?”

“Ten o’ clock. We need time yet to discuss a few things.”

“What time is it now?”

“Almost seven.”

It was a long time yet. She wondered if she could bear it. “Right. Of course it is.”

He gave her an apologetic smile. “It will be ten before you know it. In the meantime, we talk.”

She sighed, resigned. “About what?”

“About how it felt drinking from Ethan.”

She froze before she felt her cold, clammy and undead skin go warm with embarrassment.

“It’s alright,” said Cicero gently. “You can tell me. And it’s important for your self-awareness.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What emotions were running through you? What were you thinking about? What were your physical reactions?”

Sighing, Hermione shared with him what she first shared and didn’t share with Ethan. She saw no reason to hold back since she already considered Cicero a healer of sorts. Perhaps she trusted him by default, but there was nothing remotely untrustworthy in his demeanor.

When she was done telling him everything, she sighed.

“I’ve turned into a freak, haven’t I?” she asked bitterly. “I’ve becomes some weird creature with a blood fetish.”

Cicero chuckled. “Well, we also call it being a vampire, but if you want to nit-pick…”

Hermione buried her face into her hands. “Will it always be like that? Will it… will it always be so sexual? Will I look at Harry and—I can’t believe I’ll say this—want to suck his blood?”

“Drinking, for you, will be about many different things, but yes, a lot of it has to do with stimulating the limbic lobes of your brain. This is the part of your brain that—“

“Controls emotions and sexual activity. I know. God! I’m a vampire! Do the functions of the brain even matter?”

“Well… maybe not in the conventional way. I use the old, mortal terms to simplify things about us, so that I can help the newly risen like you begin to understand. I chose Ethan to feed you for a reason. He is always a willing donor, and unlike most mortals, he… derives pleasure from giving blood. This is important, as he has explained to you. Taking and sharing blood is a two-way experience. Some vampires get their fix by flavoring their victim’s blood with fear. Others find the flavor of willingness more enticing. The more willing the donor, the more… delicious he would taste.”

She shuddered at the remembrance of using the same word to describe Ethan.

“This is why,” Cicero continued in a serious tone. “Vampires exchange blood in… certain situations. It is also why a mortal would willingly give blood when caught in a vampire’s embrace. There are sensations involved that make it pleasurable for them, too. Suffice it to say, unless the mortal wishes to become undead, you mustn’t let them drink off you. And to turn someone… well, there are certain rules to follow in that, too, though there is but one authority to enforce them. It also bears mentioning that our society has certain vampire laws that are enforced by an organized group. We will come to all that in time. Right now, we concentrate on the most basic aspects of our kind. Blood is nourishing, and sensual, and—“

“I can’t ever be like my friends anymore, can I?” she interrupted. She hadn’t meant to disrupt the discussion, but the words came out unbidden. “I mean, of course I’m a vampire, and they’re human, but… we can’t—we can’t, really… because we’re not human anymore. That makes all the difference.” The realization pressed heavy against her. It was the reality of her situation after all.

Cicero did not admonish her for the interruption. “The sooner you realize how utterly apart our two societies are, the better. I will not lie to you, Hermione. The chances of you and your… human lover are slight. We coexist with humans, and every two centuries or so, we come across an all too familiar love story of the vampire and human, living and loving each other in spite of the odds. I’m not saying the story can’t be true. Sometimes, the love is real, not just some mortal-slave-vampire-master game. But when it is true, it’s all the same story in the end… in the end the human dies. At times, it’s not even death that separates them. Sometimes it’s because the mortal craves heirs, or the mortal’s love fades. And that’s even more tragic, isn’t it? Because these are things we cannot help. Whatever the reason, the older a vampire gets, the harder they love. ‘Harder’ in all the sense of the word. Vampires find it more difficult to give themselves over to that emotion as the years go by, but when they do, they do it with everything they have, because they’ve seen more, and experienced more than any mortal. And each time a love is lost is more devastating than the last.”

“Then… then why let them die at all?”

Cicero smiled sadly. “I told you… there are certain rules to follow in turning.”

Her eyes widened. “There are rules forbidding the turning of your loved ones, then?”

“The rules of turning are governed by yourself. You, alone, have the authority to select who it is you wish to turn. It usually takes a vampire a few years before they gain the power to turn others. Not a lot of years. It takes three to five years to develop this power; like puberty, to put it simply. It just happens. But by the time you do gain this power, you’d have learned a few more things about yourself as a vampire. You’ll have developed standards; vampire principles; and you’ll have realized that even being the creature that you are, you have responsibilities to your kind and the ones you love, be they vampire or mortal.”

“In other words,” she said softly. “By the time I have the power to turn others… I wouldn’t want to turn the mortals I love.”

“Yes. As a vampire, we live with this affliction in the best way we can, but it is what it is: it’s an affliction. You do not want to inflict it upon those you hold most dear.”

She nodded. “Of course… I—I don’t want what happened to me happen to Harry, or Ron. I just—after a few centuries of having your heart broken over and over… doesn’t it seem logical to keep someone, just once, maybe, or finally, because you love them?”

“Of course it is. Sometimes, it takes less than a century to come to that realization. Your first heartbreak is just as devastating as the last one, after all… but when you do that—when you take that all-consuming step… you will burden your soul forever with a million dreadful possibilities. You’ve taken his life and made it your own. Can you live with that responsibility? Can you bear it? You’ll have to be braver than you ever were, and if it fails; if it turns out badly and he goes mad, or he realizes that he never wanted it, or he looks at you and sees the demon that turned him into a monster, you’ll have to be stronger than you ever envisioned yourself to be to survive it.”

She closed her eyes in despair. “That bad, huh?”

“That bad.”

“You’ve…?”

“Almost, but I nipped it in the bud. I’m not that much of a sucker for punishment.”

“How can you stand it?” she asked, truly shocked. “How can you just separate yourself from that emotion?”

Cicero leaned over and smiled sadly. “You simply live for something else.”

And she could tell, by the look in his translucent eyes, that there was nothing simple about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At the stroke of nine, Harry went to the nearest pay phone and called Jaime at Cicero’s office. Before the call, he’d spent at least fifteen minutes collecting muggle change just so he’d have coins handy in case he needed to extend the conversation. He didn’t know what he was calling for, exactly, but Cicero had told him to contact the number.

The bustle and noise of Tuffnell Park station nearby made things a bit difficult in spite of the fact that he had shut the door to the phone box. Outside the box, Ron look apprehensively around him, arms crossed over his chest. Harry was sure Ron was holding his wand. There was always something about train stations that set wizards on edge.

Harry dropped the coins into the slot and punched the numbers in. It took only a few rings to pick up and what he got was a peppy, friendly voice from the other end of the line, greeting him a good evening, that Iswold & Company: Initiation and Other Vampire Needs was always there to make the transition easier and asking him how she, Jaime, might help him on this glorious night of the full moon. Unused to talking to anyone on the phone, Harry found himself a bit lost for words. It was no ordinary phone conversation if you were calling about your undead girlfriend. What was he supposed to say?

“Erm… I—well, you see…” He winced at his own ineptitude. “S-Sorry. I just—“

“Oh, honey! I’m sure you’re feeling quite overwhelmed now, aren’t you? What is the newly risen’s name?”

He sighed with relief. At least one of them knew what to do. “Hermione Granger.”

“And who is speaking for Ms. Hermione Granger?”

“Harry. Harry Potter.”

“Well then, Mr. Potter, I see Ms. Granger’s name right here in my logs. We should be able to work it out. Tell me, is she muggle or witch?”

“Witch.” Harry wondered what a muggle would say if asked that same question. Most muggles didn’t even know they were “muggles.”

“And you?”

“Wizard.”

“I’ll have to owl you, then. You don’t happen to be familiar with the internet, by any chance?”

“Umm, not really.”

“I thought not. It’s really quite fascinating. You wizards should try it sometimes. Now… does your home have a basement or do you have any underground facility that can be sealed against sunlight or uninvited intrusion during the day? If your answer is yes, is it at least one hundred meters away from hallowed grounds?”

“I don’t think we’re anywhere near hallowed grounds and… and we have a dungeon…”

“Perfect! That’s what I love about wizarding houses. You always have dungeons in your basement. It’s almost kinky.”

Harry was too surprised by this assessment to blush.

Jaime went on. “And will Ms. Granger be staying in said home?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Excellent. Most newly risen don’t quite have it so easy. Can you give me the address of this home?”

“Er—that’s going to be a bit of a problem…”

“Let me guess. It’s unplottable.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s what I hate about wizarding houses, but that’s not really a problem. Is there a place where the installation crew can wait—“

“Installation crew?”

“Yes. The installation crew will see to it that the chamber in which Ms. Granger will be placed is vampire friendly and, for an extra fee, fitted to her taste. They will also be in charge of installing the coffin Ms. Granger shall be sleeping in.”

Harry fell silent. Good God…

“Sweetheart,” said Jaime. “She’s a vampire. She isn’t exactly going to sleep in pink-canopied beds with unicorns embroidered into the draperies. However, if she is so inclined, we can line the inside of her coffin pink. Most vampires hate pink, though, I’ll have you know. Even if we loved it as humans, we develop a natural aversion for all things pink in a hurry. Must be some kind of unconscious association with thinned blood, or something. Besides, it’s atrocious against our complexions.”

“R-Right.”

“Well? Where can the crew meet you, then? Give us a rendezvous point.”

“14 Grimmauld Place,” he said, his mind still awhirl. “Tufnell Park, London…”

“Wonderful, darling. The crew shall visit just as soon as you send back your answers to the questionnaire I just owled you. The owl should be with you shortly. You’re not that far from our office, after all. You don’t happen to have a telephone in this wizarding home of yours, do you?”

“No.”

“Drat! Oh well, c’est la vie. Give me a ring should you feel the need, but owling is good enough for me from here on. Shall you be paying for the cost of installation and materials in cash, credit or shall you be availing of the public-issue plan? Frankly, the public-issue plan sticks you with the ugliest coffins known to the undead, but everything is free, so I suppose that’s a good deal, eh?”

However surreal it all was to Harry, he had a distinct feeling that he didn’t want to stick Hermione with a public-issue anything. He has, to this day, lived with his government-issue glasses. Even he thought it wasn’t a pretty sight. Besides, it wasn’t as if he was short on money. He still had quite a bit left over from his parents, and Sirius had been lavish enough with his estate. Harry couldn’t think of a better way to spend it than buying Hermione the best comfort. “Cash, if you please. You accept galleons?”

“Of course we do, luv. Your galleons are good. You’ll have a price list to look through with the owl I sent you. You’ll know exactly how much all of it will be, just so you don’t get any surprises. I’d imagine finding Ms. Granger undead was surprise enough. We’ll not make things any more difficult than they already are.”

She exchanged a few more words with Harry, and just when the telephone’s timer beeped to signal the last twenty seconds of the call, Jaime said goodbye and their conversation ended.

Harry stepped out of the booth still in a bit of a daze.

“Well?” asked Ron.

“Th-That’s done.” He didn’t exactly feel like going over the details again.

Ron eyed him carefully but let it go. They walked back to Grimmauld Place in silence. It took them about fifteen minutes.

Tonks let them back into the house and just as they began to settle down, an owl came through the kitchen window. The owl held a relatively large wrapped package. Tonks took the owl’s burden, fed it a quick treat and saw it fly off.

“It’s for you,” she said, handing the package to Harry.

Harry saw that it was from Iswold & Company. Stifling a sigh, he opened it. It was a binder with about half an inch thick of paper inside. There was a questionnaire with standard questions and not-so-standard questions. Among the most non-standard ones was the kind of coffin Hermione would like. He stared at the choices in despair.

“Blimey…” Ron said, paling.

Tonks didn’t look quite that comfortable, either.

Harry leaned his head back on his seat, hands to his face as he expelled a breath. “Oh God… can we do this, Ron?”

Ron sighed. “I don’t know.”

He felt hands on his shoulders, squeezing encouragingly. It was Tonks. “You both have to believe you can. If you two give up on her, she’ll have no one else. As much as the rest of us would be willing to help her, you two are really all she has left. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Harry did, and he nodded. Ron did, too.

Raking his fingers through his hair, Harry bent over the questionnaire and tried to answer as best he could.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Healer Kearney led Harry into his quiet office. The smell of sterilized everything permeated through the air and Harry felt the chill that always seems so prevalent in healer offices.

He was going to talk to Hermione. For the first time since he found out she wasn’t dead, he was going to hear her voice. It made him nervous, yet he’d been longing for this since Ron snapped him out of his grief.

Cicero said she was eager to speak to them, and Harry found that comforting.

There was a couch to one side of Healer Kearney’s room and a small coffee table to go with it.

The healer gestured to the couch and Harry sat at the edge of it while the healer took what looked like an abstract sculpture of raw crystals clumped together on a round wooden base. He placed the object in front of Harry on the table.

“Summoning crystals,” explained Healer Kearney. “Very handy for short-distance communication. Have your wand handy and say vocacio Hermione as you touch your wand to the crystal. The summoning crystal will alert her of the summons and she will reply. If you are summoned, just touch the crystal to activate the connection. To end the connection, say concludo.”

Harry nodded. “Easy enough.”

“Good. I’ll leave you alone. Mr. Weasley will be right outside awaiting his turn.”

It was short of telling him not to hog Hermione all to himself.

When the door closed, Harry took a deep breath and said the incantation. As soon as his wand touched the crystal, it glowed pink and blue. It flickered for a bit before it steadied and the crisp sound of something shifting emanated from it. To his utter astonishment, a three dimensional laser-like outline of Hermione’s face hovered slightly over the crystals. It wasn’t in any way realistic. The only colors there were blue and pink, and he could see right through the lines of the image, but it was she. He could see her blinking, and he could see the curls of her hair.

“Harry…”

Her voice, perfectly audible and true, struck him. He struggled against his emotions. He had thought he would never hear that voice again. Cautiously, he touched the image. His fingers fell right through and it hurt to be so close yet so distant.

“It’s me, Hermione,” he said rather hoarsely.

She smiled, tight-lipped. He couldn’t make out the expression in her eyes. The image could not give him that, but her brows knotted slightly. “Oh, Harry… I’m so sorry.”

It was almost too much for him to bear. “Hermione, no… don’t apologize. This isn’t your fault. This isn’t—“ If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, he thought bitterly. But he stopped himself from saying it. He didn’t come here for any of that. “I miss you. I want to be with you. But this is the best we can do for now, so we’ll make the most out of this—this odd crystal… thingy…”

She stared at him a moment before she sighed. “You’re right. I didn’t mean to—I suppose I’m a bit out of sorts.”

“We all are. How are you?” he asked in a gentle tone. “Did you like the present I sent you?”

This time, the smile on her reached her eyes, though it was still tight-lipped. “I did. It’s wonderful. The leather on it is so nice, and it must have cost you some. I know just what to use it for. It will make things easier, I think. And the other presents were such a comfort. Harry, you don’t know how much it means to me to know that you… you and the others are still there…”

“Of course we’re still here. And of course I’m still here. I love you. I won’t ever abandon you. Not for anything.”

“Harry… do you blame yourself for this? In the slightest?”

That caught him. He flinched.

She didn’t wait for his answer. “Don’t. Please don’t. If there’s anything that will help me through this, it’s knowing that you don’t feel responsible for what happened to me. I brought this upon myself, because I chose to fight for the right side. My family and I were attacked because mum and dad were muggles and I’m muggle born. I was turned because… because the vampire who wished it decided he would. Harry… I don’t think he was supposed to turn me. I think his orders were to kill me, but he decided to make me a vampire instead. And it wasn’t because of you, either.”

Harry felt a chill run through him at the rage her words invoked. Janus. “Why did he, then? Why did he—hurt you this way? What could you have done to him to—“

“Vampires don’t turn people they hate,” she said softly. “It wasn’t hate that compelled him… and no one can order him to do it, either. A vampire’s reasons are his own. Whatever… Janus saw in me, he liked it. That’s why I’m this way, Harry. That’s why I’m vampire.”

It felt surreal, hearing the name spoken from her lips, and he had a distinct feeling that Hermione was being deliberately forthright, as if she were laying out the awful truths, just so he was reminded of this obstacle between them.

“He’ll come after you again, won’t he?” he asked.

She sighed. “I don’t know, really. He said he would see me again and it didn’t sound like he was going to… do anything. It’s all just a game to him, Harry. He finds it all very amusing…”

He stared at her flickering image a moment. “How do you know that?”

She was quiet for several seconds. “I’m not sure. Maybe the blood exchange has a residual connection. Cicero said it happened sometimes. Nothing permanent or powerful. Just what it is: residual. Certainly nothing conscious on my part.”

Harry couldn’t temper the roiling fury inside him if he tried. He had been determined enough about getting back at Janus for what he’d done to Hermione without having to hear Hermione’s thoughts on the matter. Now her words were just giving him more reason to aspire for Janus’ destruction. As someone who had to fight the great evil of the Wizarding world in the last six years, he had learned duty, responsibility and perhaps even courage. Duty to his parents, responsibility for the people around him and courage for himself, so that he wouldn’t go mad with terror. But this, by far, was the first time he had felt such a strong urge for revenge. He hated Bellatrix Lestrange for causing Sirius’s death; hated Antonin Dolohov for hurting Hermione; hated Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy for sealing the end of Albus Dumbledore, but for all of them, he craved justice. For Janus, it was something else. The feelings he had for Janus were raw; overwhelming. He wanted to be the one to hold the sword that would sever Janus’ head. He wanted to chain Janus to a stake on a hill where the vampire would meet his demise when the sun rose above the horizon. Harry wanted to be the one to drive the cross right through Janus’ heart and have him pinned against hallowed ground. Harry had imagined half a dozen horrible deaths for Janus; none for the faint of heart. Between him and the vampire, he didn’t know who was more bloodthirsty.

“I won’t let him get to you,” he said with a calm that surprised even him. “I won’t let him touch you ever again. I—“

She made a sound, like a whimper, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was for. “Harry, no! I can’t let you—I want you to promise me that you won’t—you won’t hunt him down and try to kill him yourself.”

He turned away in exasperation. Was he that transparent?

“I’m serious, Harry. Vampires are dangerous. I’m dangerous. The reason I can’t be near you right now is because I might—I might hurt you in the worst possible way. I have to learn how to control my hunger before I see you or anybody else. And Harry, I love you so much it hurts not to be with you, but if I can’t hold my urges, can you even imagine how vicious an enemy vampire would be? He’ll rip through you until there’s nothing of you left.”

He actually felt compelled to listen to her, mainly because there was an odd undercurrent to her tone. There was something in her voice that he had never heard before, and for the life of him, he couldn’t place what it was. He would have to ask her, and that’s assuming she even noticed it in herself and could explain it. But not right now. Now, he was beginning to realize that this was not the kind of conversation he had wanted to have with her after having missed her for what felt like forever.

He wished he could reach out and take her in his arms. That’s all he wanted to do. Talking was fine. Talking was all they had right now, but when was talking ever enough when it was about missing someone and wanting to keep them safe?

“Do you promise, Harry?” Her eyes were wide, as if willing him to give her what she asked.

He sighed. He wasn’t going to make a promise he couldn’t keep, but as always, she put order in his mind where once there was nothing but chaotic emotion. “I know I can’t fight him now. And I won’t go off on some macho, suicide mission. I’m not Harry Bloody Potter. I’m Harry, the seventeen-year-old kid who crashes and burns in History and Potions class and couldn’t conceive of becoming Head Boy if McGonagall hits me with the badge between the eyes. I know I don’t shoot laser beams from my fingers nor can I pull lightning bolts out of my arse.”

She stared at him a moment before she finally dissolved into giggles.

The sound of it made him smile.

“Oh, but I miss you so much!” she said. “And I miss that normalcy. Since I woke up, everything has freaked me out. I couldn’t even bear to look at myself in the mirror.”

He supposed a bad joke about vampires and mirrors wouldn’t exactly be well received at the moment, so he just cocked a placid smile. He hoped she had completely missed the fact that he hadn’t promised anything at all, just that he agreed to back off… for now.

“And Harry… I’ve got… fangs.”

“Well… that happens, you see. When you’re a vampire, I mean.”

She laughed, and it was a real laugh. He could listen to it forever.

“I know it’s silly,” she said. “But I… I’ve been wondering if I could kiss you without nicking you with ‘em…”

A pleasant blush rose in his face, his mind wandering to that precious book under his bedside table. “I’m—er—sure we can work around that.”

“And it’s not just the kissing, either. It’s lots of other things I used to—I used to be able to do with… parts of me when it comes to… you know… pleasing you.”

Now his blood was rushing somewhere else and he felt horribly guilty for it.

She sighed. “I’m awful, I know. I’m sure sex is the last thing on your mind right now, but—“

“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s the last thing.”

“Oh, Harry, really?”

“Wha—good Lord! Did I say that out loud?”

“Oh, but it’s alright that you did! Now I don’t feel like such a slag! So you’ve given this some thought?”

His mind drifted. “Hoo, boy. You bet I have.” He paused. “I said that out loud again, didn’t I?”

“For heavens sake, Harry! Pay attention!” She was scolding, but she was grinning too. This time, he could make out a bit of fang.

“I am paying attention… I’m just—I just really, really miss you. As in right now.”

“Oh? And what are you going to do about it, Captain Standish?”

He groaned as she giggled. “Don’t do that. Don’t mock the wand.”

“Last thing I want to do with it right now is mock it, you understand. I’d give it the old swish and flick if I were right there…”

“Dear God, witch! Don’t encourage it, either. I’m not supposed to stay here all night, you know. Ron’s waiting outside and he wants to talk to you, too. If I go out there with a roaring Jack in my pants, Ron’s never going to let me hear the end of it.”

“Well… maybe I can help take care of that from here—“

“No, no and no. I’ll never be able to look at Healer Kearney in the eyes again if I disgrace his couch… or coffee table… depends on where I—ahem—aim, really.”

She was giggling like mad.

“I’m serious!” he cried, though he looked anything but.

This only served to make her giggle some more. She seemed to enjoy tormenting him, and he knew it wasn’t the vampire in her that made her do it. He’d seen the old Hermione turn on the vicious teases.

She calmed down a few minutes later. “Oh, Harry… I can’t wait to see you. And not just because of that, either.”

“I know.”

“Besides, I think we’ll need a while yet to… sort things out about our relationship before we even get around to dealing with… sex.”

“I think so, too.”

They talked a few more minutes. He asked her about Molly and Ginny’s letters, and explained what Remus’ gift meant. She was amazed and touched by Remus’ gesture.

When he got the notion to say goodbye, Harry felt the pain of separation again, though it wasn’t nearly as sharp as thinking he’d be separated from her forever. Within the course of their discussion, she had grown more real. He had reconnected with her somehow, and now his need to see her grew more intense. She had also grown more tangible; no longer a myth; no longer a dream. She was up and about and it hadn’t been a sick joke. There was no mistake. He would be with her again and she would be alive, though not in the normal sense of the word.

He reached out to touch her image again. There was one more thing he wanted to talk about and he didn’t think it should be put off. “Hermione, you put me down as one of your decision makers…”

Her gaze lowered. “Yes, I did. I’m sorry.”

Whatever he had expected her to say, it wasn’t an apology. “Sorry? Why?”

“Because—Because I really didn’t think about how that would be like for you. I mean, when I put my parents, that was a given, but then there was this third space there… it was just such a spur-of-the-moment thing. I didn’t have to fill that space but I did, and because I did, you were given the horrible task of deciding whether you wanted me to rise or not.”

He was amazed that she thought of it that way. “The decision was easy. I never gave it a second thought. I wasn’t going to let them kill you.”

She chuckled sadly. “Was it easy? What if I… what if I hadn’t wanted to rise like this?”

Harry frowned. What was she saying? “Hermione… surely you couldn’t expect me to—to let them—“

“Of course not. Of course not, Harry. I’m sorry. That was a stupid question. I would have decided the exact same thing for you. I never would have let them execute you.”

He wasn’t sure why, but he felt relief hearing her words. Was there ever any doubt that she’d want to rise again? He hadn’t had any doubts.

But you didn’t exactly consider how she’d feel about it, did you? You just went ahead and let her rise because that meant you’d have her back.

“I watched you die, Hermione,” he found himself saying. It was as if he had an overwhelming urge to explain. “I held you in my arms and you were just… all this blood—and I couldn’t stop you from dying.”

She was silent, but her image stared steadily back.

He went on, trying to still the wave of emotions threatening to overcome him. “And I had to bear the thought that I’d lost you forever. I couldn’t take it. I just—it was like falling into a hole and there was no bottom in sight. There was just nothing. So when Ron told me… when he told me you weren’t dead; that you would rise again, it never occurred to me that you wouldn’t want to. And I suppose I was just so desperate to have you back… but now that you’re here, and I’m talking to you, I can’t see myself ever regretting that decision. I just wanted you back, Hermione.”

Something trickled from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks. She was crying.

He sighed, helpless to comfort her. “God, Hermione, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

She wiped her tears with a swipe of her fingers. “It’s not—I just wish you didn’t have to go through all that. I saw you those last moments. I didn’t want to leave you behind. But I couldn’t help it… so y-yes… yes, I’m sure of it, I would’ve wanted to come back if I were given the choice. You did the right thing.”

“I can’t think of it any other way, Hermione,” he said softly. “I love you too much. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I love you, too, Harry.” Her hand came up, as if she wanted to touch him through the projection.

He reached up to meet her hand with his own, but of course, his hand passed right through. He smiled wanly at the futility of it.

She sniffed, laughing a bit. “I’m sorry I cried. I know you hate it when girls do that, but I can’t seem to control it. I’ve been a bit emotional since I first rose. Cicero said my mind’s still adjusting to the trauma.”

He didn’t need for her to explain. “Everything’s going to be fine, Hermione.” He wasn’t sure if that was true. If it wasn’t, he was willing to work on making it so.

She nodded. “With you, I know it will be.”

Hearing her express her belief in him always touched him. It wasn’t like with the rest of the world, where the weight of responsibility made it a burden, because coming from her, he knew that she wasn’t blinded by the hoopla of the Boy Who Lived or the Chosen One. She knew everything about him; knew exactly what drove him and what he was capable of. Coming from her, it was real, not fabricated by newspapers, myths or legends.

“I love you,” he said again.

“I love you, too, Harry. So much…”

They exchanged tiny smiles.

His gaze wandered momentarily to the clock and saw that he’d been talking to her for a long time. It was Ron’s turn. “Hermione, I have to go. Ron’s…”

She sniffed but nodded. “Go. We’ll have time to talk again.”

Even better than that, he thought to comfort himself. You’ll come home and I’ll see you again.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said softly, as if reading his mind.

“I’ll be waiting.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After Harry told Ron it was his turn, he sat waiting in Healer Kearney’s patients’ lounge for about twenty minutes. He couldn’t be impatient, considering he’d been in there for thirty.

When Ron emerged, he looked subdued. “She seems alright,” was all Ron said.

Harry didn’t know if Ron said that to be obtuse or because he didn’t want to have to tell Harry the things he talked about with Hermione.

Well, that’s just fine, thought Harry a bit sourly. If he doesn’t want to share then I won’t either. Besides, what could they have talked about that was so important? They only talked for twenty minutes.

There was really nothing left to do in the hospital, so they decided to go home. Harry left word with Healer Kearney that they would come back the following evening. He hoped they could talk to Hermione again.

The thing about Grimmauld Place was that it was a very intelligent house. It allowed apparitions for those who had permission to do so and it let people floo out of its fireplaces. However, flooing in was absolutely forbidden, which presented difficulty to those like Harry and Ron who weren’t licensed to apparate yet.

It was while getting off the Knight Bus that Harry and Ron discussed getting their licenses already because it was such a pain to travel by land. They had just agreed to let Tonks know their intentions and ask for her help when they came upon the house and saw a van parked right across the street from it. The van sat right in front of 14 Grimmauld and Harry saw that the side of the van read: Iswold & Company: Initiation and Other Vampire Needs.

He immediately crossed the street and knocked on the driver’s black-tinted window. The power window rolled down and Harry saw himself staring at a pleasant but maturing face. He was human. Harry had half-expected a vampire.

The driver wasn’t alone. There was someone else on the passenger seat and it seemed there were two more in the back.

“Pardon me, but did Jaime send you?” asked Harry.

The human seemed surprised, exchanging looks with his colleagues.

“And what do you know about it, kid?” asked the driver.

Harry frowned. “Well, I spoke to Jaime on the telephone this evening but I hadn’t expected a response to the questionnaire so soon.”

His companion nudged him, scowling. “Don’t be an idiot, Max. ‘At’s Harry Potter! Can’t you see the scar?”

This caused their two companions in the back to gasp.

Harry had to stifle a sigh. He would never get used to it.

Max laughed, opening his door. Harry had to step back to let him get out while the rest of the crew began to spill out on the street. Harry saw that they were in overalls and that Max had his name sewn on the breast pocket of his uniform.

“Dunno ‘bout scars, mate. I’m just a muggle. All I know is, if he’s Mr. Potter, then he’s the chap we’re looking for,” said Max. He shook Harry’s hand. “Sorry ‘bout that. Didn’t expect that you’d be so young, but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised anymore. Lots of odd things about this job, and the vampires ain’t the half of it.”

His crewmates pulled out wands, swishing one way and another as they brought out crates and equipment from the back of the van.

The one tagged Liam backed up beside Harry while locomotor-ing a large wooden box. “Max is new, Mr. Potter. He don’t know a thing about our world as of yet, even if ‘is sister’s been a witch all these last thirty five years.”

Max scowled. “Oy! I only just found out, y’ know!”

Harry honestly didn’t care. He was feeling a bit overwhelmed all over again and he didn’t even know how he was going to go about letting these men into Grimmauld Place, or whether he should, at all.

Ron nudged him. “Harry, maybe I should get Tonks out here…”

“Yes,” said Harry in relief. At least one of them was thinking. “Yes, please. I’ll wait out here with the crew.”

Ron nodded and left, disappearing into the magic protecting 12 Grimmauld.

The installation crew set their cargo down on the sidewalk, waiting for Harry to tell them where to go.

“Well?” asked Max.

Harry wasn’t sure what to say. He was emotionally exhausted and he really didn’t want to trouble himself with niceties. He opted for the truth. “Well, the thing is, see, I don’t know who the hell you people are.”

Max seemed a bit offended by this, but Liam and the rest of the crew nodded.

“Lots of bad guys after Mr. Potter, Max,” Liam explained. “He fights baddies and all… it’s only right that he be suspicious of strangers. Would’n’ave survived fighting You-Know-Who if he was all soft and trusting.”

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably at the awed stares he was getting from the two other crewmembers who were tagged as Sid and Boris.

“Oy,” said Sid in a solemn tone as he removed his hat respectfully. “I read ‘bout your friend in the papers, Mr. Potter. Really sorry ‘bout that. My deepest condolences. My heart goes out to you and your family.”

It sounded a bit practiced, though Harry knew Sid was sincere. He wasn’t supposed to be telling them that Hermione had survived, not that it was a heavily guarded secret, and he wondered if they hadn’t put two and two together yet, what with her “death” and him suddenly having Iswold & Company setting up coffins in his home. He had to assume they hadn’t quite figured it out, so he supposed he had to lie a bit, but it was horribly disconcerting.

“Erm, thanks,” he muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets. Boris and Liam gave him their condolences as well, hats off.

“The baddies got his girlfriend,” Liam explained to Max softly while making a not-so-subtle neck slashing motion with his finger.

Max seemed moved, removing his hat as well. He looked at Harry sympathetically. “Ah, what a tragedy! So sorry for your loss, Mr. Potter.”

“Yeah,” was all Harry said.

After a long while, Tonks and Ron finally emerged from the magical barrier. She asked for identification from every crewmember, waved her wand at each card before handing them back. She introduced herself and shook hands with them before she pulled Ron and Harry aside. She spoke to them with a lowered voice.

“They checked out fine,” she said. “You can let them in, Harry, but if I were you, I would only let them in with limited capacity so that they can’t come round here whenever they like.”

Harry’s brows knotted. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“Well, you own the house now, don’t you?”

“Yeah, so?”

“You can speak to the house, then! Tell it who you’re willing to admit in by apparation, or who you’re willing to let through the magical barriers… didn’t you know that?”

Ron turned to Harry, a surprised look in his face.

Harry was a touch irritated. How did they expect him to know these things without anyone telling him? “No! What do I know about owning wizarding real estate? I didn’t even own a decent pair of trousers until I was eleven!”

“Oh, dear. Well, then, I’m telling you now how it’s done. Now I have to wonder how the lot of us have managed to apparate into the house if you didn’t tell it we were allowed to…”

“Well, maybe the house knows I’d allow it,” muttered Harry, annoyed. “Heck, I don’t know. Can we just get this over with? I want to get hauling-a-coffin-into-my-house out of the way, if that’s alright with you.”

“Right,” Tonks and Ron said together.

Grumbling, Harry let everyone through the barriers. The crew seemed unaffected by the unplottability of the house. No doubt, they’d come across many.

For Harry’s part, he didn’t know what to say to 12 Grimmauld Place. He felt stupid talking to it. Was he supposed to face just any wall and start talking? Or was there some kind of central processing station? He wasn’t about to talk to the paintings. Many of them were unfriendly and he wasn’t even going to talk about Mrs. Black whom they managed to move (no doubt, dark magic had been employed) to the upper floors, in the most isolated corner of the house.

Amidst his irritability, he led the crew to the dungeons, past Remus’ cavern and deeper down.

The torches were lit and the crew set themselves to work. Harry, Ron and Tonks sat around Remus’ side of the dungeon to keep him company while the crew bustled about in the next cavern. Ron looked a bit jumpy; probably on account of the few spiders they spotted on their way down there.

Remus was even wolfier now than he was that afternoon. While he didn’t transform, his eyes had grown darker, and there seemed to be a permanent sneer on his lips where there wasn’t a muzzle and canines. His ears perked at the sound of strange voices and he sniffed the air thoughtfully.

“There are a pack of males up the hall,” he said. “Four of them. Did you clear them first, Tonks?”

Harry could almost see Tonks stifling a sigh.

“Yes, I did. I promise you, the pups are safe.”

It took another moment for Harry to realize that she was referring to him and Ron. He didn’t think he liked being called a pup. Ron didn’t look like he fancied it much, either.

Remus eyed her suspiciously, a soft growl rising in his throat. “They touched you.”

“Well, that happens when you shake hands with new acquaintances, see.”

“Wash it off. I can smell them on you.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Remus… sit.”

He stared at her a moment then sighed, blushing. “Sorry. I’m awful, aren’t I?”

Tonks smiled in understanding. “Only on a full moon. Have some steak, love. You’ll feel better.”

Remus was scary when he was territorial.

“I think I’ll go check on the installation crew,” said Harry. “I’ll only be a minute.”

They let him and he took out his wand to light the way.

It was in the darkness of the hallway that the searing pain of his scar hit him.

He didn’t even know if he cried out or whether he simply crashed soundlessly to the ground. All he knew was that the flash of heat sliced through his head, like it was splitting his skull with a red-hot blade.

He was assaulted by visions of a man, tall and slender, like he was built for grace. His short black hair bore red highlights and his eyes gleamed golden against his unearthly, pale skin. The man bared fangs and Voldemort’s rage surged through him like molten lava.

A scream rose out of Harry’s throat, just when Voldemort’s lumos solem seared through half of the vampire’s beautiful face with the torturous rays of an enchanted sun.

The vampire fell to his knees, collapsing backwards in his agony. His hands shot up to cover his face, pulling at the material of his blouse at the hem.

Harry saw a flash of inked skin, peeking from the waistband of the vampire’s black leather pants.

The vision faded, and it was in the darkness of nothing that he found blessed relief.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Let me just say that the handwriting I assigned both boys were deliberately chosen for their given personalities. It’s interesting to note that the handwriting ascribed (pun intended) to Harry in the books (OotP illustration for Chapter 13: Detention with Dolores, Scholastic) matches exactly with his personality as far as handwriting analysis goes. His letters are straight (tries to keep emotions in check); he presses down on his quill hard—ouchie! Not pleasant for detention with Dolores! (strong emotional energy; feels things strongly, but since he keeps them in check on the outside… yikes! He blows up!). He doesn’t write in perfectly straight lines (which means he has a certain emotional flexibility) and his writing is tall, concentrating in the upper zone (so he might be an intellectual thinker in spite of his more instinctual tendencies. He does, after all, have fairly impressive grades). His letters are slightly cramped together—you can tell because the loops of the L’s touch (this means he’s not exactly the most self-assured person in the world, but he doesn’t have a big inferiority complex, either) and his words aren’t spaced too closely apart (which means he has a tendency to isolate himself); also his M’s and most of his other letters are pointy at the top (quick mind and above average brains). I gave Ron a bit of an analysis, too. For Handwriting analysis, check here: http://www.viewzone.com/handwriting.html

I’m sure JKR, or at least her illustrator, took into account Harry’s character before deciding on the kind of handwriting he’d have. ^_^

9. Chapter Eighth: Calling

Author’s note: I did a tribute to Buffy the Vampire Slayer in this chapter. I took a few lines of dialogue from Buffy quotes and stuck them in this chapter. For those interested, see if you can spot them. Hehe.

This was supposed to be a long-ass chapter, but I cut this one and put the rest in the next chapter, simply because there would have been too much going on if I dumped it all here. Chapter 9 is coming along nicely so I’ll have it out for you soon.

Once again, special thanks to Lady Diamond! It’s the holidays, and one certainly can’t expect anybody to work on holidays, but she finished editing this in time for Thanksgiving, and that makes her the best.

Chapter Rating: R (I know. Haven’t had smut in a while, but fear not, there’s still more to—ahem—come.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Eighth: Calling

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry broke the surface of slumber and felt a cool hand touching his forehead with delicate pressure. The comfort surrounding him rippled gently to nudge his headache away, and the pleasant scent of all things her was a balm to his disorientation.

“Hermione?” he said, his voice gravelly. Slowly, he opened his eyes and naturally, everything was a horrible blur.

“Nope, sorry.” It sounded like Tonks. It probably was.

He remembered, in a rush, why Hermione wasn’t there, and it made him feel miserable. He tried to get up and felt his vision spin rather viciously. Perhaps seeing the glazed look in his eyes, Tonk’s blurry hand went to his shoulder, coaxing him back down.

“’Fraid not, Harry. Give yourself a few more minutes.”

She didn’t exactly have to twist his arm. His vertigo left him with little choice but to lie back down and let it pass.

He felt something being slipped into his hand. It was his glasses, and when he put them on, he saw that Ron was in the room, too.

They were in Hermione’s room, which was a bit strange. One would think they’d bring him to his own room. Then again, he was thankful for the softness of the bed.

The question must have reflected on his face because Tonks said, “Ron hauled you in here and I suppose any room is as good as any.”

Harry could only surmise Ron had done it out of some subconscious awareness of Harry’s need to be near Hermione, or something like that. At the moment, he was in no position to be pondering Freud.

“What happened?” he croaked.

“That’s what we want to know. We heard you screaming,” Ron said in his oft-heard awed tone. “And when we got to you, you were holding your scar and it was glowing. You looked like you were in pain, Harry. Were you?”

Harry shot him a sardonic grimace. “No, Ron, I wasn’t in pain. I was just screaming for dramatic effect.”

Honestly, the stupid questions… no wonder Hermione loses patience with all of us sometimes.

Ron arched an eyebrow with deliberate slowness before turning to Tonks. “He’s going to be fine.”

Tonks shot Ron a wry look. She leaned over Harry and pulled down the skin beneath his eye.

Harry wrenched his face away instinctively. He wasn’t about to risk having her poke his eye out. “Tonks!“

“You’re still very pale,” she said. “Sarcasm does not count as recovery.”

The prospect of Tonks attempting any kind of treatment was something he might consider an occupational hazard, but he wasn’t about to tell her that. “Yes, but—umm—what happened to the installation crew?”

“Well, they freaked out, of course,” said Ron. “I swear, short of throwing virgin sacrifices at your scar, you’d think they’ve never seen worse working for vampires.”

Trust Ron to put my scar and virgin sacrifices in one sentence, he thought with a slight smirk. “Are they still working down there?”

Ron nodded.

“Well, it was my first time to see your scar do that,” said Tonks, looking rather freaked out, herself.

“Welcome to my world,” Harry muttered.

“So did you—“ Ron began uncertainly. “Did you feel… You-Know-Who?”

It took all of Harry’s will power not to roll his eyes. “Oh yes. There was plenty of You-Know-Poo.”

Ron and Tonks didn’t exactly appreciate the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes joke.

This served to irritate him. “Voldemort was furious about something.”

Ron winced at the name and Tonks looked like she was going to be sick.

Harry wished Hermione were there to say, “Oh, honestly! Saying his name won’t have the sky raining fire on us!”

“Furious about what?” asked Ron, breaking through his thoughts.

“I don’t know, exactly, but there was a vampire there, and Voldemort punished him with a spell. Lumos solem.”

Tonks nodded grimly. “That’ll work if your magic’s powerful enough, but a patronus works best for vampire-type creatures. You-Know-Who probably can’t conjure one. Being dark and evil probably puts a damper on the positive-thoughts thing.”

“Naturally.” Harry never really thought of it that way until now, but he supposed the bad guys didn’t have much to worry about on the matter of Dementors, anyway, not when they were working under the same boss.

“So these visions of yours,” said Tonks. “They’re… true?”

“They tend to be that, yeah.”

“What do you remember of it, then? Where you somewhere? A dungeon? A tower? Was there anybody else in the room?”

Harry shook his head. “I didn’t see anything like that. There was just Voldemort and the vampire. I can’t even see Voldemort because I was looking through his eyes. I saw his hand, and his wand, but other than that, it was just the vampire.”

“Can you describe this vampire, then?”

Harry tried to focus on remembering. “He’s tall. Really skinny. Like a rockstar.” It was the only way he could explain it. There had been something terribly androgynous about the vampire, trendy clothes and all. He was, however, certain that the vampire was male.

He wasn’t sure if Tonks would understand the rockstar reference, but she was half-muggle and she had that look about her that screamed rocker.

Tonks’s eyes widened. “Rockstar? Like one of those drugged up, alcohol guzzling, muggle men in oh-so-tight tight leather pants who call themselves Iggy and have groupies?”

Apparently, she knew more than he gave her credit for. “Er—“

She reddened at the cheeks. “Sorry. David Bowie and Mick Jagger flashback there for a second… go on, then. What else do you remember of this vampire?”

Harry exchanged brief looks of uncertainty with Ron. Ron just shrugged.

“His hair’s black,” continued Harry. “Probably even blacker at a glance, but I think he’s got… whatchamacallit? Like brushes of red in his hair? You know—when light hits it, you see it—“

“Highlights.”

“Yeah, that’s it. And his eyes are weird. Like gold.”

“Interesting. Distinguishing marks?”

Harry didn’t hesitate. “He had tattoos going down his—er—stomach…”

“Like on his tummy?”

“Mmmaybe a little lower than that.”

“Oh.” She paused to give it a brief thought before her eyes widened, twinkling. “Oh! Well, that’s a rather fanciable vampire, isn’t it? Ha! Me and my creatures of the night.”

That was very disturbing; then again, Harry had his own creature of the night to fancy, now.

Tonks stood, pointing to some vials on the nightstand. “You can have some Pepper-up Potion if you want, but I recommend you pass up the potion and sleep off the after-effects of your… ordeal. I’m going downstairs to tell Remus about this vision of yours and check on the installation crew, so you don’t have to worry about anything for the meantime. Alright?”

“Thanks, Tonks.”

“No problem.”

She left.

Harry pushed himself up gingerly, pulling a pillow up to cushion his back. The vertigo was gone, but his head still throbbed and his limbs felt weak.

Ron plopped at the foot of the bed, sighing. “Somehow, I have this feeling that I should’ve expected something like this to happen.”

Harry cocked him a weary smile as he made himself more comfortable. “Oh, you know me. I’m just full of dark surprises.”

“No, I mean I really should’ve expected it. Hermione did. She mentioned something like it.”

Harry stared at him. “Hermione knew I was going to have a vision?”

“What? No. Don’t be silly. Hermione stormed out of divinations and she hates prophecies like the plague; ‘specially yours.”

“She does?”

“She never told you?”

“N-No…”

Ron waved dismissively. “Probably didn’t want to worry you, then. Anyway, when she and I were talking at St. Mungo’s, she told me to watch over you because she can’t right now. She said that if your scar acts up, I ought to convince you to tell her about it. I swear that girl always needs something to sink her teeth into—ugh! Bad choice of words…”

There were too many things to think about in Ron’s statement. Too many questions popping up out of nowhere. So Hermione had issues about his prophecy. Well, so did he, but he thought the drama of its revelation was over and done with. She certainly never brought it up again, but the fact that she’d said something about it to Ron and nothing to him… maybe it wasn’t such a closed issue after all. And then there’s her telling Ron to watch over him, as if he needed watching over, and then the scar…

He wondered contritely if he and Hermione had spent too much time being intimate and not enough time talking.

Well, of course we talked. We talked about everything and nothing and all of the things in between. We’d talk in the library, and in the bedroom, and on the dinner table, and wherever we happened to be. We’d talked about silly things and smart things and stupid things and serious things. Heck, we’d even talked about Voldemort and horcruxes after we brought it up with Arthur that first night Ron joined us here in Grimmauld Place.

But she never brought up the prophecy, did she?

Harry frowned. Well, neither did I.

She did, actually. Once, when she told Ron that futures weren’t meant to be foretold. But then, it had been a fleeting reference. She gave no hint about having more significant issues about it…

But of course she would have issues about it! he scolded himself. She always worries about me and it’s only natural that a prophecy that says “kill or be killed” with me and Voldemort in it would drive her up the wall…

He grit his teeth, fists clenching. Harry, you stupid idiot…

“Er… Harry?”

Harry scowled. “Look, I don’t need watching over and… and… what the hell’s she doing telling you all that and telling me nothing? I tell her everything. She tells me everything! When did this cloak and dagger shite start? What have you two been talking about behind my back? Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, Ron?”

Ron’s eyes widened in shock. “Merlin, Godric and Morgana! What shit-storm is this?”

That’s all it took for Harry to realize what he was saying, and he became thoroughly ashamed of himself. He reddened and he cast Ron an apologetic look before burying his face in his hands. “Oh, hell… I’m sorry, Ron. I didn’t mean that…”

“Well, of course you didn’t!” said Ron irritably. “Look, mate, it’s midnight and you’ve had four hours of sleep in the last thirty six—“

“Forty.”

“Forty hours. Get some rest.”

“Mr. Full Night’s Sleep over here,” Harry muttered.

“Well, I don’t have a scar splitting my head in two, do I?”

“Yeah. Lucky you.” Harry had meant to sound flippant, but he supposed the whole connection-to-Voldemort thing was no laughing matter.

Ron sighed, cocking him an apologetic smile. “Get some sleep. We’ll try to talk to Hermione again tomorrow, alright?”

Harry nodded and Ron left.

He sank lower down the bed. He wished he had one of those communicator units so he could just give Hermione a ring whenever. They had been inseparable since they moved into Grimmauld Place, and when they weren’t together, they were always somewhere they could find each other. This total isolation from her was driving him mad.

Day after next, she’ll be coming home. That’s not long, so get a grip.

He wasn’t sure why he was being so needy, anyway. He knew where she was. He knew he would see her soon. But it had felt like forever.

Maybe you’re afraid, said her voice of reason.

Afraid? he replied. I don’t get what you mean. I’m certainly not afraid of her because all I want is for her to come home so I can be with her again. That isn’t the desire of a frightened man.

Oh, not of her, you blithering idiot.

Then what? How else can fear apply in this situation?

Things are delicate between you and her now, you know. Whether you want to admit it or not.

Well, I admit that the vampire-matter is more than a bump in the road… more like a mountain, actually. I’m aware of the obstacles.

Are you? From the moment she woke up, she started on the path of the vampire. You’re afraid, Harry, that every second you’re away from her, the more vampire she’d become, and that one day soon, you might not be able to follow. You’re afraid that she’ll forget how to be human, and she’ll forget about you.

Harry’s jaw clenched. She won’t ever forget about me. Maybe she’ll realize some day that I’m not good enough for her, and maybe she’ll look at me one morning and realize she isn’t in love with me, but she won’t ever abandon our friendship. She won’t ever walk away and refuse to look back. Our friendship’s too important to her.

Pretty, greeting card thoughts. Does Schrivenshaft’s carry greets for vampires? Happy Turn Day? Merry Blood Mitzvah? Thanks for the friendship and not biting me on the neck?

“Shut it,” he whispered, closing his eyes. Shut it.

Her voice of reason was silent.

He sighed in relief.

Soon. She’ll be home, soon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

… three hours since I last fed. The last wizard, one named Jiro, was a lot like Ethan. Flirty, a bit of a jokester, but gentler, like Allan. He said he was twenty-five, but he looked like he was eighteen. He said he was half-Japanese, and that his Asian lineage took years off his appearance. His features were dark, except for his elegant doe-eyes, which were a clear, ocean blue. He was of average height, rather skinny, but he didn’t seem bony at all. Rather like Harry, in general.

I wonder if Cicero does it on purpose; bringing in these slender, dark-featured blokes. No platinum blondes and redheads for me, it seems. It makes perfect sense, I suppose. Allan and Ethan and Jiro share Harry’s general traits. No glasses, though. I suppose that wouldn’t be subtle, and Cicero abhors vulgarity.

Cicero says I can feed again at around five in the morning. I suppose I can endure until then, but this hunger… it’s beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. I can feel it in my bones; in my head; in my hands. Like my own body is sucking me dry. How can Cicero go days at a time without feeding?

Practice, he said.

I do want to get to that point; where hunger doesn’t rule me. I want to be able to live this life without having to deal with this constant craving. Cicero said he could only show me how, and that I’d have to do the rest of it on my own, which is why he’s only going to keep me here until the day after next. After he shows me how, I go home and I try to do. He said he would still act as my guide in the next two weeks of the transition. He warns me that it would be difficult, but that so long as I keep a positive attitude, I will be able to overcome my obstacles.

He sounds like he could be on an alternative-universe Norman Rockwell painting. The Smiling Corpse. Positive even in death.

Beyond two weeks, I’d have to personally retain him. Like a therapist. It’s the funniest thing. A vampire who has a therapist. It’s the stuff of sitcoms. Who knew that the undead needed head shrinking, too? And then there’s the matter of payment. Where am I going to get the money to pay for his services? Where am I going to get the money to pay my way through life, period? I’m not even sure I’d get what my parents left me. Legally, I’m dead, so I suppose my inheritance would go to the next of kin.

God, my parents are dead. Horribly dead. I can still see their murdered bodies falling on me. I can’t bear to think of them. Not now. Not yet. Disturbingly, I don’t seem to find that difficult to do. It’s like I can just set them aside, as primly as you please. A folded jumper I can neatly stash in one of my many pristinely kept drawers. I’m scared that the vampire in me has stopped me from feeling grief for them. I can’t seem to summon tears for them now, yet I cry about the stupidest, littlest things.

Cicero said I’m still in shock about them. That’s his all-purpose explanation. When I mention something about being off-kilter, that’s what he says. And I couldn’t understand a bit of it if I tried. All these concepts are abstract to me. Shock. Transition. Separation of self. What the heck does all that psychobabble mean? I’m supposed to be the brightest witch of my age. Now all I feel is that I’m the deadest witch of my age, and I just happen to be alive and thirsting for blood. Girl Who’s Undead.

The Boy Who Lived and the Girl Who’s Undead. Match made in hell.

Hilarious. In a depressing sort of way.

Hermione sighed and threw down her quill as she sat hunched over her journal. She buried her face in her hands and growled.

Cicero, who sat at the other end of the chamber as he scribbled over some papers on a desk, looked up at her. “Alright, Hermione?”

“Fine,” she replied automatically, picking up her quill. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Granger!

She continued to write:

Getting back to the matter of employment, it’s no easy thing to be a vampire and think of career options. I suppose I can take a night shift of something, but I can’t possibly do something as mundane as floo help-desks or—I don’t know—security detail. It sounds so stupid. Besides, what am I going to do with the health and dental plan? What am I going to do with a stupid retirement plan, for that matter? It’s just—everything for the living is so ill suited to me now. I can’t even go shopping! The only times Harrods and Diagon Alley is open until midnight is during special occasions, and surely they can’t expect me to wait for holidays to shop.

And that’s another thing. As of this moment, every pastel thing I own seems to REPULSE me. I used to love my pinks and purples and whites. Now it’s just—BLECH! I keep telling myself that I’m not going to become one of those dark, Goth, leather-strapping vampires with a cheesy Euro-trash accent, but it’s like I’m doomed to the stereotype whether I like it or not!

EVERYTHING about me is changing and I don’t know if I can stand it.

I don’t know if Harry can stand it.

He’ll leave me.

I just know he will.

Her eyes stung and her throat constricted. With trembling hands, she continued to write.

He’ll leave me.

I just know he will.

He promised that we’d get through this. I have to believe in him. I always have, anyway. Only this time, I have to be strong, too. I have to believe in myself.

My thoughts are so disjointed. I just keep wandering from what’s important.

Job.

Alright.

I asked Cicero about this.

He said I mustn’t worry. He said that already, some people have contacted his office about me and possible employment. Many offers, he says. Because even in the vampire world, many know about Hermione Granger. Just like many know about Harry Potter. Even Ronald Weasley. Until I was turned, the three of us were sort of… part of those rare human untouchables. Like Dumbledore, and Voldemort, and Viktor Krum, and Cornelius Fudge. It’s a vampire thing. No vampire should be so arrogant as to take it upon himself to turn any of this distinguished lot. Almost like it’s taboo. But then I suppose Janus isn’t one to go with the grain. And that now I’m vampire, everyone wants a piece of me.

Not exactly reassuring, these job offers. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I’d have to give up my aspirations as a witch in the Wizarding World. I feel as if everything I learned in Hogwarts was ripped from my brain just before I was dropkicked into the real world without a stitch of clothing on.

How come nobody has given me a booklist? I think Harry got one. Cicero mentioned it. Where’s my booklist? I’m the one who has to adjust to being undead. Why do I have to learn everything the hard way?

Hermione tossed her quill aside miserably, clapping the pages of her journal shut.

If she let herself fall into that abyss of self-pity, she might not get out of it.

She lay back down on her bed, her shackles shifting against each other as she lay on her side. She reached for another chocolate in the open box. More than half of the chocolates were gone, but she wasn’t about to binge on them again. She had felt the intoxicating effects of consuming too much of it at once, and while it hadn’t been unpleasant, it had been a bit embarrassing. She had literally gotten drunk on them and she must have said some pretty ridiculous things because Cicero seemed vastly amused.

The hunger nagged her, and taking Cicero’s earlier advice of keeping herself occupied, she picked up the book Ron got her and began to read.

She had read through several interesting pages when there was a knock on the dungeon door.

She looked up from her book, watching as Cicero rose from his desk to answer the summons. She couldn’t see who it was but she smelled the life-blood.

Hermione closed her eyes and focused on pushing the urge back. Cicero had taught her simple meditation techniques. They were surprisingly effective.

Moments later, the dungeon door banged shut and Cicero was beside her, smiling gently as he held up an envelope.

She sat up and he handed the envelope to her.

The paper was thick and of good quality; its color a pleasing, vintage beige, like the paper had been aged on purpose. There was an aquamarine-blue seal on it, like no wax Hermione had seen before. The image on the seal was of a naked woman on her knees. She had wings, and they were outstretched behind her while she held up a sphere twice as big as her head.

Hermione tried to place the image. “The winged goddess, Isis. Holding the eye of Horus.”

Cicero nodded. “Very good. It’s an appropriate seal for the organization that sent you that.”

“Which organization?”

“Break the seal and find out.”

Hermione did. The letter was hand-written. The penmanship was exquisite and the lines were perfectly straight. Obviously a woman’s hand, but a very strong woman, if the embedded slashes and dots were any indication. The same symbol on the seal graced the left-hand top of the page, followed by an odd, streamlined cuneiform-type of language.

She pointed to it. “Is this what I think it is?”

Cicero smirked, peering into her eyes.

She felt a brush of his presence in her mind. Nothing more.

He nodded. “It is, indeed, what you think it is. It’s the vampire language.”

“Great,” she muttered. “As if things weren’t complicated enough.”

“You’ll have to learn it, of course, but it’s only used in very formal vampire-discourse, usually when there’s a ritual involved. And yes, it’s used for clan names and organizations. It’s convenient for affiliation purposes. But English and whatever mortal language is perfectly functional. It will serve. Go on, then. Read the rest of the letter.”

Hermione eyed him a bit suspiciously. She had a feeling Cicero already knew what the letter contained.

Dear Ms. Granger,

It has come to our attention that you have recently been turned. As it so happens, your name came up in our oracle as being particularly suited to our organization’s goals. Given this pre-disposition, it is incumbent upon my office to set an appointment with you so that I can orient you on your career options with respect to our organization.

Rest assured I will not sell you anything. Nor will we threaten you with death should you refuse. One of the most important aspects of the Coven of Isis is a member’s willingness to serve. We are nothing if not principled.

Let it be said that we hadn’t had a unilateral recommendation from our oracle in the last five hundred years. Though I do admit, on hindsight, that’s not much in vampire years, but the case being that you’re newly turned, five hundred years would seem like a rather impressive number for you.

I would appreciate a response at your soonest convenience.

Sincerely,

Yasmin ibna Omar al-Khwarizm

Coven Master and Blood Keeper

Hermione looked up. “Five hundred years? Is that supposed to make me feel special?”

Cicero laughed softly. “Well… maybe, or maybe not. The Coven of Isis makes recruitments on a more regular basis than that, of course, but they aren’t oracle recommended. Oracle endorsed, yes. Usually the coven picks a candidate, runs it by the oracle and the oracle approves it. But as it says in your letter, you’re the first unilateral recommendation in five hundred years. In other words, it spat out your name without being asked.”

“Well, I think that rather makes me feel special.”

He shrugged. “Understandable. But it has also been proven, through history, that the Oracle is as much an instrument of fate as everything and everybody else. Sometimes the Oracle summons someone for his or her own merits, but there have been times that someone is summoned as a means to someone or something else far more important.”

“Wonderful. I’m a pawn.”

He smirked. “Aren’t we all?”

She shot him a wry grin. “Well, whatever this oracle is, I’ll have you know that I don’t believe in anything remotely connected to divination, or fate, for that matter. It’s inexact science, if it can be called a science at all. I find the subject ridiculous and hocus-pocusy, so you’ll excuse me if I have no compunction to trust this bloody oracle of theirs.”

“Bloody oracle is a rather appropriate way of putting it, actually. It’s a magical object made purely of living blood. What binds it and keeps it alive, no one can explain, but it has been a very handy tool. They say it’s the blood of Isis herself, and so long as Isis’s blood-line survives to keep it, it shall serve the coven.”

“Isis’s line…”

“Blood line. Yasmin carries that line within her. The records of her ancestors and their living descendants are a closely guarded secret. It is the coven’s most prized treasure. Through the millennia, there have been many unwarranted attempts to read its contents. All have failed. Only a true heir can decipher its words, and while Yasmin walks this earth, she is the only true heir there is.”

“So what happens when she dies?”

“The next true heir will arise. She’d have to be turned, of course.”

“She?”

“It’s always a woman. That hasn’t changed in the last five thousand years.”

“Fascinating. So what do these coven vampires do?”

“It’d be best to hear it from Yasmin.”

“Are you a member of the coven?”

“No. I’m a consultant of sorts, but not a member. I’d rather not limit my practice. Not that the Coven is very limiting… In spite of the fact that the powerbase of the coven rests on women, there’s an impressively vast male following.”

“Huh. Makes sense. Goddess worshippers and such.”

He nodded. “Many similar organizations with male powerbases defer to them. The Brotherhood of Osiris, for one. Then there’s also the Blood-Kin of Ramses. The Coven is one of the most powerful vampire organizations there is. You should seriously consider meeting with Yasmin.”

“I sense a theme of sorts.”

Cicero smirked. “Do you?”

“Isis, Horus, Osiris, Ramses… Oracle? What’s with all the Egyptian references?”

“A bit of vampire lore unknown to many. Many believe that vampires originated in Egypt, rather than—as modern muggle tomes say—the Carpathians. Perhaps in Europe, that would be accurate, but the Blood of All has been traced to Thebes. Europe, after all, didn’t do blood sacrifices until the late 13^th century, and such sacrifices weren’t vampire-oriented, either. Usually, the dragons swooped in and just swallowed the virgins whole, you know?”

Hermione shuddered.

“Besides, it’s no easy thing for a vampire, crossing continents by boat. You’ve never known hell until you’ve traveled by boat as vampire. Believe you me.”

Hermione didn’t want to have to experience that. She put the note away. “I think I’ll meet with Ms. Omar. Seems like the polite thing to do considering their Oracle took five hundred years to speak its mind. Besides… you had her letter delivered here. It must be special to get your endorsement.”

He chuckled. “That, it is, Hermione. Special doesn’t even begin to describe the Coven of Isis.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione wrote an owl confirming her desire to meet with Yasmin ibna Omar al-Khwarizm. Cicero explained to Hermione that she would not get a reply back, just that Yasmin would one day appear at her doorstep.

“But… what if I’m at Grimmauld Place by then? She won’t be able to find the house. It’s unplottable,” said Hermione.

Cicero looked thoughtful. “Now, there’s the twist, eh? Maybe you’ll have to send her an invitation. As you know… if the ‘man’ of the house expressly invites a vampire into his home, all enchantments and advantages you have over the vampire fall away at the threshold. She’d be able to find your house.”

She was a bit troubled by that, remembering how one vampire managed to get through every ward of her house. She didn’t feel like asking Harry to give that kind of permission to a vampire she knew very little about. “I… I’m not sure I’d want to—that is—“

He smiled in understanding. “You don’t have to, of course. Yasmin will manage. You need not worry yourself. But… on my honor, you can trust her. She will not harm you and yours.”

She smiled gratefully.

For what remained of that night, Cicero ran her through the old routine of feeding, discussing and then sleeping. The following evening, it was the same, only this time, he told her she would only have one meal. It wasn’t as hard as she thought. Her fill of blood from the previous day seemed to have lessened her hunger considerably, and she was able to hold on until midnight. An hour after her first and last feeding of the day, Cicero told her that he had allowed for Harry and Ron to speak to her again through the communicator. She was ecstatic.

Like before, Harry spoke to her first. His light-projected face brought a smile to her lips. Her feelings for him swelled like a deep tide and she told herself that every hour that went by was one hour closer to being with him again.

He was as thoughtful of her as ever, and this time, he brought books. They were the books he had been assigned to read, and he eagerly showed them to her. He told her about Vampires For Dummies and Underworld: Vampire Society.

“I loaned Ron Bloody Mary’s Not a Drink, She’s In the Basement because he was desperate for something to read,” he explained.

She was surprised by this. “Desperate to read? That’s… unprecedented.”

Harry laughed. “Oy, give the bloke some credit. He managed six years of Hogwarts. He could at least read and pass in homework and—dare I say it—study.”

“I was beginning to suspect that was a myth.”

He laughed again. It was wonderful to hear him laugh. She liked that she could invoke it in him. It was at that moment she realized that she was never really one to make people laugh. She was always so serious and—well, rather uptight. Every once in a while she said something that would have her boys doubling over in laughter, but those moments were almost always unguarded ones. She never tried to be funny, but she supposed that when she was, she always only realized she was funny after.

She wondered if she had any talents at all with respect to this. She can’t ever be goofy-funny like Ron. She was always more along the lines of… scathingly funny. She used to think it was terribly mean of her to be like that, and it was probably why she didn’t always pull out the big guns. But now it seemed… easy. Maybe it had to do with her vampire ferocity. Cicero said that was a vampire trait, and that vampires manifested it in various ways.

“You know, Ron and I have been very studious since you woke up. Following in your footsteps, you might say. Wake up, eat, read, discuss what we read, sleep, wake up, eat…”

“It’s as if you know me…” she said, affecting awe.

He smiled. “I’m nothing if I didn’t know you.”

And of course her stomach did a flip at that. “God, Harry, sometimes I just want to—I don’t know—reward you, or something. Like knit you a hat or… or smother you in whip cream and lick you all over.”

He blinked, looking mildly shocked. “Knit me a hat?”

She stared at him briefly before replying. “Er… you don’t fancy a hat? A jumper, mayhaps?”

“Methinks you’ve got me confused with a house elf. I’ll have you know that giving me clothes won’t get rid of me.”

She giggled. “And I’m supposed to insert innuendo about taking off your clothes right about here.”

“And don’t forget, you promised whipped cream, too.”

That gave her pause.

He grinned. “You didn’t seriously believe I’d let that pass without comment, did you?”

There was nothing to do but laugh.

Harry was particularly playful that night. He was his usual unpretentious self. Charming because of it. And he was so eager to please her. He told her he loved her every so often and she couldn’t help but lavish affection in return.

All this of course meant he was hiding something. She attempted to worm it out of him but he shut it down with a well-placed witty retort. She did not try again.

When they said their goodbyes, she felt that familiar ache of seeing him go. Broke her heart every time.

Then it was Ron’s turn, and Ron went into his usual routine of being comically stupid, until—of course—he told her just what Harry’s been hiding.

“I hope he told you his scar hurt him again last night,” said Ron. “He said he would.”

I knew it! she thought bitterly. I knew he was hiding something! Gritting her teeth, she felt heat coalescing in her eyes.

Perhaps realizing what her silence meant, he sighed. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake. Are you two in a relationship or what? And I don’t particularly appreciate being caught in the middle of all this. Last night, Harry ripped into me because you were keeping things from him, too!”

She bristled. “What happened?”

“Well, you apparently haven’t talked to him about your issues regarding the prophe—“

“Sod the prophecy! Tell me about his scar!”

“You see, this is the thanks I get for being Harry Potter’s and Hermione Granger’s best friend. The abuse I get from the both of you!”

The effect was instantaneous. She felt horribly ungrateful. “Oh, hex me… I’m sorry, Ron. Truly. You’ve been wonderful about all this and Harry and I truly appreciate you. It’s just a little crazy right now…”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. It’s alright.”

She smiled wanly, warmed by Ron’s loyalty and friendship. She itched to bring up Harry’s scar again, but she didn’t want to seem too insensitive. She fidgeted, wondering how best to bring it up.

“It caught him in the dungeons,” said Ron without prompting. “We just heard him screaming and next thing we knew, he’d passed out. Just for fifteen minutes this time.”

She sighed in relief. “Did he tell you what he saw?”

Ron narrated it.

Hermione’s stomach dropped. From Ron’s description of the vampire, she was almost sure of what transpired. “That’s Janus, the vampire who turned me. And I think I know why Voldemort’s angry with him. I have reason to believe that he was supposed to kill me that night, but for some reason, he decided to turn me. And Voldemort is not pleased. I couldn’t be sure why that would piss Voldemort off. After all, it could be argued that my becoming a vampire is a fate worse than death…”

“Hermione…”

She realized how her words affected him and knew her mistake. “Oh, Ron. Oh, dear, don’t… I didn’t mean that to be my feelings. I’m grateful to be alive. Just that—you know this won’t be easy, right? This thing I’ve become? But I’ll take what I’m given and I’ll bear no regrets. Please… please don’t tell Harry I said what I said. Alright?”

He gave another sigh, or frustration this time. “Alright… but—“

“We’ll concentrate on what Voldemort finds so unappealing about this situation,” she said briskly. “We don’t know if they’re certain I’m alive. After all, you could’ve executed me before I could rise, but frankly, I doubt they’d believe I was dead. For one thing, I think Janus might have some residual psychic connection with me, so at least he’s sure I was allowed to rise. And even if he keeps this information from Voldemort, I think Voldemort is more inclined to believe that the Order wouldn’t kill me. He knows that the lot of us aren’t as cold-blooded as he is. If we find out what got Voldemort so teed off, perhaps we can take advantage of that. Cut whatever plans he has right at the knees.”

Ron nodded but sighed. “Hermione, you know that you scare me, don’t you? Sometimes the way you think—it’s almost diabolical.”

She frowned. “Well, I don’t mean to be that way.”

“I know. That’s what frightens me. You’re not even trying. I swear, if Harry had been sorted to Slytherin, I reckon you’d be right there with him.”

“There are just so many levels upon which I can find umbrage with what you just said. Besides, I got sorted before Harry did, so you can’t say I followed him into Gryffindor.”

Ron shook his head. “It doesn’t matter if you were sorted first or if he was sorted first. We already know where we would be sorted to before the hat is put on us. Weren’t you listening to Harry? The hat gave him a choice. If Harry had been more inclined to go to Slytherin instead of Gryffindor, you would’ve known that already. You and Harry knew things about one another the moment you introduced yourselves to each other on the train. So by the time you got around to the hat…”

“I’d have known which house I wanted to be in,” she finished for him, awed by the depth of Ron’s insight. “Weasley… I’m—well—I’m just… alright, who are you and what have you done to my best friend?”

Ron shot her a sardonic grin. “Har-de-har-har! I’m not as thick as you think I am, you know.”

“And the world ends at what time?”

“Sometimes I wonder what Harry sees in you.”

“I’ve often wondered the same thing about you, Ron.”

There was a silence and when next they looked at each other, they laughed.

“Sometimes,” Ron continued. “I wonder why we pull for that four-eyed sod.”

Hermione smiled. “Because he’s worth the fight. Because he’s everything good and true and—“

“I’ve heard this from you before: ad nauseum,” he groaned, but he was smiling. “But yeah, I can’t help but agree with you. I don’t believe he has nine lives, but Someone greater than all of this is rooting for him, that’s for sure. The bloke’s… I don’t know. Just no one else like him, is there? You hate him and want to punch his face in sometimes, but you just know that if you follow him, to the ends of the earth maybe, you’re doing the right thing. You know that you’re following a real, honest to goodness hero who will fight the good fight and possibly sacrifice his life for everyone without a second thought.”

She felt a tightening in her throat. “Yes.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Blimey… when I say it like that, it suddenly makes all the sense in the world why you’re shagging him and not me!”

And that did it.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry pried his eyes open and felt his lids scraping against them. Drowsily, he reached for his wristwatch and tried to decipher the time without his glasses on. It was a bit of a struggle but he managed to see the blurry hands pointing at ten in the morning.

Five hours of sleep. Not bad, Potter.

Groggily, he pushed out of bed and stared out of the window of Hermione’s room. He slid on his glasses on and ran his fingers through his hair. His dazed thoughts began to solidify and he smiled. Tonight, Hermione was coming home.

He looked at the pictures on her bedside table. There was one muggle photograph of him and her, taken from one of those spiffy new “digital” cameras her parents gave her for her sixteenth birthday. He remembered her vaguely telling him that she spelled the camera to work in Hogwarts, and she had Dean Thomas take the picture for them. He and Hermione were a bit at odds, then. What with her disapproval of the Half-Blood Prince’s book, but he supposed she was too excited about the camera to make that an issue at the time. It had been a relief to him, anyway, that Hermione wasn’t upset about something. Last school year, it seemed that was all she was: upset. Upset about potions, about Hagrid, about Ron, about him… so when she came to him, grinning about her new camera and wanting to get a picture of them—well, it was so nice to see her happy. He let all his worries fall away and hadn’t even thought about saying no. She sat right beside him on the common room couch and they didn’t even think about how to pose. They simply threw their arms around each other, smiled for the camera and Dean snapped the picture.

They weren’t together then. Heck, he was rather hung-up on Ginny, even, but he held her in a warm embrace, and she had her head nestled against his chest contentedly, as if they were a couple.

I had to be the thickest idiot on the face of Hogwarts, he thought. Next to Ron, that is. Where was he at the time? Oh, right. Snogging Lavender.

He looked at the two other pictures, both moving. There was a picture of the three of them in the snow, her in the middle. He supposed he and Ron always inadvertently gave her the spot, for whatever Freudian reason. Hermione in the picture mildly scolded Ron for something and Ron rolled his eyes before they both cracked smiles, then she turned to Harry and beamed, while he beamed back, her gloved fingers lacing through his. They held hands for a while before she went back to scolding Ron.

The second wizard picture was of her and Ron looking over a book while he, Harry, peered at them from above Hermione’s side. He had his arm draped over the back of her chair and his other hand rested on the table beside the huge book. She was teaching Ron something and Ron had his face scrunched as he struggled to understand. Harry was alternating between looking at the book and watching them. Every time he looked at the book, he would lean towards her, almost close enough to put his chin on her shoulder. All three of them suddenly looked at the camera, smiled, waved then went back to frowning over the book.

He wondered if all their pictures were like that; him unconsciously drawing as close to her as he could while she responded in the same way. They were never conscious about—well, holding each other, actually. It was a natural thing between the two of them. Harry always thought it was because they were such close friends who just happened to be boy and girl, which is why, when they were younger, it puzzled him why she and Ron were so repulsed at the thought of touching each other. As he got older, he realized Ron had acted so awkwardly because Ron fancied her. And so the saga continued to its disastrous, canary-infested end.

Harry grinned. All that kerfuffle so that Hermione and I could be together?

It was little wonder they spontaneously combusted that night at Privet Drive.

Still groggy from sleep, he staggered about his room, collecting clothes and a towel for his morning shower. He was done getting ready in fifteen minutes and he was soon bounding about the house, energized by his relatively good mood. Remus was back with them and Tonks opted to stay. Ron came into the kitchen a bit later.

Harry was happily making omelets when Tonks threw the wet blanket.

“Shacklebolt and Moody want to be here later to question Hermione,” Tonks said. She had made no preamble, but she looked sincerely apologetic. There had been no other way to say it, so she had opted to be blunt.

Ron paled, but said nothing as he exchanged pointed gazes with Harry. They clearly agreed that this was not something they were pleased about.

Harry kept his temper in check. “Couldn’t that wait? Hermione doesn’t seem to want to talk about what happened and I think she shouldn’t have to until she’s ready.”

Tonks shook her head. “The aurors and the Order have waited long enough. They need her statement. It’s imperative, Harry.”

His brows furled, his stomach knotting at the mere memory of what happened that awful night. “I’m sorry, Tonks, but I won’t let you force her. Hermione is more important to me than the Order or the Auror Department put together.”

She sighed. “Harry, please—“

“I couldn’t even imagine how terrifying it had been for her…” he said quietly, looking Tonks straight in the eyes. “She was screaming and she was alone. And if you’d seen her parents…” He could hardly go on. He had attempted to reconstruct some kind of scene, once or twice, in his mind. Like some kind of punishment for his guilt, but he could never come to the end of it. He always stopped short, just before the sword was supposed to have been plunged into her. He couldn’t bear the thought.

Remus placed a hand on Tonks’ arm. They looked at one another, exchanging some sort of wordless communication. She nodded and leaned back on her seat.

“Harry,” said Remus. “It’s important that Hermione do this. The only true weapon the Order and the aurors have right now is information. As you very well know, the lack of it costs lives. Losing one life to the violence is bad enough, but in the Granger attack alone, we lost eight. We must do all we can to avoid such a thing from happening again. I can’t begin to understand what Hermione went through, but we must ask her to try and tell us all she can.”

Harry frowned, but he saw reason in Remus’s words. Even Hermione would agree to tell them all she could if it would help save lives, but he was determined to make it as painless for her as possible. Her parents were gone; he was all she had and he was determined to protect her. He’d failed her already; he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her again.

“Alright, provided Hermione agrees to do it,” he said. “And if she does, I want the interview conducted here. Not at the Ministry or anywhere else. Here, in Grimmauld Place.”

Tonks nodded. “Done.”

“Secondly, I won’t have both Shacklebolt and Moody grilling her. I’ll let Shacklebolt conduct the interview on behalf of the Aurors, but if anyone’s going to represent the Order, I want it to be Remus, not Moody.”

She started, astonished by the demand. “Crikey! As if I can tell Moody what to do!”

“You know I like Moody, but not for this,” said Harry in an inflexible tone. “I’ll only trust Remus and I’ll make no compromises. If Moody doesn’t like it, I’m sorry, but I expect he’d get over it if it’s properly explained to him. At any rate, if he tries to barrel his way in here… well, you know I can keep him out of my house.”

Tonks’s jaw dropped momentarily before she looked at Remus.

Remus nodded, gesturing to concede the point to Harry.

Harry appreciated Remus’s support. From the corner of his eye, he could see Ron smirking. He was glad Ron approved.

“Fine,” Tonks grumbled. “Moody’s going to blow a gasket, but he’ll have to put up, I suppose. Anything else?”

“I’ll sit in during the interview, if it’s all the same to everyone.”

Tonks sighed, throwing her hands up. “Sure. Why not?”

Harry managed a small smile. “Thanks. I appreciate your cooperation, Tonks.”

“Right,” she muttered, rising from her seat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve some arrangements to make, thanks to Mr. Potter. I’ll see you later, Remus.” She dropped a kiss on Remus’s forehead before shooting Harry a look.

Harry shrugged and reddened ever so slightly.

She patted his shoulder then did the same for Ron before she left the kitchen and disapparated from the living room.

“Well done, Harry,” Ron said, grinning.

Harry felt his face grow warmer. “I hope I wasn’t being mean to Tonks. I just—I just want to protect Hermione.”

Remus smiled, calmly drinking his coffee. “I think you handled that very well, actually. You weren’t mean to Tonks at all. I think she was just surprised you decided to put your foot down on something. You know you seldom do.”

Harry was a bit embarrassed about that sad truth. “Yes, well… this is Hermione we’re talking about, now. I simply won’t have her picked on and prodded, not after what she’s been through.” He looked at his omelet and saw that it was a perfect mess.

Groaning, he scraped off the ruined remains of the egg and threw it in the trash, beginning his attempt at a second one. He noticed that Ron was giving him a speculative look.

“What?” he asked.

Ron’s eyebrow arched. “Eh? Oh, nothing. I was just thinking… that you on the governing body of the Order of the Phoenix just might work. Hermione saw it, and I suppose she’s right—again.”

Harry stared at Ron, wondering if Ron was being snarky. It didn’t seem like it. He cast Remus a glance and the old werewolf was grinning, offering no argument.

He turned back to focus on his work, feeling a bit self-conscious. He refused to comment and tried to pinpoint the exact time when he actually began to think that Ron might just have something there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: This is a short chapter, I know. But the next one’s going to be a doozie, so stick around. Hermione’s coming home.

Buffy references:

Xander: What, I can't have information sometimes?
Giles: It's just somewhat unprecedented.

Buffy: See, this is a school, and we have students, and they check out books, and then they learn things.
Giles: I was beginning to suspect that was a myth.

Buffy: Oh! I know this one: "Slaying entails certain sacrifices... blah blah bity blah. I'm so stuffy, give me a scone."
Giles: It's as if you know me.

More references in the next chapter. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself, mainly because Buffy quotes kick ass.

HAVE A WONDERFUL THANKSGIVING!!!

10. Chapter Ninth: Homecoming

Author’s note: As of this chapter, I have seen Goblet of Fire and am blessing the movie Gods for an extraordinary piece of filmmaking. Comparisons with the book aside, I thought the movie was the best of the series. Dan acted really well. I mean, his acting ability wasn’t really all that impressive in the last three films. Just that he was dishy, so I loved him, but he really came through in this movie. Those eyes of his… aiyayay! I don’t think I could’ve said no to him if I was Cho! When she called him back and he was skittering and hoping she would say yes even after she said no… broke my heart. Krum, too, was hypnotizing, even without words. Ron was hilarious—better than before—but it was really the twins who won me over. The twins were perfect. Especially when Angelina was asked to the dance, then Ron attempted the same moves on Hermione, and he failed miserably, of course. I’m not particularly annoyed that there were so many things in the film that were changed from the book. I’d say we should get over it, as books and movies are two completely different mediums, and that we’re only cheating ourselves if we use the book to color our enjoyment of a film quite well done. I know quite a lot of you don’t feel the same way I do about it, but I guess we shall have to agree to disagree. With that, let’s all kiss and make up because we’re all Harmonians after all. ^_^

See my whole review here.

Special thanks to my beta-reader, Lady Diamond. ^_^ I swear, I gave this monster-chapter to her last night and I got it back this morning. She’s awesome.

Chapter Rating: R

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Chapter Ninth: Homecoming

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Two hours after nightfall, Harry sat in the living room with Ron and wallowed in last minute angst.

“What if she takes one look at me and thinks that we can’t work it out?” Harry asked, leaning back miserably on the couch.

Ron was about to answer when Harry was off again.

“What if I screw up one day and just happen to have a pizza and I kiss her and that just makes her realize it’s all impossible?”

Ron frowned and tried again.

Harry sat up. “What’ll happen when I’m older and wrinkly and she stops thinking I’m ‘fanciable’ and leaves me for some strapping young vampire who will never age?”

“For Merlin’s sake, Harry!” Ron cried.

“What?”

Ron motioned to say something, hesitated and sighed. “Look, stop with all the stupid questions already. You have to settle down and take it one step at a time. We’ll wait and she’ll be at the door and… just take it from there, alright? Just calm down, for both our sakes. You’re driving me spare.”

“Fine. Sorry. I’m just a little wired.”

“You’re what?”

“Wired. Muggle expression…” He blew a breath through his lips and reached for one of the boxes of chocolate he got for her. The particular brand he bought was listed in the So Your Sweetheart’s A Vampire book under “Chocolate Favorites”. He thought maybe a homecoming present would be nice and comforting.

Anxiously, he got up and peered into the mirror. He didn’t really dress up dress up, but he wanted to look a bit presentable. He had selected one of his nicer t-shirts, bought a decent pair of jeans that was actually his size and—shock and awe—new trainers. His hair was as impossible as ever, but he ran his fingers through it anyway, trying to beat it into submission.

He turned to Ron. “Do I look alright?”

Ron’s lip twitched. “Er… you look nice?”

“Nice is what people say when they’re too polite to say something bad, isn’t it?”

“Well, girl friend, if you must know, those glasses aren’t working for me at all.”

Harry sighed, putting up his hands. “You’re right. I’m being an idiot. It doesn’t matter how I look. Hermione and I love each other and that’s the sum of it. At least that’s what those sappy romance novels say, eh? That it doesn’t matter how you look, blah, blah, blah…”

“Actually, in popular romance novels, you don’t really get ugly leads. They’re usually very beautiful and handsome. Blokes like you and me are just secondary characters because we’re ordinary, and the female lead never falls in love with us. We’re just there for comic relief and sometimes one or both of us falls in love with her, our love unrequited, of course. We usually end up sacrificing our lives for the wo—“

“Exactly what have you been reading in your free time, Ron?”

“What? You’ve never heard of Fifi La Folle?”

“Who?”

“Author of the popular Enchanted Encounters series. Ginny has loads of them on her bookshelves. It’s only a tad less racier than Crystal Claire Waters’ Ensorcelled Wand series.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“Oh, not at all. La Folle still uses euphemisms for the unmentionables. Waters just lets ‘er rip and calls it like it is.”

“I meant about you reading them, Ron.”

Ron reddened. “Oh… well, I—oy! I had no choice! Those nights body-guarding for dad, I had to keep myself occupied during the down times!”

“With Ginny’s trash novels. Sure.”

Ron was about to say something when he stopped and let his gaze drift beyond Harry’s shoulder.

Harry turned and was looking out of the window where a car had pulled up in front of number 11. The car was a black Volvo.

Silently, they watched as the driver stepped out and opened the back-seat door.

Cicero emerged in a dark-grey business suit looking as impeccable as ever. He stepped back from the door and offered his hand to help the other passenger out.

The bushy brown hair was unmistakable and Harry felt his heart thumping loudly. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. This was Hermione. His Hermione, and he shouldn’t have to be scared that anything had changed. They’d talked in the last two days and they seemed perfectly alright.

I have nothing to worry about.

He watched her momentarily as she went to the boot, knocking on it. She had some things in the back, it seemed.

It was odd, but he did notice that there was something different about her. From afar it was rather hard to tell, but… her clothes. They were so—well, dark. Of all the times he’d known Hermione, she always wore something light, or pink, or pastel. Now, looking at her, there was nothing bright about her clothing. Her jeans were black. Her jumper was dark green and she seemed to be wearing a black, cropped leather jacket. He didn’t even know she had one of those.

Tonks had taken care of bringing Hermione’s clothes and he thought maybe it had more to do with Tonks than anything else.

Hermione pulled out her rucksack and a large book, probably the one Ron had given her. Fred and George’s balloons had been reduced to two tiny, golf-ball sized orbs and tied to the back of her pack.

“She looks rather pale, don’t you think?” asked Ron.

Harry shot him a scowl. “Well, what the hell did you expect? She’d come back with a tan?”

Ron reddened, realizing how stupid he had sounded.

Hermione let Cicero through the wards and led him to the porch.

Harry and Ron hurried to the front to meet them. They arrived just when Hermione was setting her load down on the console table. Cicero was just stepping in right after her.

Harry couldn’t help it when he stopped at the end of the hall, seeing her for the first time since she had died in his arms.

She did look awfully pale; bloodless, with only a hint of blush on her cheeks. But the difference in her appearance went further than that. First there were her lips, redder than they’d ever been and protruding ever so slightly to accommodate the pearly little fangs, retracted though they were. Then there were her eyes. They were still brown, but they bordered on translucent, almost like amber from a certain angle. Sharp, penetrating, hauntingly ferocious. And finally her hair. It had always been bushy, alternating between waves and curls, but now it was—well, it looked almost like it was styled to be that way. Her chocolate-brown strands were glossy, curled and waved in the perfect places, alive with volume. It was gorgeous, but… strange, especially since it looked like she had red highlights in her hair. She had hardly ever bothered about her appearance before, but now she looked more like a sculpture, an alabaster statue made alive under a master artist’s hands.

He should have expected it, of course. He had read how vampires woke from their sleep looking perfectly groomed, but it still seemed surreal.

She stared right back at him, frozen at the threshold.

No one said a word.

Then Harry saw something familiar flash in her eyes. It was the look he saw on her when she wanted him, and it was so powerful this time that it almost caused him to disintegrate on the spot. He could have let that look overcome him. He might have given in to the urge to take her in his arms and carry her up to the rooms to make wild, passionate love to her, but she suddenly closed her eyes, cutting the sensations off, and she swallowed.

Cicero whispered something in her ear, his lips moving to soundless words.

Harry frowned, their closeness unnerving him, but he bit back whatever jealous protestations he might have made, telling himself that Cicero was her healer of sorts, and that he was helping her in ways Harry could not.

She nodded, kept her eyes closed for a few more seconds before opening them again and smiling hesitantly. “Harry…”

Hearing and seeing her speak, his anxiety fell away and he smiled back, taking the first steps towards her. He didn’t get far before she was in his arms, her face buried in his chest as she returned his embrace.

He finally had her back.

The sweet realization that talking to her was nothing compared to having her in his arms in complete silence made the moment more precious, and Harry didn’t much care if they weren’t the only two people in the hall.

She turned her chin up, touching her cheek to his neck. She was warm there. Her soft lips touched his jaw, and she seemed hesitant, like she was testing herself, before pressing a firmer kiss on his skin.

Sensations rushed from the point of contact and Harry gently cupped her face so he could touch his lips to hers. It was a quick but tender kiss; a wordless greeting deep with emotion.

“Other people here, in case you forgot,” said Ron.

Harry sighed and Hermione smiled, close-lipped as their foreheads touched.

She pulled away from Harry and went to Ron, giving him his own hug hello.

Harry cocked a smile and turned to welcome their visitor. He was instead scared half to death finding Cicero suddenly standing right next to him.

“Shite!” Harry gasped, falling a step back as he clutched at his heart. “Where’d you—“

Cicero looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I should have made some kind of sound—“

“You should’ve stomped, or… yodeled or something!” Harry said, still rather flustered.

“Won’t happen again.”

He felt Hermione’s hand slide into his, tugging at him gently. Waves of calm rippled over him and he managed to smile at her.

“I’ve some welcome home presents for you,” he said. “They’re in the living room. Come on.” He was about to turn to Cicero to invite him when Cicero raised a hand.

“Never invite a strange vampire into your home, Harry,” Cicero said quietly. “Vampires will enter a house whether invited or not, but it’s best that you don’t express any verbal or written invitation. You don’t want to lose what little advantage you have over them. Remember that.”

Harry nodded nervously. He draped his arm over Hermione’s shoulders as she slipped her arms around his waist, exchanging perturbed glances with her.

“It’s alright,” she whispered.

It was assurance enough and they walked to the living room, Ron on her other side tossing cautious glances at Cicero.

Remus emerged from the end of the hall and smiled. “Well, hullo, there Hermione! Welcome back!”

Grinning, Hermione went to accept his embrace after which they all sat down in the living room to discuss Hermione’s homecoming.

Harry gave her the chocolates and her eyes sparkled delightedly, marred only by the tightness of her smile.

She doesn’t like flashing her fangs, he thought morosely.

Leaning over, she put her lips to his ear. “Thank you,” she said breathily.

He felt no breath from her lips, but her soft voice send tiny vibrations from his ear to the rest of him. He sighed and he could have happily melted into a boneless heap on the floor.

“Hermione.” It was Cicero, and he sounded like he was reminding her of something, shooting her a pointed stare.

Her eyes widened for a moment before a blush put a bit more color to her cheeks. She pulled away from Harry.

He frowned, sliding his arm around her to keep her close, but she seemed to have put up an invisible wall of sorts and Harry didn’t like it in the least. He dealt Cicero a mild glare but the older vampire only smiled placidly back.

Hermione passed the chocolate all around.

“Now,” said Cicero. “I trust Hermione’s chamber was taken cared of?”

Harry nodded. “Yes. Jaime was very helpful and Max’s crew didn’t give us a hard time at all.”

“Good! And I assume you’ve kept yourselves well-informed on the matter of vampirism.”

Harry grinned and shot Ron a smirk.

“Well, I know never to charge a vampire compound interest of more than 15% per annum,” Ron said. “You folks hate that.”

Cicero chuckled but Hermione looked confused. Harry whispered that he’d explain it to her later.

Remus took some chocolate. It was his favorite snack, after all. “I’m at least well-prepared to deal with emergency situations. I haven’t forgotten what I learned from my days as vampire servant.”

Hermione made to protest but Remus waved her into silence.

“Oh, don’t you worry, Hermione,” he said. “I won’t be surrendering myself to your services in this lifetime, but you know I shall be there for you whether you like it or not. Kind of like how McGonagall would go about it, eh?”

She smiled, this time letting a bit of fang show through.

Harry wished she wouldn’t be so self-conscious. He was a bit surprised that he didn’t think the fangs too terrible. He supposed that retracted, the canines weren’t threatening at all.

He ran his hand up and down her arm in a gentle caress and she responded by leaning back against him.

Cicero nodded. “You’ve great friends, Hermione.”

“I know.”

“In the next two weeks, you must pay regular visits to my office. Apart from our set appointments, you know you can reach me at any time should you… have any sort of crisis.”

Crisis? thought Harry. If she does, can’t she just turn to us? To Remus, at least?

But Hermione just nodded.

Cicero turned to everyone. “As for the rest of you…” He eyed them one by one. “Floo me if anything comes up.”

Remus looked grave and Harry had to wonder what exactly Cicero meant.

Ron was more vocal. “Floo you? Whatever for?”

“Oh,” Hermione said. “Nothing really. Just that if I happen to attack any of you unwarrantedly, you should let him know. Immediately.”

Ron turned to her, shocked.

Harry wasn’t quite as surprised, but he did feel wretched for her. He could see in her eyes that she wasn’t kidding, and that it hurt her to admit such a thing. He couldn’t be afraid of her. He simply couldn’t. If she bit him in a mad frenzy, he figured he might as well go down with her, seeing as he’d be a total wreck if he lost her to madness, but he just couldn’t see Hermione losing it that way. He believed that she was stronger than all of that. He only wished that he could make her believe the same thing.

Cicero did not contradict her. He rose from his seat, as did everyone. He shook hands all around and to Harry’s discomfiture, exchanged cheek kisses with Hermione.

Harry knew they must have forged some kind of relationship being cooped up for three days in a dungeon, and he trusted Hermione enough to have no doubts about her fidelity, but it did bother him that she would have another bloke for a “best friend” that wasn’t him and Ron. He knew he was being petty, and rather selfish, but among the many negative effects of her death, he supposed possessiveness was inevitable. He hoped it was only temporary. He didn’t want to be a prat.

Remus offered to escort Cicero to the door and the three of them were left.

“It’s great to have you back, Hermione,” Ron said in a somewhat uncharacteristic show of warmth. “Didn’t feel real, somehow, when we couldn’t see you.”

Harry smiled, idly running his fingers through her hair. He couldn’t agree more.

“It’s good to be home,” she said softly. “When I was in the hospital, I was constantly afraid that Cicero was just lying about going back home. I thought maybe he was just telling me I can when I’d actually have to be spirited away to—I don’t know—Albania and be made to live there the rest of my life.”

That was too horrible to imagine.

“So…” she began, even softer still, her gaze lowering to her hands. “How different do I look? Do I frighten you?”

It broke Harry’s heart to hear her ask such a question. He pulled her closer against him. “Hermione, no… we’re not frightened of you. Right, Ron?”

Ron hesitated and Harry might have kicked him if Ron didn’t regroup and say, “You do look different, but it would be stupid to be frightened of you. You’re still our bossy little know-it-all, you know. Nothing’s going to change that.”

Her gaze rose and her eyes were liquid with tears, but she was smiling. “Git!”

“What’d I do?”

She laughed, and there they were; her fangs. Not nearly as scary as one would expect.

Remus returned minutes later and he cast Harry a meaningful look.

Harry nodded, taking Hermione’s hand as he grew serious.

She stared at him, realizing that he had something important to say. “What is it?”

Harry turned to Remus and Remus just went ahead and said it. “The Auror Department and the Order want to get your statement about what happened that night at your parents’ house. If you’re willing, Shacklebolt will come here in a few hours to represent the aurors. I’ll stand in for the Order. This is important, Hermione. I wouldn’t have endorsed this if it wasn’t necessary, but information is essential now, and we seldom have witnesses left to attacks like the one in your home. We need as much information as we can get.”

Her grip on Harry’s hand tightened ever so slightly. But for that, she was absolutely still.

Harry realized with mild horror that the look on her face was exactly what he saw when she lay dead in his arms. Apart from the fact that she was right there, talking to them, she was the picture of lifelessness.

He struggled to push that thought from his mind, reaching up to move some hair away from her face.

She blinked, shattering the stillness of her features. “It’s—It’s not something I want to remember. If I can erase it completely from my mind, I would, but I know it’s important. I’m willing to do it. Will there be a pensieve handy?”

Remus nodded. “Yes. A pensieve will be necessary after we debrief you.”

She nodded and Harry felt a slight tremble go through her.

“I’ll be there with you,” he said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Ron grinned. “You should’ve seen Harry setting the terms for this meeting. He flat out said it should be done here, that Moody can’t be in it and that Remus will take his place. Tonks couldn’t say no. He was brilliant.”

Harry blushed as Hermione smiled up at him.

“I never doubted he could be,” she said.

Her confidence in him meant everything.

“Well, we should get you settled back in,” said Remus, rising from his seat. “I dare say the Weasleys will be coming by later on. Molly’s been badgering me all afternoon… would you be willing to see them? I can tell them no for you.”

Harry wondered if Remus wasn’t falling into the servant role inadvertently. He read in the book that it was a matter of instinct for werewolves, and that their tendency was to fixate on one vampire master, so that they didn’t have to be subjected to the orders of many.

“U-Um… it isn’t that I don’t want to see the Weasleys,” she said, shooting Ron an apologetic glance. “Just… I’m not sure if I’m ready yet. I’m still… getting used to what I am.”

Remus smiled kindly. “Molly will understand. A few more days, then. Now, I’ll be in my study if anyone needs me. I’ve quite a few things to catch up on.” He gave Hermione’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before leaving.

“Harry,” said Ron. “Why don’t you show Hermione to her chamber. I’ll go on ahead to the library and put it in order. It’s gotten a bit messy without Hermione to keep it in order. I’ll wait for you two there, alright?”

Harry was astounded and grateful for Ron’s sensitivity.

Hermione remained expressionless for a moment before she stepped up to Ron and placed a delicate kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

Ron looked like he was going to vaporize right there, blushing worse than ever. “Er, yeah… um, I’ll be—er—up there.” He turned and fled.

Harry suspected that kiss did more for Ron than Ron would ever be willing to admit. He stifled a sigh. He realized in the last three days that Ron was nowhere near getting over Hermione yet, and while Harry was glad that Ron opted to keep being their best friend in spite of it, it still pained Harry to see Ron suffer.

She turned to Harry, stepping into his arms and leaning her head against his shoulder. He held her close, looking down at her upturned face.

“I missed this, Harry.”

Ripples of warmth coursed through him from the sound of her voice, like a cloak of soft fur wrapping itself around him and rubbing luxuriantly against his skin. And he had to wonder if it was a result of finally having her so near after what felt like a long separation.

It was, however, difficult to search for explanations when the sweet scent of her shampoo began to cloud his senses. Her milky skin felt soft beneath his fingers and his urge to feel her pressed very close to him grew overwhelming.

Drawn by desire, he tilted her chin up and kissed her, deepening as soon as their lips touched.

At that moment, lost in her kiss, he believed that he had absolutely nothing to worry about; that everything would be perfectly fine. They would make love. It would be perfect.

His lips traveled to her earlobe and he nipped at the soft flesh while his hand wandered beneath her coat to cup her breast. Her soft moan reminded him just how much he missed touching her, and perhaps just how much he needed to touch her.

Her name escaped his lips, his voice hoarse with longing, and just when he was resolving to physically pick her up and drag her to one of the more private rooms they had in the ground floor, she pushed herself away from him.

His mind, fogged by lust, refused to process it. He stared at her, confused, as he took desperate, desire-ridden breaths.

“N-No…” she said, her brows knotting.

He couldn’t believe it. What did she mean no? Everything about what they were doing was saying yes! But he kept still, trying to make sense of what was happening.

His gaze fixated on her lips and he wondered if he was imagining things or if her fangs really were the tiniest bit more pronounced…

“I’m doing it again,” she said softly, her tone filled with guilt. “Didn’t you feel it, Harry?”

That made him more confused. “Of course I was feeling it! Why do you think I was kissing you like that?”

“That’s not what I meant! Earlier, when you gave me those chocolates…”

He blushed. “Well, I’ve missed you, you know. I suppose… I suppose I shouldn’t be wanting you like this so soon, but—“

“Oh, Harry,” she moaned, frustrated. “What I mean to say is… I’m sorry, but it’s just—it’s me. I mean, it’s you, too, but it’s mostly me. I’m being…” She clenched her fists, searching for a word. “Vampy. I’m… I’m giving off vampire pheromones and you’re so receptive to it! It just makes the entire thing more intense! Cicero said I shouldn’t. Not while I’m new to all this. But I couldn’t help it, you see! I love you, and I want you and you smell like me, which, for some reason, makes it so hard to resist…”

Pheromones? He stared at her, trying to make sense of it. Vampire pheromones? Well… SO WHAT?

“H-Hermione, it’s not as if I wouldn’t feel these things for you without the pheromones,” he said desperately.

She shook her head, sighing. “Harry… there are so many things that need talking about right now. We can’t—we can’t do that if all we can think about doing is shagging.”

The word “shagging” knocked sense back into him and the blanket of lust fell away from his mind. He paled, realizing just how much of a prick he was being. He fell back on the couch, head hanging between his shoulders. “Holy hell… you’re absolutely right. It’s all I can think about. I’m a bastard.”

“You’re not! Of course not! I just told you it was my fault!” Her voice had risen to that hysterical squeak of hers; the one she used when he and Ron weren’t getting what she was trying to tell them.

He took a deep, calming breath. “Alright. Let’s just settle down.”

She gave an exasperated sigh, collapsing on the sofa chair across the couch. She wasn’t looking at him. “You haven’t been wearing my clothes, have you?”

“What?”

“Well, it’s just that… my scent’s on you, and it’s not like you’re using my perfume or anything like that… are you?”

“No!” He paused. “But I suppose… I used some of your shampoo.”

“You did?”

“Well, it was there in your bathroom!”

“Why were you using my bathroom?”

“It’s right there in your room!”

“Why are you using the bathroom in my room?”

“Well I—“ He reddened. “I’ve been sleeping in your room, is all...”

She stared at him in surprise before she seemed to realize something. “That’s why my scent’s on you. You’ve been sleeping in my bed.”

“Is that bad?”

She sighed. “No. Just a dreadful turn-on.”

“That’s… odd.” He hadn’t finished reading So Your Sweetheart’s A Vampire. It was possible he hadn’t gotten to that part yet. “Is that a vampire thing?”

“I don’t know, Harry. But my sense of smell is sensitive to certain things now… I’d have to ask Cicero about this, though. I’m not sure what it means.”

Harry’s eyes widened in shock. “You’d talk about this to that pint sized—“

“Harry! Don’t call him names!”

“Kid!?”

“He’s two hundred years old!”

“Well, I’m sorry! But I don’t know if I’m comfortable about you discussing our—our sex life with—with him!”

She frowned. “He’s practically my therapist, Harry! I have to tell him things like this. For my own mental health!”

“Mental health?” He rose to his feet. “There’s nothing wrong with you!”

She glared at him, bolting out of her chair. “Nothing wrong with me? Everything’s wrong with me! Because in case you haven’t noticed, Harry, I’m dead!”

“You’re not dead!”

“I AM!”

“NO, YOU’RE NOT!”

“Harry—“

“Shut up! Just shut up!” He fell back on the couch, holding his head between his hands and closing his eyes. Hermione’s not dead. She’s not dead. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s…

“Oh, Harry…” The voice was soft, soothing and repentant. “Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…”

Her arms were around him and he hadn’t the strength to be stubborn. He buried his face in her shoulder and clung to her.

It was all very confusing to him. He was supposed to be happy she was home; grateful that she was alive. He was supposed to be strong for them both, because she had lost her parents and because she now had to live with this affliction. Yet he had crumbled so easily, and she was comforting him, and telling him she was sorry.

Her fingers were running through his hair and it was soothing to his frayed nerves. When he felt better he pulled away, looking into her strange new vampire eyes. They seemed almost feral; predatory, but he couldn’t reconcile those concepts with his Hermione. At least, not yet…

She cupped his face in her hands. “I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”

He was startled by her expression. “You’re not—you’re not that. But I have to be stronger than this, you know. And I can be, I think. Just that—I think maybe you somehow caught me by surprise there.”

Her brows knotted. “Am I so different?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

She sighed. “I want to think I’m the same in spite of this thing that I am—“

“You’re not a thing.”

“I’m a creature of the dark. I’m not human, Harry.”

He sighed, but he wasn’t going to contradict that. He took her hands. They were cold and very pale, but they were soft, and they squeezed his hands back. “So… so how are you… how are you going to feed? I can give you blood, you know. I can—“

“No…” she said softly, tenderness settling momentarily in her ferocious eyes. “I won’t do that. I won’t feed off you. There are people I can pay for that. If I take any blood from you at all, it’s because… because I love you, not because I’m hungry. Alright?”

He didn’t know exactly what to say to that. “Maybe I can accompany you when you go out to feed, or something?”

She smiled shyly. “I’d—I’d rather you don’t, Harry. For the next couple of weeks, Cicero will help me with that, but eventually, I’d have to do it by myself, and I’d rather be alone, really. I don’t want anyone seeing me… not like that. I don’t think it would be pleasant for you or anyone human I know.”

“But alone? I don’t want you to be alone out there. And really… I can take it, I think. It’s you. I won’t ever be afraid—“

“No. Just no. It’s not… Harry, there’s something you have to understand about feeding—“

“It has sexual undertones. I know. I read it in the books.”

She lowered her gaze and he noted a very slight blush coloring her cheeks.

“It’s not something I’m thrilled about,” he went on quietly. “But you need it to survive, and if you won’t take my blood, then I suppose you’ll have to take from someone else.”

She touched his face with her fingertips. “I wish there was another way. There isn’t. And the worse part is human blood is so much more expensive than a Shrimp Wonton at the local Chinese restaurant.” She smiled, hoping her levity would help take some of the tension away.

He cocked a weary smile. “That’s almost funny.”

She placed a soft kiss on his lips. “My poor, serious Harry.”

“As opposed to Ms. Killed Or Worse Expelled?”

She smiled. “My priorities have changed a tad since then.”

“No! Really?”

She gave him a delicate pinch.

He chuckled, taking her by the shoulders and running his hands up and down her arms. “Hermione, do you need help… you know, to pay for the human blood? Because I can support you, you know. What with… well, my parents and Sirius and—“

She seemed surprised. “Oh, Harry… you really are—you’re the sweetest, most generous man, and I love you for it, but no. I just won’t be a kept woman.”

“Kept woman!”

She giggled. “Won’t that be manly of you, though? Lord it over me and pay for my breast implants.”

He felt blood rushing to his face. “I would never—your breasts… you know I love them.”

This made her giggle even more. “Why, thank you, Potter. That’s encouraging.”

“But I really don’t mind—well, alright fine—keeping you.” He felt himself grinning broadly. There was something immensely satisfying at the thought that he could take care of her that way. Must be some kind of male, foraging instinct.

She shot him a glare, though she was smirking. “Thank you, but no. I’ve job prospects, believe it or not, and I’ll be meeting with a potential employer, soon.”

That was a surprise. “Really?”

“Umm-hmm!”

“Doing what?”

“Well, see, I’m not quite sure, but said employer thinks she has use for me. At this point, that’s good enough for me.”

He frowned. “But what if—what if the job’s unsavory? I don’t wa—I mean, you should do something you like to do.”

She shrugged. “If I don’t like it, I won’t do it and I’ll find some other employer. It’s no big deal, Harry. But I’ve a feeling I might like this work. The employer thinks that I’d be suited to the ‘goals of their organization’. Besides, Cicero thinks I should give them a try.”

His frown deepened. “Oh, well, if Cicero says it’s okay…”

“Harry, please stop being jealous of him. He has helped me so much already and I’m seriously considering retaining him as my therapist for—like forever!”

“Great,” he muttered.

“Harry…”

He sighed. “Fine. Sorry. I know he’s helped you a lot and for that I’m grateful. His looks remind me too much of Draco Malfoy, is all. Buggery little... anyway, I’ll live. I know he’s a good chap. I’m just being moody.”

She smiled, rubbing his knee affectionately. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek and stood up, taking him by the hands. “Now, can I just see this chamber of mine? I don’t particularly look forward to sleeping in a coffin, but Ci—my therapist—“

Harry chuckled miserably. I suppose I’m going to have to live with Mr. Junior G.Q. being in her life.

She went on. “—said I’d get over my silly notions of it once I have a good day’s sleep in it.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”

“Actually, it’s the only way to look at it without totally freaking out. No matter what anyone says, it’s still as creepy as hell to have coffins in one’s home, don’t you think?”

“Well, unless you own a funeral parlor…”

“Eh, true. Did you at least have the sense to avoid pastels?”

“I… sort of went for the silver and dark blue theme…”

“Ah, I just knew I could trust your judgment, my love. And you so cleverly avoided red and orange, too! I’m impressed.”

He almost sputtered in laughter at that. He hadn’t nearly given her motif that much thought. All he knew was that blue and silver was safe and that she liked blue in the first place. “Yes, well, you know… fall colors were so last season…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Visiting the chamber turned out to be more upsetting that Hermione was willing to admit. In spite of her vampirism, the thought that the coffin in the dungeon was hers and that she would have to close herself in it like a corpse, awoke in her that primal, mortal fear of death. If she could be sick, she would have vomited, unfortunately, as far as vampires went, getting sick was out of the question. The chamber had been turned into something as cozy, after a fashion, coffin notwithstanding, but she took one look at the room at the threshold, stared for two heartbeats and turned quickly around to leave. She, of course, ran right smack into Harry who thought she hated it.

“N-No, it’s exactly how I would have fixed it,” she said, hustling him back into the hall and away from the room.

She felt stretched, and mortified and horrified at the same time. It felt like the fact that she wasn’t human anymore was being constantly pounded into her head, as if she could forget.

She stood with Harry, in the hallway, the light of his wand just missing the glow of torches from her chamber. The concern in his eyes had her fidgeting under his gaze.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

Though unable to meet his eyes, she managed a weak smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I just… the coffin gave me the willies, is all. Cicero didn’t exactly have his coffin in the same room as mine at the hospital. He put it in some corner of the dungeon where I couldn’t see, so I haven’t exactly gotten used to the idea that…” She sighed, folding her arms over her chest and rubbing her shoulders. “And when I think about it, it’s just so bloody ridiculous for you, isn’t it? Your girlfriend sleeps in a coffin.”

He gave her a thoughtful squint. “I wouldn’t call it ridiculous, actually. Morbid comes to mind, but that’s only because coffins get a bad rap. It’s actually quite comfortable in yours.”

She stared at him, blinking in astonishment. “You tried it?”

“Well, I didn’t close it…”

“Good lord, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. “I had to make sure it would be comfortable for you, you know. And it’s got this neat device on the inside where you can adjust the softness of the—“

“You’re mental, Harry. Abso-bloody-lutely out of your mind! But I love you. I love you to death, and coming from me, that’s no exaggeration!”

He seemed surprised by her last statement before he laughed.

She threw her arms around him, her weight sending him crashing against the wall. He gave a soft “Oof!”, but before he could complain, she was kissing him and pressing against him nicely. She wasn’t about to tear his clothes off quite yet. They were in a dungeon, and there was a coffin in the next room. She wasn’t that kinky, but he had to be rewarded somehow. If she were more confident about keeping her fangs nipped, she would have happily gone down on him right there, but as it was, she was still fighting to control many of her vampire urges.

She had to stave the constant hunger, which she had to admit wasn’t so bad right now. She could hear the beating of his heart, and caught flashes of the blood rushing in his veins, but she had fed before she left the hospital, and the pangs of hunger were fleeting. What she found most challenging right now was keeping her pheromones in check, and it was almost impossible to keep her fangs from extending when Harry had aroused her desire in the living room. Cicero told her that she would eventually find it easy to control all of her vampire impulses, but not so soon after being turned. Her body was still bursting with the initial surge of activated vampirism.

Harry groaned as he kissed back, holding her tight against him with his hands clamped to her bottom.

It was amazing how his response felt like he had pheromones of his own. One of the many things she had learned about Harry was that when he felt intense surges of pleasure, his thoughts sometimes darted into hers. Just in bits and pieces, really; usually in flashes. Sometimes pictures; sometimes words. This time it was words, and what a string of them, too! A mix of erotic, romantic and downright naughty words spilled into her mind, and even if words failed him, there was always that bulge that was now making its presence known. She hadn’t realized just how much he had missed all of her until then.

As much as she wanted to ease that ache in him, all of that had to wait. Her fangs were already beginning to extend, and it was that which brought her back to her senses. She was in no condition to be making love to Harry. She could hurt him.

She pulled away apologetically, willing her fangs to retract.

His hold on her waist tightened. “Oh, please, no,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t say we can’t.”

“Harry, in case you’re forgetting, there’s a coffin in the next room.”

“And would you believe that completely slipped my mind in the last few seconds?”

She sighed. “Ron’s waiting in the library.”

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as he took a deep, cleansing breath. “Coffin, Ron. Coffin, Ron. Coffin, Ron…” He looked at her. “Alright, I think I’m fine now.”

Well, that was bound to get him out of the mood.

She had to laugh softly at that. She took his hand and led him back out of the dungeon, making their way to the library in comfortable silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Ron who had the pleasure of giving Hermione back her wand.

Harry thought it was only right Ron should, considering it was Ron who remembered that she’d want to get it back.

When Ron rolled Hermione’s wand across the library table in her direction, he had forgone any kind of ceremony. It rattled between him and her and she stared at it, a smile growing on her lips to match Ron’s as her vine wood dragon heart’s string wand crept steadily towards her.

“Thought you’d miss that,” said Ron, smirking.

She snatched her wand up like an old friend and transfigured one of the chocolate truffles into perfectly carved chocolate lion. She set it on his hand as he laughed and popped it in his mouth.

“I can’t do a lot of things anymore, you understand,” she said with a wan smile. “Like I… I can’t ever make a Patronus or… or apparate…”

Harry felt stricken, and by the look on Ron’s face, so was he.

She hastened to comfort them. “But I can still do loads of important magic, really. I can still conjure things and I pretty much have all of my transfiguration powers intact. Besides, when the two of you get your apparating licenses, you can side-along me.”

Harry took her hand and squeezed. He was sad to hear she can’t make a Patronus, but he supposed it made sense. A Patronus could hurt her.

“Then again,” she continued. “Cicero said I’d be developing a few vampire powers of my own. I don’t know what they are, yet, but I hope it’s not as disgusting as being able to communicate with maggots.”

Ron made a face.

Hermione nodded morosely. “It happens.” She turned back to examine one of the many books Harry had about vampires.

Nearby, she had a bunch of other books she had already pulled from the shelves, possibly relating to horcruxes.

Harry had to admit that seeing her this way relieved him. She was back, and it was still her. It had to be. Her books and her cleverness were her defining traits. If she had lost that in her vampirism, he didn’t know how he’d cope.

“These are excellent books, Harry,” she said, skimming through Underworld: Vampire Society. “I’d love to read them, too. I’ll squeeze them in between my research.”

It made him smile to hear her make these plans.

Life goes on, after all.

He thought maybe he’d tell her about that other book later, when Ron wasn’t there to overhear.

She had turned to a chapter in the Underworld book entitled Coven of Power and was tracing the sparkling aquamarine image of a naked winged woman on her knees holding up a huge orb. The woman’s wings flapped lazily, but they were always extended, and the orb floated above her outstretched hands, bobbing slowly up and down.

He leaned over to give it a better look. “What is it?”

“Isis,” she replied. “Holding the Eye of Horus.”

“Sounds Egyptian.”

“It is. Isis is the Egyptian feminine archetype for creation: rebirth, ascension, intuition, psychic abilities, higher chakras, love, and compassion. Horus is her son and represents traits of kingship, revenge and victory. Horus’s eye, whether or not he has it on him, sees all. Isis having the eye balances his avenging spirit and together they’re keepers of righteousness.”

“Interesting,” said Ron.

“Do you really mean that?” she asked.

“Not in the slightest.”

“I thought so.”

Harry smiled and hurled a crumpled piece of paper at Ron with a wave of his wand. “Well, I’m interested. What’s this got to do with vampires?”

Hermione explained to them about vampire origins and vampire organizations.

“So in this Coven of Isis,” began Ron, who was supposed to be uninterested, “the birds rule the roost and the blokes sort of grovel at their feet? What’s in it for the men? Do they at least get some?”

She arched her eyebrow disapprovingly.

“What does the Coven of Isis do in the first place?” Harry asked before Hermione blew a vein.

She made a point to turn in Harry’s direction, as if he was the only other person in the room. “I don’t really know. Cicero didn’t want to say, so I’m hoping this book will be more forthcoming.”

“Well, is it?” He moved closer to her so he could read over her shoulder.

They turned to the book together, and Harry had to admit that in spite of his genuine interest, it was difficult to concentrate on the book with her so near, so he didn’t actually get to read all that much.

He was pushing some of her hair off her shoulder when he caught Ron’s eye and Ron made a vulgar motion with his hand, like he was wanking something off.

Harry replied by glaring at him and flashing his middle finger.

Ron laughed.

“Boys, I’m right here. Just because I’m not looking at you, it doesn’t mean I don’t know what you’re doing.”

Harry rubbed her lap affectionately to appease her. “Ron’s being a git.”

Ron smirked. “That’s right. Blame me. ‘What does this coven do? I’m really interested, Hermione. You’re so pretty I’ve forgotten how to read. Let’s just quit this and snog like mad!’” He had pitched his voice comically for the monologue.

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh and just for that, Harry could forgive Ron the ribbing.

It didn’t mean Harry had nothing to say about it, though. “Oy! You’re cramping my style, Weasley!”

“He calls it a style?”

Hermione giggled. “Oh, stop it, Ron! I think Harry’s cute.”

Harry stuck his tongue out at Ron.

Ron scoffed. “Well, Harry, I don’t care what you do. She still gave me the chocolate lion.”

Harry was well on his way to making a full retaliation when the library door opened and Lupin came in.

“Shacklebolt and Tonks are here,” he said. “They’re setting the pensieve up in the drawing room. Hermione?”

Harry felt her hand creep into his, squeezing with near-painful pressure. He put his arm around her, pulling her close. “I’ll be there with you, and if you can’t go on, you don’t have to. Don’t worry about what Shacklebolt might say. I’ll deal with him, alright?”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Remus flinch. Harry knew they couldn’t let Hermione back out mid-way through debriefing, but the main reason Harry asked to be there was precisely so they couldn’t force her to go on if she didn’t want to. He wasn’t going to let anyone make her do what she didn’t want to do.

She stared up at him, saw that she could trust him to take care of her and nodded.

They rose from their seats.

Harry kept a firm hold on her hand as they went to the drawing room.

Tonks was waiting for them outside. “Shacklebolt’s inside,” she said. She turned to Hermione and gave her a welcoming embrace. “It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Hermione whispered.

Tonks cocked a smile and patted her shoulder. “Thank you for doing this. This can’t be easy for you.”

“It’s important. It has to be done.”

Tonks nodded. She stepped back and gestured for Ron. “We can wait it out in the other room. I’ve got some tea going and I brought treacle tart.”

“Bless you, Tonks,” said Ron, following her as they left.

Remus led them through the drawing room doors where they found Shacklebolt seated on the couch, testing his quick-quotes quill while the glow of the pensieve rippled in the dimly lit room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a strange quality to Hermione’s eyes as she told them what transpired. While she didn’t exactly sound detached, she wasn’t bursting into tears, either. It was as if she was desperately clinging to that strange middle ground, where she might be able to hide her emotions. She never let go of Harry’s hand and he willed himself to be strong for her, because he had a feeling that if he let on about how horrified he was, she would break down completely.

When she was done telling them what happened, she began to tell them what she thought.

“I think daddy invited him into our house,” she said faintly. “It’s the only way he could have gotten through the wards around the attic. I don’t know how he did it, but apparently, he’d been speaking to them beforehand, yes? They’d been talking long enough for Janus to gain an interest in me. He was interested enough to defy Voldemort’s orders, anyway.”

“So you really think You-Know-Who did not order your turning?” asked Shacklebolt, not raising his eyes from his parchment pad. Every so often, his jaw tensed, usually after Hermione said Voldemort’s name.

“He didn’t. From the things Janus said, Voldemort wanted all of us dead. There’s no practical reason for me to be turned, anyway. Turning me would only serve to anger those dearest to me and my theory is that Voldemort thrives on the darker emotions if he can’t get rid of emotions completely. To him, anger and hate can breed power, so in his mind, if his enemies learned to nurture these emotions, they might be more formidable. It’s just a theory on my part, but I dare say it makes some sort of sense. If I’m wrong, the fact still remains: my death would have served his purposes far more effectively. He’d have proved that the Muggle-born have no place in his society and he would have—he would have hurt Harry very, very badly. At any rate, I think Voldemort was furious when he found out what Janus had done.”

Harry was surprised at that.

Remus and Shacklebolt stared at her.

“And you believe this because…?” asked Remus.

“Harry’s scar. When it hurt, Harry saw Voldemort punishing Janus for something. I think I’m the reason for it.”

“How do you know all that?” demanded Harry.

Hermione cast him a mildly displeased look. “I made Ron tell me. You promised him you’d tell me about your scar if it hurt you, but you didn’t. Don’t blame him. I made him swear to watch over you and he was just doing what he thought was best.”

Harry frowned, but he was only slightly concerned about Ron letting the cat out of the bag. “How did you know it was Janus whom I saw?”

“I saw his face too, and from what Ron told me, our descriptions match. Except for the tattoo, maybe. I didn’t see his tattoo.”

Harry turned away from her, struggling for control. I know who he is, he thought viciously. I’ve seen the vampire that did this to Hermione…

“Harry will have to confirm the match,” said Shacklebolt.

Remus shot Shacklebolt a disapproving look, leaning over his chair to speak. “But the question remains: Why would Voldemort be so angry? It can’t just be that he thinks Harry’s anger will give him an advantage. It’s plausible, but Voldemort’s too arrogant to let on that Harry’s rage could actually be a threat to his grand plans. Harry, you’re the one with a link to Voldemort. Do you have any idea at all?”

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and shook his head gravely. “All I know is he was angry, and Voldemort saw fit to punish Janus.”

“Is Janus dead, then?” asked Shacklebolt.

“I don’t know.”

“He’s not,” said Hermione quietly. “If he died, I’d know.”

Harry’s brows furled as he looked at her. Her eyes momentarily glazed with that strange translucent vampire quality before they faded to their usual color. Hermione had told him that she had a residual psychic link with Janus. He hated that she did, just as much as he hated having Voldemort connected to him.

Remus seemed vastly troubled by this, but did not give voice to his particular concerns. “These are useful leads, I think, and we’ll follow them. There’s something in Voldemort’s anger…”

“But first…” said Shacklebolt. “Hermione, are you familiar with how a pensieve works?”

She nodded, taking out her wand. In the next few seconds, she managed to extract the memory of that night from her mind. The silver thread was tinged with something Harry had never seen before. There was a trail of red laced within the strands of memory, like blood. He did not say anything about it since Hermione didn’t seem alarmed, but he could tell even Remus and Shacklebolt found this strange.

She released the swirling memory above the pensieve and tapped it down so it would fall into the bowl.

“Harry,” said Shacklebolt. “You have to go in so you can confirm Janus’s identity.”

A bolt of terror shot through Harry and Hermione’s eyes widened.

“NO!” she cried. “Y-You can’t let Harry see it!”

Remus glared at him, a hint of warning in his gaze. “Kingsley…”

Shacklebolt was unaffected. “He has to, or we might be going on a wild goose chase following this lead. It’s a thin enough lead as it is. I don’t even know where to start following it.”

Hermione clasped Harry by the arm. “You said you’d stop it if I can’t go any further. You promised. I can’t keep going anymore, Harry. I want this to stop right now.”

Harry was about to say something when Shacklebolt interrupted.

“Harry, Hermione’s part in this is done. This doesn’t concern her anymore. This is about you doing what you have to do. Whatever you decide now won’t directly affect her, but if you refuse to look into that pensieve because you’re afraid, our information tonight will be incomplete. That could mean lives. If you want to be responsible for those lives—“

Hermione’s eyes flashed ferocious and she hissed at Shacklebolt, her fangs elongating as she spoke. “Don’t you dare burden Harry like that! Don’t you dare!”

Shacklebolt was taken so much aback by her appearance that he actually gasped, inching away.

Remus made a move to intervene but Harry shot him a warning glance. If anyone was going to calm Hermione, it was going to be him.

Harry reached up and put a hand on her shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.

Her furious gaze darted to him. He hesitated only for a heartbeat before he leaned over and spoke softly into her ear.

“Hermione…” He kept his voice gentle and undemanding. “There’s no need for that, love.”

“He—“

“He didn’t mean it. And he can’t hurt me. I’ll be fine.”

She remained still for several more seconds before she blinked, her anger deflating as she did. She began to look regretful as she leaned away from Shacklebolt.

To Harry’s great astonishment, she began to move away from him, too, her gaze downcast to avoid his eyes. He held her fast just as she whispered apologies for her outburst. She did not struggle against him as he pulled her close.

Harry shot Shacklebolt a scowl as he crooned soothing words in Hermione’s ear, her head on his shoulder.

When the tension in her shoulders eased, he met Shacklebolt’s still-shocked gaze above her pate.

“I’ll look into the memory,” he said gravely.

Relief slid over Shacklebolt’s features.

Remus wasn’t above relief, himself. As much as the kind werewolf would want to spare Harry the anguish, this information was too important to be set aside for personal considerations.

“No…” Hermione breathed, her fingernails digging into the skin of his arm. “I don’t want you to see…”

“I have to,” he said. “I’ll be alright.”

She shook her head but his only response was to pull away from her to go to the pensieve.

Shacklebolt stood beside him. They would enter the memory together.

Harry exchanged looks with Shacklebolt and together, they bent over the bowl.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione’s scream assaulted him, and it sounded ten times more terrified than the first time he heard it.

Harry almost swooned at the horror of it all. The bodies… the blood… her screams. And while darkness cloaked the room, there was still enough light for him to see. Oh, how he wished the darkness had blinded him, but there was moonlight from the windows, and his gaze fell upon her frightened face as the vampire sank his fangs into her tender throat.

After he had drunk his fill of her, the vampire spoke words of approval, and helpless against him, Hermione had no choice but to drink his blood. Her struggles to push him away were futile, and Harry’s rage gripped his heart and mind.

His eyes ached from fighting back tears and his breathing had gone ragged with emotion.

Blood poured from her neck, soiling the front of her gown, and her teeth were stained crimson.

The vampire introduced himself after a fashion just before the whisper of steel cut through the milieu of sounds. It was a Japanese sword. A long, silver blade, curved ever so slightly. It flashed in the darkness and sang just before Janus plunged it all the way through her.

Harry couldn’t help it. He turned away, unable to bear the shock of pain that so evidently exploded from her eyes. He squeezed his eyelids shut, his knuckles white with strain.

“Potter!” Shacklebolt said beside him. “You have to look at his face!”

Oh, God, he thought, struggling to get his emotions under control. Hermione…

There was a second sigh of steel, followed by Hermione’s sob of pain and all Harry wanted to do was clamp his hands to his ears.

“Potter...” Shacklebolt sounded terribly impatient. “It’s either you I.D. him now or we do this again. Do you want to do this again?”

Gods, no! Harry summoned what courage he could muster and looked through clenched teeth.

Janus tossed Hermione aside like a rag doll and turned away from her.

It was then Harry saw the same man in his vision, his vicious beauty glowing pale in the dim light.

Janus…

“Is it the same man in your vision?” asked Shacklebolt.

Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He just nodded.

That was enough for the auror.

A great explosion rocked the attic and Harry and Shacklebolt flinched on instinct. The gaping hole in the wall cast moonlight over the gruesome scene.

Wind blew through the opening and hit Janus’s still form. His black blouse, underneath a flapping black leather coat, was held close by two dragon-shaped clasps just above his abdomen. His blouse blew open, exposing the swath of skin between his bellybutton and the low rise of his black leather pants.

For the second time, Harry saw the tattoo. There was more of it to see this time, and Harry could decipher just what the image was. They were the open jaws of a serpent, fangs extending long and low.

And then Janus was gone, as if he had disapparated without a sound.

Harry saw himself emerge from the attic stairs, stumbling frantically to get to Hermione.

He didn’t want to see Hermione die again. Once had been enough.

“I’m done,” said Harry, and without even checking to see if Shacklebolt would follow him, he swept himself out of the memory and out of the pensieve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was paler than Hermione had ever seen.

Harry emerged from the pensieve looking like he had stared death in the face and lost a part of himself in the process. Shacklebolt looked less ashen, but his expression was grim.

The auror began to gather his materials.

Remus put a hand on Harry’s shoulder to nudge him out of his catatonia. “Alright, Harry?”

Harry blinked, swallowing as he nodded and turned away from the pensieve. His eyes met hers and for a moment, Hermione thought he was going to start shedding tears, but he didn’t.

There was definitely something changed in him.

He took her by the hand and gently pulled her close.

She didn’t even wait for him say anything. She simply slid her arms around him and initiated the embrace. He held her and she buried her face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him. There was a tinge of blood to his smell, and she knew the hunger was growing again, but she could hold back for a little longer. For now, he needed holding as much as she did.

It was several seconds before she heard Harry speak again.

“Are we done here?” He was asking Shacklebolt.

Shacklebolt nodded. “Yes. I’ll bring the information in for processing. Thank you for yours and Ms. Granger’s cooperation.”

“You’ll let me know if there’s anything?”

Shacklebolt frowned. “Let you know? Everything’s on a need to know basis, Potter. You aren’t—“

“I’m not what? I’m not authorized? I think I am. I’m just learning that now, actually. The Order thinks I’m authorized, so if you’re going to tell Remus, or Mr. Wea—Arthur, or McGonagall, you get to tell me. If you don’t, I’ll ask Remus, and he’ll tell. Unlike some people, he wants me on the Order’s governing circle.”

Hermione looked up at Harry in surprise. His expression was bereft of anger or stubbornness. He was calm; collected. He was stating a fact, not fighting to be noticed. He did not avert his gaze from Shacklebolt’s glare and while his shoulders were tense, she noticed that he was running his hand in soothing circles on her back, as if he was calming her in this admittedly discomfiting situation.

This was a side of Harry she had never seen. She had witnessed him take charge before, but only with his peers, like in the D.A., or when he was captain of the Quidditch team. With the elders, he was usually just sulking and being angry or even being very, very respectful. Now he was standing up to Shacklebolt, and she was pleased to note that Remus was watching it all happen with barely veiled delight.

She looked at Shacklebolt, her expression going haughty. She was proud of Harry, and she was daring Shacklebolt to tell Harry no.

“You’re not in the circle yet,” said Shacklebolt.

“There are four of you in the circle now. Three have no objections to making me a fifth. If you want to get technical on me, three out of four is a winning vote.”

Shacklebolt glared as he gathered his things irritably. “I’ll see what I can do, Potter.”

“Thanks, Kingsley. That’s very kind of you.” Harry sounded anything but grateful. He sounded like he had been completely entitled to the information and that Shacklebolt should have known that.

Shacklebolt stormed out, yelling for Tonks to come on out because he was done for tonight. They heard him stomping through the hall and down the stairs.

Seconds later, Tonks emerged with Ron behind him. Ron had treacle tart in his mouth while he held an ugly yellow mug with piping hot tea.

“What’s up with Kingsley?” Tonks asked.

Hermione didn’t know if Tonks was just pretending she hadn’t listened in on the conversation. Tonks had been with Ron, for goodness sake. As if that wasn’t incriminating enough.

“Harry grew a backbone on him,” replied Remus, completely oblivious to any foul play.

Harry reddened and Hermione grinned in spite of her suspicions. “He was brilliant, Ron. You should have seen it!”

Ron took the tart from his mouth and raised the mug. “Been there, seen that. Harry seems to be getting the hang of this leader thing. Should we give him a t-shirt? A nifty one that says, ‘I respect your feelings but I’m still your boss, twat.’”

Hermione laughed. The elders tried to maintain their dignity by pursing their lips.

“I’d never wear a t-shirt like that,” said Harry. “I’d wear ‘Allergic to stupid Dark Lords’, though. Or better yet, something that says, ‘Kiss my dementor, Voldie’.”

She giggled. Remus and Tonks gave in and laughed with her.

“That’s not funny,” said Ron, grinning in spite of himself.

“Come on… say it,” said Harry in needling tone. “Say Voldie. You know you want to.”

Ron sneered. “Quit toying with my emotions, Potter.”

“I’d love to stay and see this milestone of Ron’s,” said Tonks, “but Shacklebolt’s teed off enough, so I must go see to him downstairs. Remus, you are obligated to suffer with me because we are in a deep and meaningful relationship.”

“Ah, yes. I knew I should have read the fine print.”

“Come along, Moony.”

Remus followed and closed the drawing room doors as he asked Tonks, “Do I get a biscuit for following orders?”

To which she replied, “That’s only for dogs, sweetheart. Wolves get nothing for their efforts.”

Closed into the drawing room, Hermione sat on the couch with Harry while Ron sat on the nearest lounge chair.

“Tonks and I heard everything,” said Ron. He went on when Harry arched a questioning eyebrow. “Extendable ears.”

Hermione knew it.

“Naturally,” replied Harry in a dry tone.

“You two alright?”

She frowned, shooting Harry an anxious look. He smiled and put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulders.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m more worried about Hermione. Love, was it too much for you?”

“Only when he made you… made you look.”

Sadness and regret shone from his gaze as he pushed some of her bouncy brown hair behind her ear. He cupped her face, brushing the pad of his thumb tenderly on her cheek.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said quietly, but the pain in his eyes said otherwise.

She made no protest as she cast her gaze down, wishing that Harry hadn’t been forced to watch as Janus murdered her. If it had been the other way around, she probably would have gone mad.

She looked up and caught Ron watching her. He averted his eyes almost immediately.

For a brief moment, she wondered if Ron had worked out his issues about her. She couldn’t tell herself for sure that he had. She peeked at Harry and saw that he was still looking at her. He had missed Ron’s wandering eyes completely.

“I’m going back to the library,” she said. “Do you two want to come or are you going to bed?”

She knew Harry liked it when she mentioned the library. It was something of her that he was intimately familiar with. Seeing her or thinking about her with books seemed to confirm that she was still the Hermione he knew. It was no bother to her, anyway. She still loved books and she still liked doing research.

Although it did occur to her at that moment that her waking hours were their sleeping times.

Harry’s eyes did light up and Ron cocked a grin.

“So what are we researching tonight? Horcruxes or vampires?” asked Ron.

She smiled, rising from her seat. “Horcruxes, I think. And if Harry would be so kind, he can bring over the locket so we can give it a look.”

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Hermione looked up from her scribbling on the library table and saw her boys fast asleep. Ron was sprawled out on the couch and Harry was bent comfortably on his sofa chair. Each had a book plopped unceremoniously and haphazardly on their laps. They’d been asleep for a few hours, but Hermione had let them. She was quiet enough not to disturb their slumber, anyway.

One of the many things about being a vampire was that she could remain perfectly and utterly quiet. She could move, but her movements were all calculated, graceful and soundless. She didn’t breathe anymore, for one, unless she sighed and gasped out of some kind of habit. And everything about her was as still as death. She could move about so quickly that she was almost apparating, and she wouldn’t make a sound.

She’d been trying to find ways to destroy horcruxes and she might have some useful theories. But while she searched for answers to that question, she had also managed to make interesting notations on possible Founder possessions that could have been used as horcruxes. She found herself writing an essay of sorts, justifying a particularly warranted pattern to Voldemort’s choice of objects.

Consider the following objects: Tom Riddle’s Diary, Guant’s Ring, Hufflepuff’s cup (pending verification) and Slytherin’s locket (pending authentication). The pattern to the objects connected to Slytherin, and conversely Voldemort, is Longevity: A diary preserves memories, a locket preserves legacy and the ring, a gemstone, is linked to a number of things timeless, like heritage and, more importantly, ageless-ness. Most gemstones share properties of non-decay. They can last for hundreds—thousands of years looking exactly the same. Of course, an uncut stone would be too crude for one such as Voldemort, so he needed something set as jewelry, and his ancestral ring was perfect.

Hufflepuff’s cup was a trickier study. A cup could symbolize anything from bounty to water to emotion. The problem obviously lies in pinpointing how the cup would symbolize Hufflepuff. A plausible theory would—of course—be Hufflepuff’s loyalty, but how does a cup symbolize loyalty? It then occurred to me that the answer could be found in history, through hundreds and thousands of years of rituals. Looking back, there have been thousands of congregations, meetings, initiations and groups that have used the “communal cup” to symbolize unity. A single cup would be passed between several lips to indicate one’s affiliation to their chosen brethren. It seemed that the association of loyalty to the cup began to make sense. Besides, even Voldemort values loyalty. If not for loyalty, he wouldn’t have Death Eaters begging to suck his dick.

Hermione found herself smirking at that. Ordinarily, she would have considered the phrase revolting, but dying and rising tended to take the edge off certain trivialities. And frightening as the Death Eaters were, she really did think they were a bunch of sniveling, groveling dweebs fighting over Voldemort’s scraps.

Besides, in many ways… I’m now more frightening than they are.

She continued to write:

Through this theory of association, it is now incumbent upon us to realize what sort of objects would represent Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw best as far as Voldemort’s values goes. I can only guess that Voldemort would not choose attributes that he did not find important. Therefore, Gryffindor’s “bravery” cannot be a point of reference.

As far as the last two founders go, your guess is as good as mine, but I shall postulate.

Ravenclaw’s most defining trait was knowledge. She sought answers and believed in the power of knowing. Knowledge, itself, is a benign concept. Voldemort, worldly as he is, would consider something more apparently useful in Ravenclaw: Intelligence. There are a number of things that could be associated with intelligence: Books, a tree, an owl, spectacles… The first three objects are out of the question as far as horcruxes go. They are vulnerable, easy to destroy (as was made evident in the second year when Harry destroyed the diary) and if not destroyed by something or someone else, they can be destroyed by time. A book can decay; a tree can wither away and an owl can die. An ideal repository for one’s soul these objects do not make. Spectacles are out of the question, as well. Rowena Ravenclaw did not wear glasses. Even if she could have taken them off for portraits, her glasses would have been mentioned in the books if she had them. I would, therefore, have to speculate about symbols that could not have been so obvious: A diamond, a compass rose, or perhaps a quill.

Gryffindor—his hat and sword scrapped out of the picture—leaves very little to the imagination. Voldemort would not admire Gryffindor’s bravery. He would, however, admire Gryffindor’s ability to do battle. Gryffindor would have been a man of action, unsaddled by matters of strategy and planning. So maps and charts would be improbable. I favor the theory of weapons, or better yet, something protective: Shields, or armor.

Another possibility crossed my mind for a brief moment, mostly related to the night Voldemort gave Harry his scar, but I dare not print such thoughts as of yet. Its particulars are unsound and largely without basis. Unless I find something to support it, it is not worth recording in detail, lest they taint future thought processing. Noting that I did have this particular deviation is necessary, though. For future reference.

She leaned back on her seat and checked the time. It was three thirty in the morning. At around five thirty, she would have to retire to her chamber.

I’ll have to sleep in a coffin. How dreadfully morbid.

Reservations about coffins aside, Cicero did tell her that she would eventually grow more attached to the darker concepts of the universe: Death; fear; pain; viciousness.

“You won’t turn evil, you understand,” he had said. “But such matters would not seem so beyond you any longer.”

She didn’t know if it was something she could appreciate, but she supposed that if she had to sleep in a coffin and drink living blood, it only made sense that death, fear, pain and viciousness would seem less daunting.

Her fingers ran along the leather jacket slung on the back of the seat beside her. She had had the jacket for ages, but she hardly ever wore it. Her mother had bought it for her; said it would serve to add sophistication to her look since she liked wearing jeans so much. Hermione hadn’t thought much of if before, but now she liked it exceedingly.

Leather, she thought, almost affectionately. Dark leather. Used to be something alive…

She shook her head, shutting her eyes and willing the strange thoughts away.

Her gaze fell on Harry and Ron, hoping to draw calm from their peaceful forms.

So it caught her completely off-guard when she began to smell the sweet scent of their blood. Their heartbeats thumped in her ears and she began to see beneath their skins; where their blood pumped warmest.

Harry, in particular, was irresistible. Her mind was already making promises about the ecstasy of taking from her human lover. How he would be sweeter than sweet and so blessedly warm and alive.

Her fangs began to lengthen and she could feel her eyes going vampiric.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, rising to her feet to leave the library in a hurry.

She hurried away from the library doors, gliding down the stairs with the single purpose of putting floors between them and her.

Cicero had told her that this would happen; that she would look at her human loved ones and occasionally want their blood. Harry, especially, since thoughts of him were associated with carnal things.

Hermione was determined not to let her bloodlust with him win. She would tear out her own throat if that’s what it took. She would never, ever take from Harry like that. She would never drink his blood to sate her hunger. She had promised him she would only do so for love, and even that did not sit well with her.

“Taking blood from your human lover is a very intimate act,” Cicero explained. “Oh, a lot of vampires do it casually, of course. It’s the same concept as sex for humans. A lot of humans have sex whenever they feel like it, but it doesn’t remove from the fact that giving your body to someone is intimate. It could be very special, though some choose not to make it so. You, as a vampire, can have sex with someone without taking blood. We are still capable of—well—climaxing in the usual way, just that taking blood is another way of achieving that. It goes without saying that making love with another vampire might lead to an exchange of blood, but unlike taking blood from their humans, vampires do consider vampire blood exchanges very significant. Exchanging blood with a vampire sets temporary psychic links between vampire lovers. It only becomes permanent after several years of doing it with the same vampire on a daily basis, but the fact remains: You don’t do a vampire blood exchange with just anyone. Your lover would have access to your thoughts and feelings, if only for a brief period after sex. It’s not something you’d want with someone you do not trust unconditionally.”

As she recalled Cicero’s words, it occurred to her that whenever he explained something relating to coping with Harry, he always led the conversation to her association with others of her kind. She didn’t know if he was just being informative or whether he was actually trying to tell her something, but she was under the impression that Cicero thought that she would eventually separate herself from her human life and join the vampires completely.

She didn’t want to think about it that way, but it was a nagging thought.

Hermione went to the kitchen and activated the lights. She sat at the table and realized she had no real reason to be there. Ordinarily, she would be rummaging through the refrigerator and making herself some tea, but that wasn’t the sort of thing she could do now.

“Bullocks,” she muttered. She’d have to go back to the library, but she didn’t want to if her hunger was overcoming her.

There was nothing to do but sit there.

It was several minutes of silence before she heard a commotion at the kitchen window.

She looked, startled, and saw a raven tapping on the pane. The raven had a note attached to it.

Curious, she let the raven through and it stuck out its leg, the letter dangling from it.

Gingerly, she took the note. She was about to offer it a treat when it simply hopped out and left.

She watched it go before turning to the letter.

The seal was one she had seen before.

The coven…

She broke the seal and saw two words.

Its impact was immediate.

Look outside.

Frowning, Hermione went to the living room and cautiously peered out to the street.

At first she saw nothing. The moon seemed to have been covered by clouds making the night blacker than usual. Then she realized that there should have been streetlights, or even lawn lights from the neighbors. There was nothing but darkness.

Momentarily forgetting her hunger, she thought about alerting the others concerning the state of things when the moon suddenly broke free and cast rays of pale light over the streets.

It was then that Hermione saw it; a thick traveling mist blanketing the street. It gathered at the foot of a lamppost, twirling upwards like a tiny tornado and coalescing at the top of it before dissipating as quickly as it came.

In its wake was a woman in dark clothes perched calmly and gracefully atop the streetlight; hair flowing and blowing as if drifting in water. Her eyes glowed purple and she was looking straight at Hermione.

Hermione blinked, and the figure of the woman grew absolutely still; no sign of life.

And then Hermione heard it; a voice in her head so captivating that she would have wanted to wrap herself in that voice and die.

What does a vampire have to do to get an invitation around here? the voice asked, followed by a mental chuckle.

Hermione knew, to the very core of her darkened soul, that she was staring right into the eyes of Yasmin ibna Omar al-Khwarizm, Coven Master and Keeper of the Blood.

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A/N: Officially, this chapter has 13,213 words, from “Chapter Ninth” to “Keeper of the Blood”. You are now 13,000-words more read. Lol!

Buffy reference:

Buffy: You don't just sneak up on people in a graveyard. You make noise when you walk. You... stomp. Or yodel.

11. Chapter Tenth: Duality

Author’s Note: A particular reader asked me about coffins. Why does she have to sleep in them? I replied to his query in the review page but I decided I would go do some quick research on the matter in my vampire-book collection. I came up with a few answers and wove an answer of my own from there. I decided to cleverly (haha!) incorporate it in this chapter. Just so we all know. ;)

Buffy references abound. Well, not really, but I used a couple of pointy comebacks from the show.

Thanks again to Lady Diamond who betas so brilliantly it’s crazy.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: NC-17 (Hehe! Finally, eh? Just a bit, though.)

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Chapter Tenth: Duality

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Hermione glared through the grimy glass windows, trying to put a face to the phantasm that was Yasmin ibna Omar. Her vampire eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, seeing things more clearly in the dark than she ever did when she was alive. It was difficult to see Yasmin, though. The woman kept the shadows close.

No need to be shy, child, said the same silky mental voice. I don’t bite. Another chuckle rippled through Hermione’s mind.

Great, she thought. A snarky vampire. Just what I need.

So young but so serious! I shudder to think about how stodgy you’ll be at two hundred… if you ever live that long. But ah, Cicero did say you had a penchant for being… grim.

Hermione tensed, furious that this complete stranger could hear her thoughts. Cicero, at least, had only done it for her benefit. He never used his powers this casually. Frowning, Hermione tried to convey as much mental disdain as she could manage. I just woke up from the dead a few days ago, so you’ll excuse me if I’m a tad out of humor. You know what? On second thought, I don’t have to give excuses. You can just put up with my bad mood and screw yourself!

Yasmin grinned visibly. Screwing myself has its merits, but I’d rather screw with somebody else, if you don’t mind.

Hermione grit her teeth. She was at the brink of walking out of the conversation and pretending Yasmin wasn’t outside when the Coven Master’s voice cut through her mind again.

Now, Hermione… must you resort to such childish behavior? Cicero would be disappointed in you. After all, he was so confident that you would fit the profile of membership in the Coven.

As much as Hermione hated to admit it, she was terribly intrigued, and it wasn’t as if she doubted who this woman was. Somehow, Hermione was certain that she was who she claimed to be. Like how Cicero claimed he was Cicero and Janus claimed he was Janus. Vampires did not make deceitful claims about their identities. They might claim peace even if they meant to slaughter you, but they never lied about who they were. Too vain. Too histrionic and egocentric, what with the mists and sitting atop lampposts and such.

Muttering angrily to herself, Hermione stepped out of the house and stood at the porch. Yasmin had managed to make a mental connection, probably through the note, which had likely been spelled, but Hermione doubted if Yasmin could actually see her.

Hermione crossed the porch and walked beyond the wards, presenting herself for Yasmin to see.

The Coven Master smiled, hopping off the top of the lamppost and landing daintily on the ground, like she was stepping off a curb.

Up close, Hermione could make out the details of Yasmin’s exotic features. Yasmin’s skin was a beautiful shade of bronze, lovely in the moonlight. Hermione didn’t even know that was possible. Vampires were supposed to be bloodless, yet this woman managed to maintain this beautiful brown sheen.

Yasmin’s face was svelte, with a nicely tipped chin and perfect cheekbones. Her nose was regal and her purple eyes were large, and slanted. Dark make-up lined her eyes and made her gaze more penetrating. Her long inky hair fell in straight, luscious strands to her waist and her figure was perfect. It could’ve been the dress, but Hermione wagered that on anyone else, the outfit would look ridiculous, maybe even whorish.

The woman had on a long black leather coat that brushed at her ankles. It was buttoned up at the midriff but cut in such a way that it opened upward at the chest and downward from navel to hem. The velvet plum top she wore underneath the coat looked to be so tight that her breasts were in danger of popping out, and the black leather short pants she wore showed more thigh than was decent. Those same, impossibly long legs were covered in small-mesh fishnets and knee high stiletto boots that really didn’t do much to “cover” anything. And of course, a sexy vamp such as Yasmin had to have accessories. The choker she wore looked like a studded dog collar, but Hermione had no doubt that the purple-diamonds on them were real. A chain hung from the front of the choker like a pendulum, the frightening amethyst-encrusted pendant nestled happily atop the curve of her breasts. And of all things, Yasmin had a whip. Not a long, slithery one, but those short, riding crop types.

Hermione almost rolled her eyes. Right, of course she has a riding crop. Any self-respecting dominatrix would…

“You mean, this?” Yasmin held up the whip, smirking. “Oh, believe you me… when you have as many concerns as I do, your best relief comes from swatting incompetent underlings into submission.”

Hermione did not find that comforting in the least. It didn’t help either that Yasmin spoke without the least bit concern for flashing fang. Cicero had been quite tight-lipped, preferring to keep his fangs to himself. Yasmin, however, didn’t even bother retracting them.

Yasmin approached her and Hermione eyed the woman warily.

Hermione could feel the Coven Master’s gaze sweeping her as Yasmin prowled around, as if appraising her. It felt like forever and Hermione was already beginning to feel annoyed. She was just about to make a snarky comment when the whip came out of nowhere, hitting Hermione with a pert crack at the back of her hand.

“OW!” Hermione cried, stumbling away from Yasmin and cradling her hand. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Yasmin cocked a grin. “That mouth of yours is going to be the death of you, neophyte. Learn to control your impulses. Acknowledging power doesn’t have to mean you’re afraid of it. Understand?”

Hermione glared at her. “I give respect to those who’ve earned it from me.”

“Nobody has to earn your respect, Hermione. Not yet, at least. You earn yours, and then you can put on airs. That’s the way it goes. Right now, you’re nothing but a name, and that earns you shit. We may be immortal, but there’s no living forever if someone lops off your head to put you in your place.”

Hermione could not believe how offended she was. “You’re threatening me…”

“I promised you I wouldn’t, didn’t I? I’m teaching you. I might be more lenient to your cheek, but it’s a big vampire world out there. Nobody else would hesitate to do you in for any reason whatsoever… because you’re unaffiliated.”

Hermione swallowed, watching Yasmin for any sudden movement. “Unaffiliated? Are you saying that if I join your coven, I’m safer for it?”

“Maybe. But I’m not exactly recruiting you to protect you. I don’t offer sanctuary for shrinking violets. However, if you do join the coven, vampires will think twice about doing you in if you happen to—say… take their parking space.” A glint of dark humor pricked at Yasmin’s eyes.

Hermione had had enough. “Are you going to tell me what it is you do or are you going to lecture me all-night about the vampire pecking order?”

Yasmin smirked, putting a hand to her hip. “I will most certainly tell you what the Coven of Isis is for, but somewhere more comfortable, perhaps? Inside your house?”

“Nice try.”

Yasmin’s laugh was melodious and sensual. “You don’t trust me.”

“I have no reason to. I don’t know you.”

“You do realize that if you invite me into your home, it’s really not going to change anything. You’re not the ‘man of the house’ unless you own the joint and you have two balls and a schlong between your legs.”

Hermione stared at her, astonished. She knew about the ‘man of the house’ rule, but she never realized it was so literal. She always assumed it was symbolic of who was in charge of the house at a particular time, like now, with everyone asleep, she was responsible, and so she should be the ‘man of the house’.

That was the theory, at least.

On second thought, she shouldn’t expect an ancient spell to politically correct itself as gender-roles developed.

“Besides,” Yasmin continued. “I don’t need your invitation to force my way into your house. All that means is that the usual vampire deterrents would continue to affect me, and I’ve spent these past few centuries perfecting ways to defend myself against them—“

“If you hurt anyone in that house I’ll…” I’d what? “Erm—kill you…” Hermione stifled a sigh of exasperation. Even she didn’t find herself convincing.

Yasmin’s eyebrow arched. “Right. You know, I can actually teach you to say that and sound like you mean it. In fact, if you stick around long enough, you’ll sound like you mean it because you actually will.”

Hermione gulped but stuck to her resolve. “I’m not letting you in the house. Right now, you can’t see it, and if you can’t see, you can’t harm my loved ones. I’ll talk with you out here, if it’s all the same to you.”

Yasmin sighed and rolled her eyes. “Aiyayay… I’ve forgotten how impossible newbies can be. Very well, I’ll get us a more comfortable place to talk.” She closed her eyes for a few seconds before opening them again, muttering something about being one of the most powerful vampires in all of Europe and still be subject to the tantrums of a seventeen year old diva.

Hermione resented being called a diva.

A stretch Jaguar came out of nowhere and rolled into the curb. It was sleek and shiny silver, like it had been polished with mercury. The driver stepped out, immaculately dressed in a grey, chauffeur’s cassock. He went to the back and opened the door for them, his eyes feral enough to be so obviously belonging to a lycan.

But however impressive it was, Hermione scowled.

“I won’t leave with you to God knows where,” she said haughtily. “I don’t want Harry waking up and thinking that I’m missing. He’ll be worried half to death! He’s been through enough—“

“Oh, shut up and get into the car. We’re not going anywhere. We’re staying right here. I just want to have this meeting without us standing around the front lawn like a couple of whores doing the walk of shame.”

Hermione turned up her nose, crossing her arms over her chest and giving Yasmin a pointed, raised-eyebrow look. “Well, I don’t look like a whore.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Get in.”

Shooting Yasmin a deadly look, Hermione peered into the car. There were three men. One was human, the other two vampire. She could see scars on the human’s neck and wrists and he wasn’t the least bit ashamed of it. She could smell him, too, and he smelled delicious.

They were all dreadfully pretty and they wore perfectly fitted trendy clothes, like they all just came off the runway.

Grumbling, Hermione slid in, trying to avoid making contact with the two vampires who were smiling at her from their seats.

Yasmin followed, taking the seat across Hermione’s and letting the human drape his arm over her shoulders. Hermione wanted to bite his throat open and suck him dry.

The door was banged shut but the inside remained brightly lit.

She felt someone flicking her hair and she swatted the wandering hand away irritably. She was hungry and this was no time for games. All the boys were smirking, as if they were so terribly amused with her. That only served to annoy her more. “Which boy band did you blokes prance out of?” she hissed, glaring at them.

Their smiles wilted.

Yasmin chuckled. “Testy, testy… Here, take this.” Yasmin handed Hermione a vial with a dark red liquid. It wasn’t thick enough to be blood.

“What is it?”

“Synthetic blood. It’s like a power drink. It sates your thirst until the next time you feed on real blood and tempers your vampire impulses. Go on. It’s harmless enough. And it’ll help you get through the fasting period that I assume Cicero is putting you through.”

“Cicero never told me about this…”

“Cicero is a traditionalist. He believes in disciplining your blood lust the old way. I’m not knocking it. I think every newly risen must learn the basics of controlling one’s hunger, but for now, I need you to listen to what I have to say and not have you rip the human’s throat out.”

Hermione blushed and hastily emptied the vial in her mouth. It was like a potion and it worked instantly. The blood lust was gone. “W-Wow…”

Yasmin took the empty vial. “Amazing, yes? But it isn’t blood, therefore it’s not something you should take on a regular basis. Real blood - lifeblood - has no real substitute. If you keep on taking this synthetic blood, you’ll grow ugly and repulsive and weak. Do you understand?”

Hermione nodded.

“These are my top Blood Kin Abraham and Rashad.” She gestured to the two vampires with her whip before putting a hand on the human’s thigh. “And this is Henry. He’s very special to me. Aren’t you, Henry?”

“I suppose you can say that.” He regained his smile, satisfied that Yasmin had acknowledged him.

Hermione stifled a wince. She didn’t know what “Blood Kin” was. She had a feeling it didn’t mean they were her brothers or cousins. She especially didn’t want to know why Henry was special.

“They answer to me and to the coven,” said Yasmin. “They’re loyal and they do as they’re told. That’s all you need to know about them for now. We’re here to talk about the coven itself. What it is. Have you ever heard of vampire laws, Hermione?”

Hermione hesitated then nodded. “Cicero mentioned it briefly, but I don’t know what they are.”

Yasmin cocked a smile. “A vampire can choose whom he turns, but it doesn’t mean he can turn just anyone. A vampire must drink blood, but it doesn’t mean he can slaughter whole families and leave a bloodbath behind for the media to pick up on. The laws were put there so we can live in a world where humans don’t feel the need to hunt us during the day and slay us in our sleep. It happens often enough with the laws intact. It could spin out of control if we give humans the world over a reason to unite and systematically decimate us.”

Hermione stared at them in astonishment. “You’re enforcers.”

“Regulators, actually. Our primary concern is to maintain a strict standard of vampirism. Keeping the peace between humans and vampires is a goal incorporated into our primary aims; our main job is to prevent the wrong kind of vampire from crawling out of the woodwork of human society. We make sure that vampires don’t call too much attention to our kind. We make sure that pre-pubescent, crippled, maimed and hyper-dependent humans aren’t turned. We take care that turn-happy vampires are executed. We do not allow unwarranted human massacres and serial killings. We answer only to the Most Ancient Ones, everyone else answers to us.”

Hermione fidgeted. “Well, who died and made you King?”

“A countless number of vampires have died for it, but the Coven of Isis has been around since anyone can remember. We’re older than they are. We’re stronger than they are. We kill our own coven members should they be the ones to break the rules. No one is spared from the righteous hand of Horus and the brutal love of Isis.”

“And you don’t kill humans?”

“We have killed humans, but only when they’re aiding and abetting the vampire transgressors.”

Hermione studied her. “Who decides what’s wrong and what’s right?”

“The Most Ancient Ones. There are three: Nekhbet, Dendera and Khalfani. They are powerful in themselves and need no affiliation. They are at least over a thousand years old and frankly, have grown weary of our petty affairs. They let us young ones rule the society, but they believe in maintaining the laws, and since they understand the kind of influence they have, they serve as our supreme judiciary. No one questions their wisdom.”

“And who sees to them if they do wrong?”

“No one can see to them. If one of them does wrong, then we all bloody well have to live with it.”

Hermione took a moment to mull all of this over. “So now you want me to become a regulator?”

Yasmin shrugged. “Strong sense of justice. Will of steel. High profile ball-buster. Oracle recommended you… what’s not to like about you, dahling?”

“Magic I can do…”

“Most offensive wizarding spells are useless against vampires.”

“I know, so let me say this: You do realize that I’m a quill-pushing geek, don’t you? I’ve no athletic inclination whatsoever and I squeak when I get hysterical. I’m not exactly an ideal soldier, you know.”

Yasmin scoffed. “Your current state of ineptness isn’t a problem. The coven can train you to do your job and do it well. You’re a vampire now, Hermione. If anything, we’re built to kill. We’re fast. We’re strong and we’re ruthless. Any vampire can rip your heart out through your ribcage, but the coven teaches you to kill more effectively. With proper training, no ordinary vampire or werewolf can lay a hand on you without you taking it off them first.”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t want to kill anybody!”

“Oh, believe me, Hermione. Sooner or later, you’ll have to, might as well get paid to do it and get yourself affiliated to boot.”

She fidgeted uneasily at that and struggled to regain her bearings. “That’s another thing! Where do you get the money to fund this vigilantism? And don’t tell me you’re a billionaire with a butler called Alfred.”

Yasmin looked at her fingernails. “Well, my butler’s name is Giles, actually, and I don’t think there’s a name for how rich I am. Really now, Hermione. My ancestors were the rulers of Egypt. Where do you think all that gold went to? Tomb raiders? Ever wondered why the lot of them would die after they purloined the gold off burial chambers? Honestly, after thousands of years, you’d think anyone would believe it when I say my ancestors and I are pretty savvy when it comes to investing money.”

Hermione couldn’t believe it. “So it comes straight from your pocket?”

“You say that like it’s preposterous.”

“It is!”

“Well, honestly, I don’t even feel it. I have so much money that they’re just numbers to me, now. Units. Suffice it to say, I’ll pay you pretty well.”

Hermione’s lips pursed. “I don’t want your money. I’m not going to be some vampire cop…”

“Cops pull people over for speeding. We slay rogue vampires. There’s a difference.”

“Whatever! This isn’t my cup of tea,” she squeaked.

“You English and your cups of tea. And for God’s sake, stop squeaking and settle down! Or else I’ll give you a lump or two.”

Hermione sulked, burrowing into her corner and crossing her arms over her chest.

Yasmin arched an eyebrow. “This is an offer of a lifetime, you know. You can’t honestly tell me you’d prefer some kind of desk job to this power I’m giving you. Just try to imagine yourself working in an office, Hermione: Shuffling papers for all eternity. Filling out acquisition slips and making cover letters for corporate vampires who still manage keep the bullshit alive even after death. I think I’d rather swallow a blessed cross.”

Hermione tried not to acknowledge the fact that when Yasmin put it that way, it sounded horrendous to have a corporate career. “Well, I’ve always been very fond of research. I’m sure vampires have researchers. I’d be very glad to do that for all eternity.”

“Ah, yes. Only slightly better than a corporate career, isn’t it? With less pay. And even less thanks. In the coven, I certainly support my field agents when they want to do lab work and research. Sometimes it comes with the territory, you understand. Wait… isn’t that what you do with those humans of yours… what are their names? Ah, yes. Harry Potter and Ron Weasley. You vanquish evil with them but before you do that, you go to the library to prepare yourself and them, don’t you? Why, Hermione… the more I think about it, the more perfect you are for this job!”

Hermione glared at her. “It’s not the same!”

“Isn’t it? We’re ridding our society and theirs of bad vampires. If it wasn’t so hokey, I’d say we were fighting for the side of right. Isn’t that what you want? Fight for the side of right?”

Hermione’s fists tightened on her lap. “And where were you when Janus was turning me?”

Yasmin said nothing. She didn’t look chastised. Her face would have been an expressionless mask if her eyes weren’t boring into Hermione’s brain.

Hermione felt her confidence shrinking as the pulse of power emanating from the Coven Master hit her.

After several seconds of dead silence, Yasmin finally spoke. “Janus’s turning of you is only one of many reasons why we are hunting him down. It’s bad enough he turned an Untouchable, but he has betrayed the coven. To a human, no less.”

Hermione’s gaze shifted briefly to Henry. If he was offended by the comment, he made no show of it. She gulped and replied. “Janus works for Voldemort now, doesn’t he?”

“Janus works for no one but himself. He has affiliated himself to these Death Eaters. He craves power. He thinks he can steal it for himself by joining Voldemort.”

“Voldemort can read into minds. Voldemort would have known of his intentions and killed him right off.”

“Janus brought him something that Voldemort cannot ignore.”

Hermione’s alarm bells went off and she sensed that this was information the Order could use. But she steeled her voice, forcing herself to sound nonchalant. “Oh? And what is it?”

Yasmin stared at her a moment before letting a smile break out of her lips. “That’s privileged information. Join the coven and maybe I’ll tell you.”

Hermione cursed.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Hermione.”

She set her jaw, straightening in her seat. “I still won’t join your coven.”

“Aside from the killing, give me one good reason why you won’t.”

Hermione stared at her incredulously. “Isn’t that reason enough?”

“For a vampire? No. It is our nature to kill. When you suck blood, you’re draining life. You’re killing them slowly. You’d have to give me a better reason than your silly qualms.”

Hermione grit her teeth, hardly believing she was hearing all this, yet… in some twisted way, it made sense, and she didn’t doubt its veracity. “If I join your coven, I separate myself from my humanity completely. Isn’t that correct? Everything you do. Everything you stand for… it’s about being a vampire, and if I’m going to believe in your goals, I’m going to have to live it. There’s no room for the truly human in the Coven of Isis. Your humans are there to feed you. They’re ghouls is all they are…”

Henry made no objection. In fact, he was grinning. Abraham and Rashad, too.

Yasmin chuckled. “I’m glad you understand that much. You can’t live among humans forever, Hermione. First you’ll outlive them, and then you’ll grow tired of them. This I know from experience and the countless vampires I’ve watched wearing away at their human lives. You can’t run away from your kind forever, because it will catch up to you.”

Hermione turned away from her to look out of the car window. She couldn’t see number 12 from where she was.

Her door opened from outside and night spilled into the car.

“You call me when you’ve thought about it,” said Yasmin, making idle circles on Henry’s knee with the tip of her whip. “Cicero knows how to contact me.”

“I’m not joining your coven.”

“I’m not taking that answer tonight.”

Their gazes met and neither of them blinked. Finally, Hermione stepped out of the car. It was the driver who held the door and Hermione stared at him.

“Do you like doing this?” Hermione asked. “Serving her?”

The werewolf smirked. “Better her than somebody else.” He closed the car door and hurried back to the driver’s seat.

Hermione watched as the Jaguar rolled away and disappeared into the mist.

She didn’t know why but she felt terribly depressed.

Going back into the house, she spotted Crookshanks in the hallway. It was just the thing to make her feel better. She hadn’t seen her pet in more than a month.

“Oh, Crookshanks! I’ve missed you, you little beastie,” she crooned, getting on her knees on the floor and holding her hands out to her fluffy orange pet.

Crookshanks froze mid-stride and stared at her, flicking his tail slowly. He didn’t come any closer.

Her brows knotted slightly. She wondered if it was possible for her cat-kneazle to forget about her after a prolonged absence. Maybe he was being snitty because she left him behind with her parents while she went off with Harry. “Crookshanks? It’s me, boy. You still remember me, don’t you? Are you angry I left you with mum and dad?”

He didn’t come any closer. He even sat on his haunches, tail still flicking, while giving her what looked like a wary stare.

Sighing, she got to her feet to go to him. “I’m really sorry I had to—“

Crookshanks flinched as she approached, as if he was preparing to bolt.

Her feelings of depression returned. Now my pet’s frightened of me. “You know I won’t hurt you Crook—“

Crookshanks jumped and darted away, disappearing into the dark hallways.

She sighed and shook her head. “Wonderful.”

Wearily, she made her way back to the library. Her hunger was gone, so she could be with her boys again.

They were still deeply asleep when she got there. It was a bit cold, so they had the fire going. The lights danced over their features, the slow beating of their hearts faint in her ears.

She looked at Harry. His glasses had been knocked askew, tilted from cheek to chin. Quietly, she knelt by his chair and carefully took the glasses off. She folded it and put it on the nearby coffee table. He’d have to feel around for them in the morning.

Half blind without his glasses, she thought, smiling affectionately down at him.

She brushed hair from off his forehead and she felt the scar against the pads of her fingers.

It was such a strange scar. It didn’t look at all like a regular healed scar. One would think that even scar tissue eventually blended back into the color of one’s skin, but Harry’s scar looked forever like it was scabbed. Like a tiny, cavernous fault-line just slicing down his right eyebrow. Healers said it was because of what put it there. Because the curse had been an Avada Kedavra. Hermione didn’t think they knew any more about it than she did.

She traced the line of the scar and he flinched. She hissed quietly, cursing herself for forgetting that her hands were cold even if she didn’t feel cold.

He stirred.

“Sshhh…” she whispered, hoping to ease him back to slumber with her voice.

He wasn’t going to buy it. Slowly, he opened his eyes, squinting through the blur. “Hermione?” His voice was hoarse from sleep.

“Go back to sleep, love.”

He smiled that smile of his that melted her insides, even if he did look terribly drowsy. He took her hand in both of his and kissed her knuckles before settling it over his heart. He closed his eyes again, sighing. “What time is it?”

“Bit past four.”

“You going to sleep soon?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to tuck you into your coffin?”

Hermione’s automatic reaction was to think that it wasn’t funny, but she actually gave it a second thought and realized it was. Belatedly, she laughed. She feigned trying to pull her hand from his grasp, as if to punish him.

He chuckled and held on to her, pulling her close.

She settled on the floor beside his chair, propping her chin on her free hand and leaned closer to him.

He smoothed her hair from her face. “Why do you even have to sleep in that thing, anyway? Sleep in your room. On your bed. I’ll make sure the curtains don’t get drawn and no sunlight gets through.

She smiled but she shook her head. “Didn’t get to that chapter in the book yet, did you?”

“’Fraid not. I can’t read that fast.” He felt around for his glasses and she gave them to him while she began to explain.

“The enclosed nature of the casket—the silk lining, the complete and utter darkness, the cleansing properties of wood—helps to preserve and regenerate what life-energy we have left so that we’d be fully recharged for the next evening. I can sleep in a bed for a day or two, but then by the third day I’d be considerably weakened because I wasn’t able to contain and optimize replenishment with what life-energy I had left going to bed. We have bodies that demand so much from the elements around us yet we give nothing in return. We can only take so much, so we have to make the best of what we’re given. Plus… the coffin keeps me relatively safe. If I sleep on a bed, I run the risk of someone opening the curtains and having the sun give me a nasty burn.”

“I reckon I’ll have to cancel that beach trip I thought I’d surprise you with.”

She grinned. “We can always go at night…”

He smiled. “Yeah, we can, can’t we? I can apparate us both and we’ll do the hokey walk-in-the-beach-hand-in-hand thing.”

“I’d love to be hokey with you.”

“Oh, I can be terribly hokey.”

She looked forlornly at him, remembering her meeting with Yasmin. Should she tell him? Is it even important?

I’ll tell him some other time. He has enough on his mind right now.

“Alright?” he asked. “Did something happen while I was asleep?”

There really was no escaping him, but she decided she wasn’t going to tell him the whole truth just yet. “Crookshanks is frightened of me.”

His eyebrow arched questioningly.

She went on. “I saw him in the hallway and he wouldn’t come near me. When I tried to go to him he ran away. Crookshanks has known me for more than four years and he’s smart enough to know who to trust. He doesn’t trust me anymore. What does that say about me?”

His brows knotted compassionately. “Hermione… don’t think about it too much. Crookshanks is smart, but he really is just a beastie. What does he really know, eh?”

“He acts on instinct,” she said painfully. “I’m not natural, is the thing…”

He sat up and coaxed her to join her on the chair. They fit if she sat just the right way with her legs across his lap. He draped his arm over her shoulders, rubbing her arm comfortingly as she leaned against him.

“None of this is going to be easy,” he said.

Dire as the prediction was, she found real comfort in the fact that Harry knew that they should expect hard times, and that his awareness made him better prepared to deal with them. She nodded, closing her eyes and curling up against him. He held her protectively and she loved the security he gave her.

“But I promise I won’t ever give up on you,” he said softly. “I promise. I love you.”

The emotion in his quiet voice made her tremble and gently, they kissed. The deepening of their kiss was a slow climb but it felt nice and warm to be making out in this leisurely pace.

With the effects of the blood potion still strong in her system, it was easy to hold her fangs back. It was easy to control her vampire impulses, and that thought began to stir her desire. It was such a familiar sensation, so human, that she ached to feel it in all its dimensions.

Ron made a loud sound in his sleep, as if to remind them of his presence, and he shifted on the couch, knocking his book off him completely. He continued to sleep.

Harry’s breathing was ragged as his gaze shifted from Ron to her, his eyes glazed with arousal. “I want you,” he whispered.

There was no question about it. Gracefully, she got to her feet and wordlessly led them to her old bedroom.

With the door closed and the charms placed, Hermione accepted his slow, languid kiss, and she realized that he was deliberately being gentle; taking it slow, because they were both unsure about what to expect. She loved him for his consideration.

She pulled away from the kiss to remove her jumper and he helped her. They slowly peeled away each other’s clothes, trailing kisses on exposed skin as they went. By the time they reached the bed, they were down to their under-things, stripped practically, and vulnerably bare.

Hermione could hear Harry’s blood roaring, but it didn’t ignite hunger in her. It took hold of her desire and pulled it in its rush.

The potion… she thought in desire-ridden amazement. The potion’s curbing my vampire impulses... And that realization was exhilarating.

Closing her eyes as she lay back in the soft sheets, she let Harry pave kisses down her breasts just as he unhooked her bra. When he took her breast into his mouth, his tongue teasing the sensitive peaks, she arched and felt her fangs aching to extend. She realized with mild surprise that it wasn’t a distraction. She ran her own tongue over her teeth, soothing the impulse to elongate them.

His lips marked an upward path and she waited blissfully for his lips to fall upon hers again. As he kissed her, his hand trailed down her body, pulling her knickers off her. She let him and watched him toss the lacey black panties away. His hands slipped under her to cup her thigh and she sighed with anticipation, his warm hands gently prying her legs apart.

He tilted her chin up with a push of his lips and let their mouths meet again in a tumble of tongues just when his finger slid inside her.

The contact sent unbelievable sensations pounding through her and she mewled with arousal.

Harry pressed his lips to her ear, whispering words of sweet encouragement through his ragged breathing.

“You make the most wonderful sounds, Hermione,” he said, the feel of his breath on her ear doing unspeakable things to her imagination. “I missed hearing you like that… I missed drawing those sounds out of you… and into you… and out of you… again… and again…”

Oh, God, she thought, as his hand moved to the cadence of his voice. The double meaning in his words was not lost on her, either. I want him so badly right now…

Making more of those sounds he declared he adored, she let herself enjoy the gentle tease before moving the process along to be joined much closer.

She helped him shed his last bit of clothing and he pressed himself atop her. She could feel the hardness of him against her stomach and the anticipation grew more painful.

Harry Potter, when perfectly dressed and decent, looked absolutely unassuming. His boyish good looks, made endearing by geeky glasses, oft-used trainers and ill-fitting pants, was not exactly the stuff of fantasies, but unclothed, Hermione always thought she had to be one hell of a lucky witch. Sometimes, she would daydream about that part of Harry and couldn’t help but think that it was perfect, and that she wanted to knit it a scarf, or something, to convey her appreciation.

And all of him is mine, isn’t he? she thought with arousing satisfaction.

Squeezing his body between her legs, she moved her hips against him, eliciting a moan from his throat.

He cupped her face in his hand, rubbing the pad of his thumb on her lips. She sucked softly on the tip of his finger, prompting him to kiss her so deeply that she thought they would be locked in that kiss forever.

His hips shifted and she adjusted with him so that he could finally be inside her. They moaned into each other’s mouths and for a moment, they held still, savoring the sensations, and then he was moving, his slow rolling thrusts a honeyed torture.

She closed her eyes, loving the fire he was stoking between her legs and letting her fangs go just the slightest bit. She felt them with her tongue and Harry moaned.

He was watching her with intense fascination. “That was so hot, Hermione…”

A smirk crept up her lips but before she could say something to encourage the pillow talk, he was kissing her again and the cadence of his hips meeting hers shifted as he moved himself to a more stimulating angle.

Hermione had never felt such bliss before, and the luxuriant pace felt wonderful. She traced her fingers teasingly against the skin of his shoulders, tracing the line leading to his neck. She felt his pulse under her fingertips and she placed her lips over the same spot of skin. She nipped him with her teeth but was very careful not to pierce him.

He made a sound, like a low, barely discernable groan. “Do you want to… bite?”

She closed her eyes, letting the urge to sink her teeth beneath his skin drift away with the thrust of their hips. She wasn’t ready for that kind of lovemaking. There were yet so many things she didn’t know. She didn’t want to ruin something so wonderful and safe for something, as of yet, beyond the realm of her understanding. This was what she wanted for now, this familiar, tender lovemaking that she had been dreaming of while they were apart.

Letting the feel of him inside her overcome her, she shook her head, cupping his face between her hands as she arched her back to the wonderful sensations. “No biting tonight, Harry. Just keep doing that… oh!”

He lifted her back off the bed, sitting himself up to have her straddling him. With her knees to the bed, she had almost complete control, and grabbing the wrought iron foot railing of the bed behind him, she quickened the pace.

How he loved that if the sounds he made were any indication. He clamped his hands on her flank and tightened his grip, easing her into a rhythm they both enjoyed.

She caught snatches of his mind again, and the many “Oh, yes, Hermione…” in many variations that might have embarrassed a sailor only served to encourage her. Everything was different when they were together this way. Their inhibitions were completely stripped away, leaving them utterly accepting of anything. He could be commanding her to fuck him and she’d find it intensely erotic.

His lips and tongue trailed fire on her shoulder and the hollow of her throat, while his hand wandered to cup a breast, moving to a gentle massage.

It felt amazing and the tingling within her began to gain momentum.

He groaned and she knew he was close, too.

He was kissing her shoulder again, but when he got to her throat, he used teeth. She felt them scrape lightly over her skin, the low growl from his throat sending vibrations through her that shot straight to her center.

It was the end of her. She came, crying out at the burgeoning climax.

Harry tumbled right after her, his moans filling her senses utterly and completely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were lying side by side on her bed, a thin sheen of sweat covering his arms and shoulders. He was blinking sleepily as he stared at her, a slight smile on his lips.

She smiled back, pushing hair off his damp forehead. His glasses were still on.

At the beginning, his attempts to keep them on resulted in them clumsily falling off his face, or getting skewed or worse, getting crushed beneath them, but practice, it seemed, made perfect. He didn’t like taking his glasses off. He wanted to see, he said. He wanted to see her. That was enough for her to help him achieve this feat, and he did, quiet admirably.

They whispered appreciation of one another as they bathed in the afterglow, telling each other how much they missed each other’s bodies; each other’s touch. They pressed their palms together and twined fingers, relishing the intimate talking.

Harry grew sleepier as the minutes ticked by.

“You’ll be here when I wake up?” he asked, softly, wistfully.

She stared sadly at him, tracing the planes of his face with her finger. She knew that he already knew the answer, but she could see in his eyes that he hoped she would lie to him just this once.

She remembered the very first time he asked that same question. She had replied yes, she would be, that she wasn’t going anywhere without him and he had looked so pleased by it that she treasured the memory, still. This time, her answer would be different. So many things have changed, and she had already gone somewhere he couldn’t entirely follow.

She made no reply, choosing silence instead of the cruelty of the truth.

He sighed, closing his eyes and wrapping her in his arms. She snuggled into his embrace.

“I love you,” she whispered after a long moment of silence.

He whispered back the same words.

Several minutes later, Hermione could hear the evenness of Harry’s breathing; could hear the steady beating of his heart. He was asleep.

She slipped out of his embrace, watching him for several minutes. Even with his face so relaxed, she could make out the rings surrounding his eyes and the tight angles of his face. He lacked sleep; he was tired and he probably hasn’t been eating all that well.

Just as soundlessly as she did most things now, she began to weep for him, and for her. She wasn’t sure why, except that there was this malignant, tumor-like feeling in her heart that compelled her to cry for a loss she couldn’t begin to define.

Wiping the tears from her face, she leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on his lips, pulling the covers over him more securely and setting his glasses aside.

Quietly, she rifled through her drawers for a nightgown. Her clothes weren’t there anymore.

Ah. Of course. They’re in the dungeons, now.

Dressing in the clothes Harry had removed from her, she crept out of her old room and forlornly, miserably, headed to the new…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry opened his eyes to the streaming light of day, everything a blur. Sleepily he felt around for his glasses, found them on the nightstand and put them on. The clarity of his vision opened his eyes to the fact that he was alone in bed.

He sighed unhappily, checking the time as he did so. It was a little over nine in the morning.

Hermione would be in the dungeon.

He hoped at least that she managed to get over her “willies” and settled herself comfortably for her daytime sleep. He pulled himself out of bed and put on what clothes he and Hermione had scattered the night before. His eyes ached from lack of sleep and he wondered if he shouldn’t just keep sleeping so that he’d be wide-awake when night rolled around. In the midst of the drama and chaos of his life, all he really wanted anyway was to keep being with Hermione. That was evidently difficult if they were separated by time zones, as in day and night zones.

Buttoning his jeans and grabbing his shirt from the floor, he sat on the edge of her bed, trying to jumpstart his mind.

It was strange. Usually, when he had just made love with Hermione the previous night, he’d be bright and chipper the morning after, no matter how much sleep he lost. But today, he just wanted to sink back into the covers and not come out.

It’s because she’s not here. It’s because you know she hadn’t been sleeping beside you after you fell asleep.

Just when he was seriously considering plopping back into bed to wallow in self-pity, Ron unexpectedly ambled into the room still wearing the same clothes he had on when he fell asleep in the library. He was yawning, scratching his tummy. His red hair was impossibly pillow-pressed.

Ron sat beside him, leaning his elbows on his knees and hanging his head between his shoulders.

Harry eyed him briefly through his scowl. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to wake you,” replied Ron drowsily. “I knew you’d be here.”

“Oh, did you, now?”

Ron nodded, mugging a one-eyed squint and tapping two fingers to his temple. He pointed those same fingers at Harry. “Had you pegged for a randy bastard. Knew it was only a matter of time before you got your pervy hands on her.”

In spite of himself, Harry laughed, crumpling his shirt in his hands as he slumped forward in the same way Ron was. “Yes, well…”

Ron sighed, pulling something from the back pocket of his jeans. “Here.” He tossed it in the air.

Harry caught it even before he could decipher what it was. It was moments like these he thought that one day, someone would toss him a ticking time bomb and he’d catch it anyway. It was evident enough that his friends tossed him things just to see if he could catch it. It was that Youngest Seeker in a Century thing. Everyone wanted to see it for themselves.

Harry hefted the object and saw that it was a gift-wrapped box. It fit in his palm, was half as long as his hand and was three fingers wide. It felt a bit heavy and it was thick.

His eyebrow arched questioningly.

Ron yawed again. “Happy birthday. Belated, anyway. I’d have given it to you sooner but I was still teed off at you until yesterday.”

Harry couldn’t conceive of Ron being pissed at him all this time but thought better of it. If Ron had taken Hermione just when he thought things were going to work out between him and her, he’d be royally pissed at Ron, too, probably for a longer time.

“Thanks, mate.” Harry began to tear the wrapper off. “So, we’re good now?”

“Yeah.”

“You still—you know… have a thing for her?”

Ron shot him a slanted look, shrugging one shoulder. “Thought I was over it, but when she died… well, you realize things when shit like that happens. I’m not over her, but what am I gonna do? Take ‘er from you?”

Harry arched an eyebrow. It’s not that Ron would ever do something like that consciously, or that Hermione would ever venture to betray him, but having known his own gamut of emotion, it wasn’t a completely far-fetched concept. One can’t hide what one feels, and given enough time, it would show. You can pretend three hundred sixty four days of the year that everything was completely fine but on that three hundred and sixty fifth day, you’d give out and do something really stupid.

“What are you gonna do, Ron?”

Ron seemed mildly surprised that he’d been called on it. Then he scoffed. “I’ve been winning Sidekick of the Year for six straight, Potter. What do you think I’ll do?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. Fame and fortune’s easy to give up to someone else… this is Hermione we’re talking about.”

“All these years, I’ve never been jealous… no, wait. That doesn’t apply at all, does it?”

Harry sighed.

Ron made a gesture indicating that he was resigned to the fact. “Alright, I’ve always been jealous of you for something, but I’m not jealous of you and Hermione. I’m not. I just wanted her, you know? What she and I might have had would’ve been different from what you have with her now, right? It’s stupid to be jealous when what you have with her and what I could’ve had with her are two completely different things.”

It wasn’t exactly what Harry expected, but at least Ron was telling himself that he wasn’t going to be jealous about them. That was a positive start. “So, now what?”

“My plan right now is to learn to live with it without secretly plotting your demise. Eventually I’ll be able to move on. Besides, if I find out I can’t handle it I can always fight you for her. You swing like a girl.”

Harry sneered. “I do not. You caught me off guard that first time.”

Ron shot him back with a smirk. “S’all about the follow-through, Potter…”

Harry gave a snort of disdain but figured he’d let Ron have the last word. It was only fair.

Tossing the wrapper of his birthday gift aside, Harry lifted the lid and saw a penknife. It wasn’t as fancy looking as the one Sirius had given him but it was still of a good make and quality.

Harry couldn’t help but grin, taking out the penknife and flipping the blade open.

“Thought you might like that. You never replaced the one Sirius gave you. I know it’s not the same…”

“It’s brilliant. Thank you. Be handy for more breaking and entering.”

They exchanged smirks.

“So, chief,” said Ron. “Any plans for today?”

“Git. Don’t call me that. And yes, I do have plans. I was planning to read and research.”

Ron scratched at his chin, looking slightly befuddled. “I must have woken up in some alternate universe.”

“Yeah. You’re not jealous of me and I’m planning on spending my waking hours in the library. It’s the bloody Twilight Zone.”

“The what zone?”

“Never mind. I’ll go get ready and I’ll meet you in the kitchen for breakfast.”

“Breakfast! Now, we’re talking.”

“S’all about prioritizing, Weasley.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry joined Ron for breakfast after he made a quick trip to the dungeon. He had just wanted to make sure Hermione hadn’t dropped unconscious before she reached her coffin. And when he got to her chamber, he stood looking at her silver blue coffin as the light of the torches bounced off its shiny surface. He couldn’t very well lift the coffin’s lid to look inside. The book said that doing so activated survival instincts in vampires, and that they were most dangerous when woken unwarrantedly from their sleep, because most of the time, vampires are only ever disturbed in the day when someone wanted to stake them through the heart.

He didn’t tell Ron that he’d gone to check up on Hermione. Ron had openly admitted to him that he still had feelings for her. If he could spare Ron any hurt in that respect, he would. Heck, maybe one day, he’d be able to do something as ordinary as set his best friend up with someone. Get him to move on more quickly.

Harry tried not to dwell on the fact that whatever Ron was, he was still the guy Hermione put in second.

After breakfast, they did go to the library to pick up where they left off the previous night.

Hermione’s things were still on the table, and Harry recognized the journal he’d given her lying tantalizingly open.

He couldn’t help himself. He leaned over to read it, half fearful of what he would find.

Harry was relieved to discover that what she had written was her theory on horcruxes. A rather fascinating theory, at that. The bit at the end was a somewhat confusing, but he couldn’t very well put any meaning to it. It did amuse him vastly when he read the part about Death Eaters giving Voldemort blowjobs.

“What’s that you got there?” asked Ron.

“Hermione’s notes.” He closed the notebook. He’d read enough. He sifted through the books Hermione had been perusing the previous night and began to flip through the pages, unconsciously following the trend of thought her theory began.

He discussed some of it with Ron, and together, they looked through founder objects that might lead them to something. At the very least, they wanted to have something for Hermione to process when she woke up. They knew enough to let her do the real thinking.

Occasionally, they would go to Remus for advice. He was easy to find, almost always in his study.

They did this all day, pausing only for a late lunch. Before they knew it, it was nightfall.

Harry smiled when he saw Hermione coming through the library door, only to realize that her eyes looked intensely vampiric; ringed in several shades but feral, nonetheless. Even Ron noticed it, jaw dropping in surprise.

He didn’t know what it was, or what it meant. She didn’t seem angry. He’d seen her angry, with Shacklebolt. This was much different.

She was dressed to go somewhere, again in dark, forbidding clothes. Harry wondered if he should be letting her go on her own. There was obviously something wrong.

He motioned to reach out to her. “Hermione—“

She flinched away. “I just came by to say I’m going to see Cicero. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Is it even safe for her to go out alone? “How are you going to get there? You said you can’t apparate—“

“There’s a car waiting for me outside to take me to his office. I’m all set. So don’t worry.”

“But—“

“I have to go, Harry!” she practically hissed.

Harry couldn’t help feeling snapped at and not deserving it. “Fine. Sorry to trouble you,” he muttered.

She stared at him, nothing in her eyes changing, but the lines on her face softened. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.” It was the only apology she offered. “I’ll see you two later.” She turned and left.

Harry didn’t want to be overly sensitive, but she could’ve been a bit warmer.

“What the hell was that?” Ron asked.

Harry glared at him.

“I mean, I know that was Hermione, but did you see the look in her eyes?”

“Yeah…”

“It’s like…”

Harry’s eyebrow shot up. “Like what?”

“Like a dragon’s… when they’re…” Ron fidgeted uncomfortably.

“When they’re what Ron?”

“When they’re hungry…”

Harry felt his stomach drop. Of course. He felt like an idiot. He should’ve known.

He slumped in his seat, taking his glasses off so he could close his eyes and massage the bridge of his nose. He felt the day catching up on him right then. He noticed that he was developing a headache from all the reading and lack of sleep. He also realized that Remus had been right: that there’s no knowing a vampire until you’ve met one.

“I’m going to catch a nap,” Harry said, getting up. “If I’m not awake by the time she gets back… just tell her where I am, will you?”

Ron just nodded, eyeing him with some concern.

If Ron asked him if he was alright, he’d scream. Ron didn’t ask. Harry almost wished he had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Hermione returned to 12 Grimmauld Place, she was well sated and in better spirits. Cicero had been a patient listener, and as usual, he had calmed her frayed nerves. When she brought up Yasmin, Cicero did not offer any advice, even when she asked for it. He merely said, “This is a decision that you alone can make.”

It was mildly annoying, but she knew Cicero was right. Anyway, she didn’t know why it was such an issue all of a sudden. She had been so sure last night that she wouldn’t.

As she walked past the reception hall and came to the living room, she was surprised to see that there was Ron, but no Harry to meet her.

“He’s asleep,” he said by way of explanation. “Bloke didn’t get much sleep last night, I reckon.” He smirked at that.

Hermione felt herself blushing. “Git. I suppose it’s just you and me then. I’ll let him sleep. He doesn’t look like he’s had much of it lately.”

“Yeah.”

She gave him a speculative look. “You don’t look like you’ve had much of it either.”

He seemed almost surprised that she’d noticed.

Sighing, she touched his shoulder and squeezed. “You’re my best friend too, you know…”

“Th-Thanks.”

“Ron Weasley, what are you on about? We don’t have to thank each other for caring.” She hugged him and felt him tense considerably.

Nonchalantly, she pulled away from him. She didn’t want to ask what had him so uncomfortable. She had a feeling she knew and she didn’t really feel like talking about it. “Have you had dinner yet? I’m fairly sure I can still cook something edible.”

“I’m done. Mum cooked some earlier…”

“She came by?”

“She’s still here, actually. They all are. They’re in the drawing room. I’ve been waiting down here to—erm—prepare you for that.”

Hermione stared at him a moment before chuckling. “Considerate of you. Let’s go, then. I don’t want to keep them waiting.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t feel like it. I can tell ‘em all to go away.”

“It’s alright. I’m better now… I didn’t upset Harry too much, did I? When I left?”

“J-Just a little, but he’ll be fine. He just needed to sleep it off.”

She smiled, taking his hand. He tensed again, but she didn’t let go, dragging him with her to the stairs. His grip relaxed halfway up.

Outside the drawing room doors, she could hear the chatter of voices. She paused momentarily and turned to Ron. “Don’t leave me, alright?”

She didn’t know when she got so needy.

Might have been the dying thing, you know… she thought snarkily to herself.

He cocked a smile. “I won’t.”

She smiled back, bracing herself before she opened the door.

Silence greeted them.

All the Weasleys, save for Bill, Fleur and Percy were there. Even Charlie came, and he didn’t have to.

They were all staring at her, no doubt shocked by her appearance. She didn’t really take it against them. The first time she saw herself in the mirror, she wept. It wasn’t because she looked ugly, or anything. In fact, it was quiet the opposite. Her vampirism had touched her features and improved on them, but she didn’t look quite the same. She looked at her reflection and saw a vampire. That’s all she saw. She was still getting used to it herself. So really, she couldn’t resent the Weasleys for looking at her like she was some freak.

Remus cleared his throat, trying to break the surface of the silence that was drowning them. “Um… hullo there, dear. Just got back?”

She was just about to nod when Ron threw his arm over her shoulders and gave her a friendly shake while he swept his gaze over his family.

“Well, don’t just stand there!” Ron cried enthusiastically.

The twins were the first to react. They brought indoor fireworks and promptly detonated them, greeting her enthusiastically. Molly came to her in tears, crushing her in an embrace. Arthur patted her head fondly, telling her in his usual, warm tone, that he was glad she could be with them again. Charlie was more formal than the others, but there was a fascination in his gaze that was unmistakable.

She thought, amusedly, that she was about as interesting to him as his dragons. That was completely fine. At least he wasn’t afraid of her.

She was in a sea of Weasleys, and from the corner of her eye, she could see Ginny, hesitating as she tried to make her way through the bodies and through the wall that she herself had put up in the Burrow.

Hermione gave her a tight-lipped smile and a nod, hoping that Ginny would understand that meant they’d get to talk later.

Ginny sighed with what looked like relief and smiled back.

The drawing room was alive with Weasleys and it was as crazy as it ever was being in their company. The twins kept teasing and Molly kept admonishing them. Arthur and Remus watched it all with parental satisfaction while they bent heads and exchanged a few quiet words. Charlie watched her like a scientist would an experiment and Ginny sat nearby, laughing or pouting, depending on what the twins were doing.

Ron sat beside her the whole time, making good on his promise not to leave.

In a way, she felt a bit guilty. If Harry had been around, she’d have asked Harry to stay by her, but she also knew that asking Ron to be her stronghold now was also her way of saying that she needed him, too.

Later, as the activity died down and the Weasleys spread out more thinly, Ron said he’d go see if Harry wasn’t up yet.

She motioned to protest but was stopped when Ron’s eyes roved pointedly to Ginny.

Hermione realized he was trying to give them time alone and she smiled, nodding.

As soon as Ron was gone, Ginny sat by her, eyeing her cautiously.

The younger girl tried to say something but was visibly hesitating.

“It’s alright,” Hermione said to help her along. “I don’t bite.”

Ginny blinked, shocked at the joke.

Hermione blushed, chuckling. “Vampire humor. Sorry.”

“Goodness,” Ginny breathed. “I’m just not sure I know what to say, is all. I mean, I know I apologized to you in the letter and all, but I wanted to—“

“Ginny, you don’t have to apologize about anything. Not about my being this way and not about anything before that. I mean… I suppose I should be apologizing to you for… I don’t know, about the Harry thing, but it somewhat makes me feel silly. I’m not sorry that Harry and I are together and I don’t really want to say anything along the lines of ‘I’m sorry I stole your boyfriend’, because lord knows… it wasn’t like that.”

Ginny sighed. “You didn’t steal my boyfriend,” she muttered. “Harry dumped me, remember? Didn’t mean I didn’t hate you like a bitch when I saw him kiss you like that at the Burrow, though. You wouldn’t believe the names I called you whenever I got to thinking of it. I wanted to bat-bogey you so bad, but I didn’t want Harry to hate me. It was the only thing that kept me from hexing you… and smothering you in your sleep.”

“Ah.” Hermione tried her best not to laugh. She remembered teasing Harry about Ginny killing her while she slept. Had she known Ginny had contemplated it, even as a joke, really, she might have slept on the living room couch, or at least put warding charms around herself.

“But I was just being stupid, I suppose,” Ginny continued. “I guess I thought he’d still want to get back together with me, or at the very least, I thought he still had feelings for me before you came ‘round, but I’d been kidding myself for weeks, anyway. He kept talking about you in his letters.”

“Yes, well, we were… doing stuff together a lot.”

A visible blush crept up Ginny’s cheeks and Hermione realized that Ginny understood exactly what she had meant.

“Research and stuff,” Hermione added hastily, hoping to cover up for it.

“Right. Like when Harry and I went off to ‘study’.”

Hermione gulped. She didn’t know if she wanted to hear about Harry’s intimate history with Ginny. Hermione knew she and Harry were each other’s first time, but still! Harry and Ginny had definitely snogged and he had at least copped a feel from the gorgeous redheaded heartthrob. “Erm—“

“Sorry,” said Ginny, blushing even redder. “Residual bitterness, but it’s not as bad as it sounds. I’m actually… I’m not as hurt as I thought I would be. I mean, really, I’m quite amazed at how… relatively painless it is for me. Maybe I didn’t really love him.”

Hermione looked at her in mild surprise. “You thought you did?”

“Well, shouldn’t I have been? I mean, I’ve liked him since I was ten and he saved my life!”

“I—um—suppose so. But… now you’re not sure if you did?”

Ginny seemed to give it a quick thought. “Something like that. I think maybe he wasn’t—I don’t know—what I expected? Maybe I thought he’d ride into the sunset decked in armor and I’d be waving my handkerchief at him as he went, or something. Too many romance novels, I suppose.”

Hermione smirked, understanding some of it. “You didn’t expect that he’d be standing around in his trainers with his shoelaces untied and his shirt coming out one side of his pants, did you?”

Ginny chuckled softly. “Nope. Aside from being the Chosen One, he’s pretty ordinary.”

They laughed quietly together. They both knew there was nothing ordinary about Harry, but where Ginny had expected something bright and shiny, Hermione had more profound expectations of him. Ginny had seen a brave, unshakable warrior. Hermione saw a young man who had had to fight and find the strength to do so in the worst circumstances. Ginny had seen a bloke who wanted to have wonderful times with her. Hermione had seen a person who needed a reprieve from the madness. Ginny had wanted to be his girlfriend. Hermione hadn’t even known what she wanted to be, but she made herself available, anyway.

Neither of them was better than the other for it, but there was a time for everything, and Ginny’s time was done. Hermione’s time was now.

The drawing room door cracked open and Harry slipped through, followed by Ron.

Hermione caught Harry’s gaze and she offered him a smile, hoping he would smile back. He did, but before he could cross to her, Arthur, Lupin and Charlie stopped him midway to engage him in conversation. Ron remained just right behind him, straight-backed and arms crossed, listening intently. Hermione wondered if they weren’t mirroring some kind of unspoken rank in this ominous war.

“I heard about what Harry did to Mad Eye,” whispered Ginny. “Moody was livid. Dad was there when Tonks told him and Moody kept saying Harry’s possessed, or totally gone of his mind.”

Hermione grinned. “Moody called him mad? That’s something you don’t hear about everyday.”

After several more minutes, Harry and Ron were left alone and they joined Hermione and Ginny.

Hermione was relieved when Harry sat beside her and immediately slid his fingers through hers.

She leaned over and spoke softly in his ear. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

He squeezed her hand, his gaze intense enough to dissolve the presence of everyone around them. “It’s alright. Don’t worry about it.” He kissed her on the cheek, just missing her lips by a breath.

Ron cleared his throat to catch their attention. They looked up, blushing slightly.

Hermione chanced a peek at Ginny and saw that Ginny was giving serious attention to her fingernails.

“As I was saying,” continued Ron. “Dad said there’s going to be some sort of meeting of the order about all the recent muggle-born attacks, some time in the next two weeks. Harry has to go to the meeting, and I’ll go with him. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, Hermione.”

It took all of her willpower to keep her voice steady. “Why wouldn’t I want to go?”

Ron and Harry watched her intently, probably waiting for her to falter. She stared back at them defiantly. She was going to go to that meeting especially because she had important information to share. She, of course, had to find out if there was any merit to it at all. How, she wasn’t sure, but she fully intended to have it verified.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” said Ron.

Harry shot a glare at him. “Ron.”

Hermione frowned. “Tell me why I shouldn’t? You seemed to have made up my mind for me.”

“I haven’t—“ Ron stopped, looking terribly displeased about something before he visibly backed off. “Fine. Do what you want. I don’t really know anything, anyway.”

“What are you on about?”

“Nothing. I’m shutting up now.”

“I suppose,” said Ginny, “that there’s no chance of me being included in this so-called meeting.”

Ron snorted as he exchanged glances with Harry. “Like hell.”

Ginny scowled and got up to stand over her big brother. “I was in the Department of Mysteries too, you know!” she hissed with whispered rage. She didn’t want the elders hearing them argue about it.

“And ma made me regret it after we both got out of it alive,” Ron hissed back. “Could you even conceive of how damning it would be for me if I got you killed? Nope! Never again. So sit your Weasley ass back down!”

She pouted but complied, slapping away Ron’s hand that was meant to be conciliatory.

Ron glared at her and spared Hermione one, too. “I don’t know why I put up with you witches at all.”

Harry just shrank back and let Ron get what he deserved.

“We can’t all be like Lavender, Ron,” said Hermione. “We don’t just walk and talk. Thinking is an integral part of our make-up, in case no one’s told you that.”

“Testosterone is a funny thing. It turns all men into morons,” added Ginny snootily.

Hermione had a distinct feeling Ginny wasn’t just talking about Ron.

Harry shrank back even more.

“Oy!” cried Ron. “Are you telling me girls haven’t lost countless productive hours plagued by unwarranted sexual thoughts and feelings?” He was looking exclusively at Hermione, making it clear that Ginny wasn’t included in this part of the conversation.

Harry pretended he was interested in his shoelaces.

“No!” said Hermione and Ginny together.

Ron glared at them in disgust. “It was a rhetorical question, not a poll!”

He was saved from further punishment when Molly came over to them and fussed over Harry. Of course, she mentioned how unwell he looked and that he should have some of the Shepherd’s Pie she brought over from the Burrow. She patted his shoulders as if to check if there was enough meat in his bones. When she was satisfied that he would make good on his promise that he would take care of himself better, she began to make her goodbyes, herding the rest of the Weasleys as she did so.

Hermione got her hugs goodbye from everyone, even Charlie.

Molly promised they would drop by again.

Arthur told Remus that Ron would see them out, which Ron obviously didn’t like, but Ron wasn’t given much of a choice.

Ginny looked over her shoulder and gave Hermione and Harry a final wave before the drawing room doors were closed.

Hermione had a distinct feeling that Remus had stayed behind for a reason.

Remus gestured for both of them to be seated. When they were comfortable, Remus visibly tried to find the words before he began. “Hermione, I have to talk to you about your parents’ funeral arrangements.”

She should have known it would only be a matter of time.

Harry put his arm over her shoulders, trying to catch her gaze as he held her hand.

How she managed to keep her composure was beyond her. “I know they made arrangements with the All Saints Anglican Cathedral. There are funeral chapels there where they’d be lying in state, yes?”

Remus nodded, regret etched into his face.

Hermione went on. “They’d be cremated and their ashes entombed in the nearby Memorial Center, which is still part of the church.”

“Hermione, there’s the matter of—“

“I know. It’s hallowed ground. I can’t be at the wake and I can’t visit their tombs.”

Harry looked mildly surprised before his eyes shone with compassion. She tore her gaze from him. If she looked any deeper, she’d crumble from the inside out.

Remus nodded, sadly. “We can make arrangements for the crematorium, of course, so that it doesn’t have to be on hallowed grounds. You can at least see them before they are cremated. Minerva and I discussed it and if you so desire, we can make different arrangements about their entombment—“

“No,” said Hermione in a cool and steady voice. She felt frozen inside, like nothing could faze her. It was frightening, but it numbed the pain and it was more welcome than crippling grief. “They were devout Anglicans. I can’t deny them their final resting place. Let them have their Memorial Center. I—I’m fine with sending them off in the crematorium.”

“Alright,” said Remus gently. “With regard to your parents’ estate, I’m relieved to say that they made arrangements with a wizard administrator who is quite attuned to the special needs of your case. You’re still officially the beneficiary of your parents’ estate.”

Hermione nodded. It wasn’t something she had expected, but it wasn’t something she could be happy about, either. She’d rather have her parents back, if it were all the same to the fates. “Good. Is that all that needs to be talked about, Remus?”

Remus gave it a brief thought. “There’s a meeting of the Order…”

“I’m going to attend.”

“Right. Just wanted to confirm that. We’ve covered everything for now. I’ll owl Minerva and let her know of your intentions regarding your parents.”

She swallowed, managing to stifle the overwhelming emotions. “Thank you. I don’t think I could’ve… I don’t think I could have endured making all those arrangements. I would have forced myself to do it, but it would have been very hard. I appreciate what everyone’s doing for me.”

Remus patted her shoulder. “You’ve been through enough and it’s all we can do to help.”

Her eyes threatened to water but she fought the urge back. She managed a tiny smile filled with gratitude.

Remus then excused himself and she saw him give Harry a significant look.

She didn’t know what it meant; probably something along the lines of “take care of her” or something. Right now, she needed to summon the strength to keep herself intact.

She told Harry she was going to the library to do more research, and that if he wanted to, he could go on ahead of her. She just had to look for something in her old bedroom.

Maybe he saw the hollowness in her eyes, because he looked terribly concerned, cupping her face tenderly in his hand as he rubbed the pad of his thumb on the apple of her cheek.

“Alright, Hermione?” he asked in a gentle, undemanding tone.

She hardened herself, looking back at him. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“For many reasons. Your parents... you haven’t really… talked about them, have you?”

No, I haven’t. I haven’t wanted to. I feel nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing at all…

“I’ve talked to Cicero about them,” she said hastily. It was a lie, but that might stop him from asking her to talk about it with him.

He didn’t flinch. “Have you?”

She could tell by his tone that he didn’t believe her. “I have. Look, I’ll meet you in the library, alright? I’ll be there shortly. Don’t worry about me.” She kissed him for good measure and left to head to the upper floors.

She entered her room and searched the drawers of the dressing table without bothering to turn on the lights. She was a vampire. She was comfortable in the dark.

A lot of her bric-a-brac hadn’t been moved to her chamber yet and she assumed Tonks and Harry had left that for her to move, just so she would know where everything was when she transplanted the items to the dressing table in her new chamber.

On the top-right panel she found what she was looking for: The rosary. There were two of them. She had bought one for her mother and one supposedly for herself. She had planned to give them both to her parents. Swallowing, she riffled in her drawers to use something to pick them up with. She didn’t know if the rosary was blessed, but it was better to be safe. She found pocket tissue and she took a thick wad, using it like an oven-mitt to pick up the rosaries. Carefully, she wrapped the rosaries in the same tissue, pocketing it so she could put them in a nice handkerchief later. She would offer the rosaries to her parents, before they were cremated.

She wasn’t all that religious. What little theology she possessed in her fact-dependent brain had been washed away by her initiation into the wizarding world, but the rosaries would have meant something to their parents and it was the only way she could think of to offer her last respects.

She was about to head to the library when the rosaries in her pocket began to feel unbearably and painfully hot.

Yelping, she yanked the rosaries out of her jeans pocket, the beads searing her fingers. She dropped them and gasped from the pain as she cradled her hand against her.

Smoke wafted from her burnt skin, the smell of branded flesh crawling up her nostrils.

It was about as much as Hermione could bear.

Sinking to her knees on the floor, rosaries whole but smoldering nearby, she let loose the dam of tears and the wracking sobs. The walls she had built around the death of her parents shattered and she was unequal to the grief. It was painful when she tried to silence her cries of anguish.

She was so lost in her emotions that she never noticed someone coming into the room until he was right there, enfolding her in a strong embrace.

She had no will to fight off what comfort he offered. Sinking into Harry’s arms, she wept and gasped until her tears were spent and blood was all she had left to cry.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Ah, nice and melodramatic ending for this chapter, eh?

Props to the movie “Prime” starring Uma Thurman, where her character, Rafi Gardet, quite wistfully says, “His penis was so beautiful I wanted to knit it a hat.”

12. Chapter Eleventh: Funeral

Author’s Note: Angst galore in this chapter. Even the sex’s… well, you’ll see.

Many, many thanks to Lady Diamond, my beta-reader.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: NC-17 (Vampy entrée, served.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Eleventh: Funeral

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry looked up from his seat on the couch and peeked furtively at Hermione who was scribbling something on the coffee table. At the other end of the couch was Ron, slouched over in his sleep, mouth hanging half open. The fireplace was alive and the flames flickered to fight the shadows cast by candles lighting the room. In the last week, he had somehow managed to shift his sleeping time to four in the morning, onwards. Sometimes he woke at ten, sometimes eleven, and on one occasion, twelve. He had, in essence, rearranged his internal clock. It was something he had planned to do, anyway. He wanted to spend as much time with her as he could, and he couldn’t very well do that if they were awake and asleep at different times.

He tried to watch for changes in her expression. She was writing in her journal again and he was terribly curious as to what she wrote in it. She took turns, writing in her journal and on a separate, beaten up notebook for research. He could tell she wasn’t making a copy of her research notes because he observed that she wrote in her journal after bouts of silence and inactivity, which she thought no one noticed.

But Harry noticed. He was noticing all he could of her lately. Last week, he had found Hermione in tears on her bedroom floor. He had held her and she cried against him for quite a long time. It was as if the loss of her parents had finally come crashing down on her, and the impact of it shattered the walls she had built around it. After she had settled down and cried everything she could, she spoke some about it, telling him that in the last three years, her parents had felt very much separated from her, that she had inadvertently pulled away from them because she was so caught up in her wizarding world. The gap between her and her muggle parents widened continuously, and looking back, she wasn’t even sure if the chasm could have been bridged. She was going to try, anyway; on her birthday. But they had died, and now she couldn’t even attend their wake.

He had listened, and he really didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t look like she needed him to say anything. When she was done talking, they were silent for a long time until finally, she sat up, wiped her tears away and apologized for ruining his shirt. That was the last time she spoke of it. In fact, that was the last time she spoke about any of her feelings at all. She hadn’t told him all that much afterwards.

She told him she loved him, constantly, and she said so with such quiet emotion that her words always pulled him in, but these last couple of days, he was beginning to think that she said it to distract him from asking the more significant questions. Of course, he knew she meant it when she said she loved him, but it bothered him that she saw it as an opportunity for a diversion. She didn’t want to talk, period. That probably meant she needed to.

He’d told her off-handedly, once or twice, that sometimes, people needed to talk to someone to come to grips with certain things. She had understood exactly what he was telling her, because both times, she said, “Oh, yes. That’s what Cicero tells me all the time, so that’s why I think a therapist is so important.”

It didn’t escape him that she had evaded the topic altogether. Maybe she hadn’t been lying, but he knew she wasn’t talking to Cicero at all, at least not about the things eating away at her. He wished she would say something. He couldn’t bear the thought of having her breaking from the inside while trying to put a brave front on the outside. Listening to her cry the way she did in her bedroom was like listening to her soul shattering. At that point, all he could do was hold her.

Every night, she would rise from sleep and leave the house, presumably to go to Cicero’s office and perhaps even to feed. He had managed to learn not to be so bothered by this. It was necessary, after all. Then she would return, acting mostly like her old self and showing him, and even Ron, her usual affection. Just a few hours before the coming of dawn, she had, on two occasions, popped open a tiny vial and consumed its contents. When he asked her about it, she readily explained that it was a synthesized form of blood, to sate her hunger when it became unbearable. She said it wasn’t nutritious at all, and that it’s only purpose was to curb her vampire instincts until she could feed again. She also explained that Cicero told her to use it sparingly so that she wouldn’t grow dependent on it. Apparently, she was training herself to need blood less frequently.

In the two times she drank the synthetic blood, they’d made love after. The sex was amazing, like she had been bottling up all her sexual frustrations and poured them into those two occasions they finally shagged. He had to wonder what role the potion played in all of it, because other than those two times, she managed to resist going all the way with him, which understandably drove him crazy. She’d respond to the kisses, and the teasing touches, but he could tell she put a stop to it when the kisses got a little too intense, or when the touching began to get more intimate. It was almost as if she wanted it as much as he did before she remembered she had to stop it. He had thought about asking her what was going on, but he wasn’t very sure how. There were certainly other more important things to talk about, but he had contemplated broaching the subject as a way to make her open up to other matters. After all, they were most honest about their feelings when they made love. Maybe talking about sex would make her less guarded.

“Hermione,” he said softly, hoping not to wake Ron.

Poor Ron. He hadn’t really ventured to adjust his body clock, so he always ended up falling asleep in the library. Harry usually nudged him awake so Ron could transfer to his bedroom, but the two instances where Harry and Hermione snuck out to do their business, Ron had been left by himself.

She looked up from her scribbling, smiling that closed-lipped smile of hers. “Worried about your apparition test tomorrow? You’ll be fine.”

He had almost forgotten about it. He wasn’t worried about it at all and she knew it. It was just like her to make such a clever diversion.

He went to her, taking her hand. “Nope. Not worried at all. This is something else.”

“Something else! Sounds mysterious.”

He smirked. “I want to show you something.”

She seemed reluctant to leave her work. “What is it?”

“You’ll see. It’s no big surprise, mind you, but I’ve been wanting to show it to you forever and I couldn’t bring it up in front of Ron.”

She grinned mischievously. “Is it kinky?”

“Well… yeah, actually.”

She seemed mildly surprised. She obviously hadn’t expected him to say yes.

He chuckled. “I promise you, it’s nothing wonky. I dare say you’ll like it.”

“Oh, well, if you say so…” She winked, grinning.

Laughing softly, he pulled her to her feet and she let him, both of them snatching glances at Ron to see if they had disturbed him.

He led them to his room and he pulled the book from beneath his nightstand. He sank to the floor, leaning his back against the bed. He chose that spot deliberately, hoping to convey that he wasn’t just making excuses to get her to shag. For one thing, he never needed an excuse, but right now, his primary objective was talking.

She seemed relieved, anyway, that he had sat on the floor instead of the bed. He could see it by the look on her face. She sat beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder as he showed her the book.

She read the cover and giggled softly. “Is this a sex book?”

He chuckled. “Among other things, but it’s mostly about having a relationship with a vampire. It tells me what I ought to expect about you, how to deal with certain situations and what things please you. I looked up your sensitivity to scents and I found out—“

“Oh, you did?” Her cheeks had turned as pink as her vampire self allowed.

He grinned. “No need to be embarrassed. It’s not like you could help it.” He assumed that she had asked Cicero about it, and it was just the kind of thing Hermione might find mortifying. Each time he had slept in her bedroom, he had essentially swum in a pool of her scent. It had gotten into his hair and every pore of his body. Bathing could never really remove the smell entirely, and Hermione’s sense of smell was particularly attuned to it. The fact that she could smell herself on him marked him as hers. For a vampire, that was terribly enticing, because that meant having a certain degree of power over someone, and power, to a vampire, was a kind of aphrodisiac.

“Harry, I want you to know that I don’t think you’re my property or anything like that…”

He laughed easily. “That’s reassuring.”

“It’s just that it’s instinct…”

“Does it make you want me?”

Her cheeks turned redder than ever, but she replied. “Yes. So very much.”

“No complaints here, then.”

She smiled a bit and tentatively flipped through the pages.

They read out passages from the book, alternating between laughing about it and talking about its more serious points. He was right about gauging her interest on the matter. For Hermione Granger, so long as there was a book, then that was half the issue won.

“It’s true about the leather, you know,” she said a bit shamefacedly. “There’s… something about wearing it that’s just empowering. It’s because it was something alive, Harry. It’s awful, but it’s true, and I can’t help myself, being this way. I don’t even want to know how I feel about fur. I never ever wanted to wear fur. It’s barbaric and they kill animals for it, but now… I don’t know. I’m afraid I’d love fur.”

Harry couldn’t help the tiny grin that crept from his lips at her politics. “There are worse things than liking fur, you know.”

She tore her gaze from him, playing with the corners of the book. “I know…”

He noticed that she was using that tone again, the one that had her thinking a million other things in spite of saying so little. “Hermione—“

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

At least she was acknowledging the fact that there was something to talk about, this time.

“You can’t shut me out,” he said, gently. “And you can’t shut yourself in, either.”

“I talk to Cicero about it.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me you’re talking about all of it with Cicero.”

She shook her head, keeping he gaze lowered. “Cicero… has a different perspective of things.”

Harry frowned. What the hell does that mean? “Hermione, please let me in. I’ll just listen. I won’t even say anything—“

“You can’t—you can’t possibly understand!”

That hurt. He cared for her. Wasn’t that enough? “How can you say that?”

“You’re joking, aren’t you? Isn’t it obvious enough?”

He was beginning to feel frustrated. “What are you talking about?”

She was beginning to look frustrated, too. “You’re human, Harry. I’m a vampire. We’re just DIFFERENT!”

He was beginning to wonder how their conversation had gone from something very pleasant to her raising her voice to him. However it happened, he felt like she had pushed him viciously away, slammed the door in his face and bolted it from the inside. He took a deep breath to calm his tautened nerves. “The problem with you, Hermione, is that you think I’ve blinded myself to what happened to you. I know you’re a vampire, alright? Every single thing I do reminds me of it, whether I’m with you or not. In fact, when I’m not with you, I remember it even more. When you’re not sitting at the dinner table with us, I remember that you don’t eat the same as we do anymore. When I go to the library, I’m reminded of how I have to read about vampires so that I don’t royally screw things up by being ignorant of your kind. When I wake up during the day, the first thing I think is that you’re asleep in the dungeon; in your coffin, and that I really want to wake up with you but I can’t. So don’t tell me I don’t understand how different we are.”

Her gaze hardened. “I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with me, then.”

“Gods, no. You won’t go that direction. I won’t let you. You know that’s not what I meant. You’re just tying to distract from the real issue.” He was starting to get angry. “Stop it. I just want you to talk to me and not shut me out. How are we supposed to cope together if you don’t tell me anything?”

“Harry, you don’t want to hear it. You just don’t.”

“And how do you know that? That’s what the Order used to think of poor little Harry Potter—“

“Don’t pull your Order bullcrap on me, Harry,” she hissed.

“You’re absolutely right! This is about you and me, and it’s not me that needs reminding of that.”

“D’you think this is just about you being all nice and informed about what I am for our relationship to work out? I hate to break it to you, but that’s not all there is to it. You can read all the books about human-vampire relationships and you’ll know shite about what really matters. You’ll only really know when everything is crashing and burning all around you and you—and you…” Her brows pinched. It looked like she was going to cry.

He hardened his heart. “What? And I what, Hermione?”

“And you think, ‘I can’t do this anymore…’.”

The heartbreak in her voice, the sheer admission of this profound insecurity, was enough to make his heart wrench. Now they were getting somewhere, and he had a feeling this was only the beginning; that he was only scratching the surface of her issues. “I won’t ever think that…”

“Then you won’t ever truly understand how being with a vampire could be.”

He frowned. “That’s just not fair. For me to make you believe that I understand, I have to want out of this relationship?”

She didn’t reply. The silence was painful.

Harry never realized how excruciating this talk would be, but he knew Hermione wouldn’t be holding back if it was something shallow and petty. Her issues always ran deep, hardly ever what they appeared to be on the surface. In first year, when they found her crying in the girl’s bathroom at Hogwarts, it hadn’t been because Ron called her a nightmare, it was because all her life, friends never came easy, because she was too smart, or too bossy, or too bushy haired, or her teeth were too big. When she walked out on Madame Trelawney’s class, it wasn’t just because she didn’t believe in divination, it was because Trelawney, a crackpot and pseudo-seer, had the gall to tell her she wasn’t good at something that had to do with school, and that was unforgivable, because Hermione took great pride in her academic powers. When she said yes to Viktor Krum to be his date at the Yule Ball, it wasn’t because she was making anyone jealous, but because in Viktor, she saw someone who respected her, and liked her for who she was. When she acted up last school year, it wasn’t because of Ron or hormones, but because she felt unneeded, unwanted and useless. There were other instances where everyone had misjudged the depth of her feelings. Even he, the one who had always known her best, couldn’t claim to fathom those depths completely.

Now they’ve come to this, and he could only imagine what was running underneath the surface.

“I already told you,” he said with quiet resolve. “I’m not going to give up on us.”

“I know you won’t.”

He couldn’t tell if she was happy about it or something else, and that was infuriating enough. His patience finally ran out. “What the hell do you want from me, Hermione?”

Her expressionless mask crumbled, brows pinching as she took his hand. “Nothing, Harry. Absolutely nothing. In fact, I’m constantly afraid that I’m asking too much from you.”

He sighed. He pulled her into his arms and she sank against him. “You’re not. You’re not…”

Their discussion ended there, and while Harry knew the issue was far from closed, he dared not force it any further.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following night, Hermione, along with Harry, Ron, Remus, McGonagall and Tonks, portkeyed to the crematorium.

They were a grim group, all dressed in black. Tonks even darkened her hair, though there were unmistakable streaks of blue.

Hermione saw the open coffins of her parents from afar. Shiny brown caskets set atop what looked like gurneys. The wood gleamed amber against the orange flickering fire of the incinerator. She wasn’t all that surprised that the sight of the coffins didn’t affect her as much as she expected, after all, she’d been sleeping in a coffin of her own for the past week.

Her black shin-high leather boots made pert sounds against the marble and she wished she didn’t have to wear them, but they were the only shoes she had handy that didn’t look ridiculous with her black, dressy outfit. It was a dress her mother had bought for her to wear to a distant relative’s funeral. The dress looked smart, young and, expensive. Her mother had even bought her one of those black mesh veils and dainty black shoes to go with it. What happened to those shoes, she hadn’t the faintest clue, but she remembered thinking when she first saw the entire ensemble that she wouldn’t be caught dead in the grim haute couture. The irony of it all was amazing.

This was the first time she had worn it, of course. She had managed to worm her way out of the other funeral, but now here she was, at a funeral she was ten times more reluctant to go to.

Surrounding her were wizards and witches dressed in mourning robes, all except Harry, who had opted to wear a muggle suit. Somehow, she appreciated the gesture. Her parents were muggle. She was dressed like a muggle. He was showing his support for her by dressing thus.

The vicar met them while the crematorium technician stood by the coffins, stoically watching the proceedings.

Her eyes roved to the remains of her parents. They were both perfectly made up, like wax statues. She half-expected to see ghastly gashes across their throats, but there was none. The wounds had been concealed.

There were flowers stuck to the lining of the lid of both her parents’ coffins, arranged rather well with springs of grapevine, intertwined tulips, irises, daffodils, lilies and a single alstroemeria.

After the vicar offered his condolences to Hermione, never noticing how strange and unearthly the face behind the veil was, he began the prayers.

Hermione held a crumpled handkerchief in her hand but she wasn’t using it. Her grief was great but she fought to hold her tears at bay.

She leaned against Harry and he put his arm around her, holding her tight.

When the vicar raised his bottle of holy water to sprinkle the caskets with, he found it mysteriously dry. There wasn’t a drop of holy water left inside.

Hermione knew any one of her companions could have been the culprit. She was grateful to them for their care and consideration.

It was interesting how Catholic and Christian religious items had the power to repel vampires. The common belief was that vampires were agents of the devil, therefore the agents of God could fashion holy weapons to fight them. This was, of course, an idea propagated by one of the most powerful wizards of the time.

Approximately two thousand years ago, a fisherman named Symeon was born into the Jewish faith. In his later years, he would meet two men who would forever change the course of history. One was a seer, a prophet, named Jehoshua. The other was Julius, a very ambitious wizard.

Symeon was dubbed by Jehoshua, his spiritual leader, as Cephas; Kipha in Aramaic meaning “rock”, and translated into Latin as Petrus. The man whom the English would come to call Peter was said to have betrayed Jehoshua three times before the poor prophet was nailed to a cross. Wrought with guilt and driven by duty, Peter preached the word of Jehoshua and Jehoshua’s God. Shortly after Peter took on Jehoshua’s mission, he met Julius, a strange man who possessed strange powers that seemed “miraculous”. Julius, in muggle history, remained quite anonymous, but wizard history suggests that it was Julius who persuaded Peter to take his teachings abroad. Peter then traveled all over the world, presumably to evangelize, but wizard history whispered about an alchemical spell Julius intended to create, the ingredients of which could only be found in the most exotic places on Earth. The ambitious wizard wanted to contain the power of patronuses in objects so that he could convert “heathen” wizards to Peter’s religion. It was simply, for Julius, a quest for power, and his spell would make excellent material for propaganda. Evidently, Julius was quite willing to point to vampires and say, “They’re dark creatures; evil, therefore you must protect yourselves against them. Join our faith, and you shall be protected.” It was in Rome, Peter’s place of death, where Julius completed the spell, and impressively enough, it was so powerful that it continued long after Julius’s bones had turned to ash and long after wizards were gone from the “holy” service. Whatever artifact he used to contain the spell and work the charm, it was brilliant enough to enchant the millions of holy items connected to the church Peter built, affecting even the churches which separated themselves from the Catholic-made institution—known as the Vatican—to form Episcopalians, Anglicans, Baptists and most of those who acknowledge the existence of Jehoshua, or Jesus.

Julius had created a spell so powerful and effective that even muggles could manipulate it through certain elaborate rituals performed by ordained priests, and since no one knew its source, it wasn’t likely to go away anytime soon.

Hermione was snapped out of her musings when the vicar told her to pay her last respects. She nodded and looked to Harry.

Harry then placed the rosaries himself, one for her mother and one for her father, after which the caskets were closed.

The technician rolled the coffins in place one at a time. Tonks and McGonagall stood by Hermione as Harry, Ron and Remus helped haul the coffins over from their gurneys to the conveyor belts.

Her father was rolled into the first incinerator and only then did she feel the sharp stab of grief. Her eyes were dry, but only because she had cried all she could in the privacy of her chambers. She could spill no more tears. McGonagall held her firmly by the shoulders as the boys hauled Hermione’s mother to the second incinerator. It was Tonks who broke down then, and Hermione could only suppose that Tonks, all this time, had felt responsible to a certain degree for her parents’ death. Mr. and Mrs. Granger had been Tonks’s charge, and she had been at Bill and Fleur’s wedding when the massacre happened. Hermione would never blame Tonks for it, so the morphmagus would only have her own guilt to contend with.

Hermione stared into the fires that consumed her parents and images of things undone; echoes of words unsaid filled her with unspeakable sadness. Her lids lowered, squeezing what little tears she had left from her eyes. A few drops. That was all she had left to give.

The Headmistress squeezed her shoulder. It was a comfort to know that the headmistress was being strong.

McGonagall’s dignified strength was soon replaced by Harry’s reassuring presence. His shoulder was welcome solace when the caskets rolled through the flames.

The incinerator doors were slammed shut and the vicar retired.

The technician then explained that the cremation would take seven to nine hours.

Nodding, Hermione softly told Harry that she was ready to go now.

Her last respects given, the entire party went back to their portkey point where they were transported back to Tuffnell Park.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione was glad that McGonagall stayed a bit at Grimmauld Place and that the headmistress had done so primarily to chat with her, Harry and Ron. She had missed the headmistress’s no-nonsense demeanor and tried not to laugh at Harry and Ron who were squirming in their seats. This was, perhaps, the first time they had ever sat to tea with Headmistress McGonagall in a social setting where there were no other “elders” to cushion the situation. Tonks and Remus had hurriedly left for the Ministry on some urgent business so she, Harry and Ron really were left with the task of having tea with McGonagall. Hermione didn’t mind in the least, really, and perhaps there was entertainment to be had at watching her boys trying.

The old witch’s hat was deposited at the coat stand of the drawing room door and McGonagall’s silvery hair was pulled severely back to create the dignified French twist holding it. Her sharp, angular face was just ever so slightly softened and while her lips remained stiff and impenetrable, there was a hint of it turning up at the corners every so often.

“Quite a lot of people attended your parents’ wake, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said in her quaint English-Scottish burr. She sat straight-backed, daintily sipping her tea with her usual dignified air. “They were well-loved, and thank goodness for magic, else the administrator and I would have spent all two nights trying to explain where you were to too many people. Still, there were one or two muggles who proved resistant to the magic. A muggle friend of yours asked about you.”

“I have a muggle friend?” Hermione asked, astonished.

The headmistress’s eyes seemed vastly amused. “Well, of course you do. You’re not exactly a social deviant, you know.”

“That depends on your definition of social deviant, Headmistress.”

McGonagall pretended she didn’t hear that last crack. “Your next door neighbor; the boy. He was wondering where you were because, he said, that he was going to marry you some day.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. Ron laughed nervously.

“That’s Stewie,” she said rather blandly. “He’s twelve. I babysat for his little sister a couple of times before I went to pick up Harry at Privet Drive. He proposed to me both times with a Krispie Flakes decoder ring. I said no. We were both too young.”

McGonagall chuckled ever so slightly. That was a rare thing.

“What is it about babysitters?” Ron mused out loud. “I remember Bill and Charlie saying that they used to be so gone on theirs.”

“The closest I came to a baby sitter was Arabella Figg next door, so I wouldn’t know anything about baby sitter allure,” Harry said.

Hermione frowned. “Humph! An old lady with a house full of cats. Can you say health hazard? I can’t believe the Dursleys just left you there with her and I still think they ought to be arrested for how they treated you.”

“Could’ve been worse. They could have asked Aunt Marge to babysit.”

“Ah,” said Ron wistfully. “I wish I had been there when you blew her up, mate.”

McGonagall fixed them with a stern glare. “That was no laughing matter, Weasley. Marge Dursley could have been seriously hurt.” She sipped her tea.

Ron and Harry looked properly chastised. Hermione bit her lip to keep herself from laughing.

“There’s another matter I wish to discuss regarding your supposed death, Miss Granger,” McGonagall continued. “They held a memorial service for you at Hogwarts, did you know?”

Hermione blinked in surprise. “They did?”

“Well, it’s only proper, innit?” Harry said. “Everyone worth a lick respects you.”

Hermione was about to say something when Ron cut in.

“Who attended?”

“Almost everyone from second to seventh year. Even a handful of Slytherins attended. Miss Granger’s dorm mates were—shall we say—the head mourners.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Parvati and Lav-Lav—er—Lavender mourned for me?”

Ron shot her a wry sneer, which she ignored.

McGonagall nodded as she took some biscotti from its serving plate. “Like banshees. Luna Lovegood was certain they were afflicted with some strange, non-existent creature. She kept saying everyone was crying for nothing because you weren’t dead. I swear to the Fates that I was never so glad of her strangeness else someone might have actually believed her. Naturally, Horace sang your praises since he instigated the entire thing.”

“Professor Slughorn? But—“

“You were in his Slug Club, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but—“

“Well, then there you have it. I had to attend, of course. And it took everything I had not to stop the ceremonies and tell them that you were very much up and about, but considering the uncertainty of what information is classified and what isn’t, I thought it more prudent to say nothing. I must admit though… it was very difficult watching grown men like Filius and Hagrid weeping for your loss. And don’t imagine they were the only ones. Your Gryffindor friends, girls and boys alike, cried unabashed.”

Hermione was touched.

Ron looked quite shocked. “Are you telling me Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas cried?”

McGonagall nodded pertly. “After a fashion.”

“Oh, dear,” Hermione whispered. She took Harry’s hand and looked at him. “I feel terrible. And Hagrid! Can’t we tell Hagrid, at least? The teachers?”

Harry smiled sympathetically. “I think that’s something that’ll be decided in the next Order meeting. Until then, we have to leave things as they are.”

“He is correct,” McGonagall said. “The news of you and your family’s deaths have spread far and wide; beyond England. We do not yet know what impact it has caused on the Wizarding World.”

Hermione frowned. “Beyond England?”

“Yes, like in Bulgaria.”

“Oh. OH! Oh no, Viktor!”

Harry frowned. “Oh no, indeed.”

Hermione shot him a sidelong glance. “Oh, hush, Harry.”

“He came to Hogwarts,” said the headmistress, waving her wand at her cup of tea to reheat it. “He asked if he could at least pay his last respects to your remains and not to the picture they set up for the memorial service. I thought it was decent of him to have come all the way from Bulgaria to make that very request.”

Hermione had an embarrassing urge to ask if the picture was any good. Sometimes, her vampiric vanity came to her at the most unexpected times. She had to bite her tongue to keep from exposing her suddenly narcissistic self.

Harry was grumbling something unsavory under his breath. So was Ron.

Hermione nudged them both with her elbows. “What did you say to him?”

“I said I was sorry, and that I cannot help him obtain permission to view you. My phrasing was rather awkward, I admit. I didn’t want to lie to him, but in this instance, it was fortunate that he couldn’t speak English very well.”

“He’s no Shakespeare, that’s for sure,” muttered Harry.

She had to nudge him again and shoot him a glare.

“Krum was very upset,” McGonagall continued. “And he had had many questions. What happened… who was responsible for your death… what steps were being taken to find out who killed you… for someone who could hardly pronounce your name, he was ready to launch an all-out one-man investigation.”

Hermione shrugged helplessly. “Well, he does have a tendency to be rather intense…”

“One of his more pleasant qualities,” said Harry dryly.

These boys are so impossible sometimes. She squeezed Harry’s knee reassuringly.

McGonagall’s eyebrow arched. It was entirely possible that the headmistress knew nothing about her relationship with Harry. McGonagall had never been one to inquire, or even care, about who was dating who in her school. The personal lives of her students only became her concern when they were caught doing God-Knew-What in the broom closet, and only because it meant she had to issue them detention, or deduct house points. Still, Hermione had a feeling McGonagall took special interest in all aspects of her life. If McGonagall’s last admittance letter to Harry was any indication, the good headmistress was ready to do a lot for Hermione’s academic advancement. Now that Hermione wasn’t going back to school, McGonagall could do very little, but Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that McGonagall was still watching.

“Denying Krum answers was not something I recall fondly,” said McGonagall. “I do not think he doubts you are dead, but I think he did suspect that I was hiding something. Those eyes of his can be dreadfully penetrating.”

Instead of agreeing with it directly, Hermione replied as negatively as she could. “Unnerving, really. Not comfortable at all.”

Harry shot her a wry grimace.

He saw right through that. Oh, well…, she thought. Honestly, she never knew Harry was the jealous type until they started being together. Even when they were “unofficial” he was already showing tendencies, but it had never occurred to her that Harry was the type before that. She supposed it made some kind of sense. Harry had so little, growing up. It was only natural that he would be so protective, and in turns possessive, of those closest to him.

Still, she honestly believed that he shouldn’t get so worked up about Krum. Harry should know what her relationship with Krum was all about. She spoke of it in detail during their fourth year and she was never afraid to tell Harry about a lot of Krum’s letters after that. He shouldn’t be insecure about Krum now. After all, Krum thought she was dead. As McGonagall said, it was decent of Krum to want to pay his last respects.

“Seeker eyes, that,” said Ron, unable to help himself from bringing up Quidditch.

Harry glared at him with his own “seeker eyes”.

Ron shut up.

Perhaps seeing that Harry wasn’t quite enjoying the conversation, McGonagall moved on to more mundane matters, such as who she selected as the new Head Girl and Head Boy, her trials and tribulations finding a new Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher and the sad possibility that she may give up her Transfigurations class eventually.

Hermione found McGonagall’s hints about hiring her as a transfigurations professor in some future highly unnerving. How nice. McGonagall should just go on ahead and rehire Lupin for D.A.D.A., too. Give Hogwarts the old Monster High feel: A vampire, a werewolf, centaurs, half-giants, and a goblin in a pear tree.

McGonagall stayed a while longer until she declared she had to be going back to Hogwarts.

As they saw her to the receiving room, she turned and set her gaze upon Harry.

“Headmaster Dumbledore’s portrait is up, in case you were wondering,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s not awake yet, but I would be glad to inform you the moment it does. You might have some questions for it that it could answer.”

Hermione saw Harry swallowing. She hadn’t quite talked to him about Dumbledore. The thing about Harry was that it wasn’t exactly that he didn’t want to talk about something, just that he was so good at putting things out of his mind that he somehow managed to forget bringing it up. She figured it was some defense mechanism he had developed growing up the way he did with the Dursleys. It wasn’t healthy, but considering she wasn’t very forthcoming with him of late, she wasn’t going to force him to talk about anything.

Harry gave the headmistress a cautious nod. “Thank you, Headmistress. I would appreciate that very much.”

McGonagall seemed pleased. With that, she left Grimmauld Place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione froze on her seat at the kitchen table the moment she heard the cracks come from the receiving room. They sounded like Remus and Tonks, but she sensed two other mortals with them, and the aura on both wasn’t familiar.

She looked at Harry and Ron and wondered if they had the slightest clue that something was unusual. Ron showed no hint of caring. He was reading a quidditch article from the Daily Prophet while he ate a late dinner (his second) of sandwich and chocolates, funeral finery loosened to make him more comfortable.

None of them had changed out of their funeral clothes. After McGonagall left, they had gone straight to the kitchen so Ron could fix himself something to eat. Harry had summoned books from his bedroom, one for him and the other for her. They all sat at the kitchen table in companionable silence.

Harry showed more concern for the sound of new arrivals, looking up briefly from his Vampires For Dummies book, but he went back to reading almost immediately, idly caressing her lap as he did so.

“Tonks and Remus brought two more with them,” she said, rising from her seat.

That caught their attention immediately.

They followed her out of the kitchen.

“How do you know?” asked Harry.

“I sensed it.”

Ron’s eyebrow arched. “That your new vampire power?”

“No. All vampires have it.”

Hermione led the way to the receiving hall and was stopped dead on her tracks the moment she caught sight of their new houseguests. Harry and Ron seemed rooted to their places as well.

Dobby stood just a few paces away from Remus looking positively ecstatic at seeing her, but that wasn’t what caught Hermione. There, standing between Remus and Tonks, was Draco Malfoy, shackled hand and foot with charmed manacles. The blonde and grey eyed Slytherin of fame looked haggard around the eyes and cheeks, but his overall appearance was the picture of composure. He hadn’t a hair out of place, his fingernails were as perfectly manicured as before and his clothes were still impeccable.

Draco was staring at her with abject disbelief.

“Oh!” Dobby cried. “Hermione Granger, ma’am! Dobby is glad to see you alive! And Harry Potter, sir—“

“Shite…” breathed Draco, cutting off the elf’s platitudes. “I heard you were dead, mudblood, but not this dead.”

She glared at him. Some things never change. She bared her fangs just the tiniest bit.

Draco actually stepped back and the scent of his fear washed over her like a powerful tide. Something inside her ignited and for the first time, she felt real vampire strength rushing through her veins. It was intoxicating.

Before she could control herself, she had her grip on the collar of his crisp designer shirt and had him pressed against the wall, completely oblivious to the cries of surprise from everyone around her and Dobby’s whimpering. It had taken her a split heartbeat to cross the hall, almost like she had apparated. The effect was terrifying.

Draco’s fear spiked even more and Hermione eyed him ferociously.

He struggled to push her away. “G-Get off—“

“Call me a mudblood again,…” she whispered in his ear. “… and I’ll kill you. Maybe I should test this theory of yours that your blood is better than everyone else’s…” Her fangs elongated.

His eyes widened in terror, unable to move from the press of her strength.

She grinned with feral delight. “Try not to be so afraid, Draco. I can smell your fear, and it’s making you smell particularly yum—“

“Hermione!” Harry’s voice cut through her senses, and it sent her crashing back to sobriety.

Without waiting for her mind to process things, she pushed herself away from Draco, inadvertently slamming him back against the wall.

Draco gave a cry of pain as he crumpled to the floor, hand behind his head.

Walk away, Hermione. Walk. Away.

Turning, Hermione stormed out of the room and down the dark passageways of the house.

Hide. I have to hide. That was the first whisper of her shame as she slipped into a room filled with maps and scrolls. She tucked herself into the farthest concealable corner and closed her eyes, holding her head between her hands.

“Oh God…” she whispered. Oh my God…

She had been so ready to kill him. She was actually going to sink her teeth into his neck and drain him dry. She had meant her threat, and it had been a high like no other, but now, freed from it, she felt light headed.

Another piece of her humanity had died that night. Heck, she was dressed for the occasion.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she bent over, back to the wall; hoping the blood-rush to her head would settle her.

She wished she could breathe, so she could go through the motions of calming herself. She tried it anyway, and even without breath, it helped some.

She didn’t know how long she stayed that way. It could have been hours and she wouldn’t have noticed. Her mind was still trying to wrap itself around the fact that she had wanted to take a human life. Sure, it was Draco Malfoy, but his bigotry needed curing. He didn’t deserve to die for it.

Malfoy always brought out the worse in you, Granger.

There was a sound from beyond the darkness and her gaze darted to catch it. The door had been opened and closed, disturbing her sanctuary.

It was Harry, breaking through the pale-moon darkness. He leaned against the wall beside her, meeting her gaze.

“How did you find me?” she asked. It was an unnecessary question, but she was feeling one part relieved to have been found and the other part wanting to be left alone. The question didn’t make her commit to either.

“I said it once and I’ll say it again. That finder you gave me is the best.”

She turned away, ashamed of what she had almost done. “I wanted to kill him.”

He chuckled softly. “Join the club.”

It didn’t make her laugh. “It’s no laughing matter. I meant it when I said it. I would have done it right there.”

Harry’s smile dwindled, but instead of seeming horrified of her, his eyes conveyed compassion. “But you didn’t. That means everything.”

She stared at her feet. “But what about next time? What if you aren’t there to snap me out of it?”

“You don’t need me to snap out of it. Your will is strong enough.”

“I felt it Harry; the vampire strength. It’s like a switch inside me, see. I don’t have super-human strength and speed all the time, but when I want it, all I have to do is will it and it turns on like a machine. It wasn’t an accident when I turned it on for Malfoy. I wanted it. Harry—“

She felt the pressure of his steady grip on her shoulder.

“You’re still coming to terms with a lot of things about yourself,” he said gently. “You can’t expect yourself to be adjusted in a span of two weeks. Give yourself more time.”

“More time…” she whispered miserable. “All that’s happening is that I’m turning into this monster more and more each day.”H

His jaw hardened. “You’re not a monster, and why am I getting the feeling that someone is telling you that you are?”

Her eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you trying to say?”

“It’s Cicero, isn’t it?”

“Cicero never called me a monster. I came up with that all by myself.”

“But he says things. Tells you that you’re this and that and not what you once were—“

“Because I’m not, Harry!”

“I get it, alright? You’re not human!” he hissed. “But it doesn’t mean you’re not yourself. You still are!”

She clenched her fists and turned away from him, pressing her knuckles to her eyes. “That’s just it! I’m changing. I’m becoming someone else! I smell blood, and I want it. I look at Malfoy and I want to take his life. Fear smells so utterly delicious and when I’m hungry I become a vicious bitch! I have to drink a potion before I can trust myself to make love to you, Harry! I need a potion to make sure I don’t start sucking your blood when the sex gets so good. I’m ferocious and short-tempered and I like wearing animal hide! And it’s just getting worse. It’s getting worse!”

“Hermione, listen to me—“

“No! You’re not getting it, Harry! You can’t possibly! It’s just like everyone else is saying!”

His eyes widened with mingled hurt and outrage. “Everyone? Who’s everyone? All you’ve been talking to is Cicero—“

“It’s not just Cicero! It’s Jaime, and it’s Yasmin and it’s—“

“Who the hell’s Yasmin?”

“A vampire. They’re all vampires. They’ve been around a long time and they’ve seen many things. I’m not about to shrug off what they’ve told me—“

“And just what exactly have they been telling you?”

Hermione pursed her lips a moment. “You don’t want to hear it.”

They were silent for what felt like forever.

“So whatever it is they’re telling you,” began Harry in a quiet, undemanding tone. “Are you going to listen to them?”

The thought that she might sent her stomach churning. The acceptance of the dreary reality Cicero, Jaime and Yasmin had taken turns to paint was too painful. She didn’t want to listen to them. She wanted to prove them all wrong, but was that best? Was that the right thing to do? She would have an eternity to make up for any mistakes she made now. Harry would only have this one lifetime to make it work. Could she ask so much from him?

Yet, she loved him so much that all she wanted to do was be with him for as long as it took.

Even if you drift apart? Or worse: Even if he becomes miserable?

“I don’t want to listen to them,” she said softly. “But we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

He looked so hopelessly troubled that it broke Hermione’s heart to see him that way.

Quietly, she slipped into his arms, closing her eyes as she felt him embrace back. He held her so tight, probably as tight as she held him, the two of them desperately clinging to each other in the darkness.

It was exhausting; all these emotional discussions that bordered on bitter fights. Before she was turned, she and Harry were perfectly suited to one another when it came to dealing with their issues. As friends and lovers they argued to reach a point of agreement, with no fear of crossing forbidden lines. Things were a lot different now. Now their arguments were filled with tension; so many things unsaid because they were both terrified of going too far.

She felt his fingers run gently through her hair and his touch sent tingles from her scalp to the rest of her body.

It’s that easy, she thought miserably. Harry’s touch could call her desire so easily, especially when their emotions were running high, and especially when her vampire impulses held the momentum.

His fingers traced the line of her jaw before resting on her chin. Tilting her face up, she accepted his kiss and let the sensations run through her.

He kissed so well. She always wanted to get lost in them. Forget the pain and the worries. Give in.

The kiss gained heat as they deepened it.

Hermione pushed herself up on her toes to press them closer, her hands searching for the skin beneath his clothes. She could already feel the warmth of his hands around the skin of her waist, traveling to squeeze her bottom.

This feels like make-up sex and it feels amazing, she thought, whimpering slightly at the pressure of his grip.

His blood roared in her ears and her vampire instincts found purchase.

Teeth…

He hissed all of a sudden and jerked away, fingers to his lips.

She blinked, shocked at his abrupt withdrawal from her. It took another few heartbeats before she realized what had happened.

I bit him.

She gasped. “Oh God. Oh God, Harry. I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have—I should have known I couldn’t without the—oh, Harry!” She began to cry and she couldn’t meet his gaze. She angled past him to leave. “This isn’t going to—“

His grip was suddenly on her arm and she felt herself being pulled back, almost roughly. His fingers dug into her skin as he pushed her against the wall, knocking her head back against the surface of it.

Instead of feeling pain, she was overcome by desire and she didn’t even ask what he was doing. She just went ahead and threw her arms around him while he kissed her with mad abandon.

She fought to reign in her instincts as they tugged frantically at each other’s buttons, pulling them so there would be more skin to touch; to feel. Their blouses fell open, their hands and lips taking advantage of this access.

They hadn’t made love like this since she got back from the hospital; this passionate, impulsive way that they used to enjoy so frequently. Since her turning, she had been afraid to lose control and do something she would regret. She was still afraid, but feeling his lips, his hands and his desire like this was fast overcoming her anxieties. If she didn’t let him take her she would go insane.

“Harry,” she whispered frantically. “What if I—“

He shook his head, kissing her to stop her words. When he had gone deep enough to deem her unable to form further protest, he pulled back, breathing raggedly. “Focus on where I’m touching you. Listen to my voice.”

The book.

If she didn’t find it so difficult right now to control herself, she would have found it easy to put her complete faith in Harry and that book he’s been reading. She hadn’t devoted time to reading anything that didn’t have anything to do with horcruxes. There hadn’t been enough hours, but if Harry could keep sounding like he knew exactly what to do, she would gladly let him lead her.

His hands slid up her legs, pushing the hem of her skirt up her thighs to pull her knickers off. He whispered how he loved her taste in knickers, even if he sometimes tore the things off, like he wanted to do right now.

Listen to his voice. She closed her eyes. Focus on his touch.

Her fangs edged out past her lips, the ache of her resistance blossoming in her mouth. Concentrating, she held them back as he slid her panties over her boots and tossed them aside.

The fingers of his other hand traced the leather wrapping her shin and he met her vampiric gaze. “I think I’d like them to stay on, don’t you?”

Hermione grinned in feral delight. He was not making it easy, but it felt too good for her to tell him to stop. Vampire pheromones burst from her pores and she saw his eyes rolling into his head, lids closing over them as he groaned.

Having him thus drugged, she took the opportunity to gain some control of her own. She grabbed the front of his trousers and undid them, pushing everything off him once he was free.

She stroked him, not that he needed any more help.

Hissing, and perhaps getting past the worse effects of her powers, he took her by the back of her thighs and hitched her up against the wall, pushing her skirt back to accommodate him.

Oh hell, yes, she thought, grabbing the shelves to one side of her while grabbing the handle of a window on the other.

There was no need for foreplay. She was ready for him and he knew it.

When he sank into her, she almost bit him right there. Everything around her seemed to come eerily alive and the air surrounding them became filled with her pheromones.

Harry was speaking, rather incoherently, as he pushed into her with desire-driven force. She desperately wanted him to keep being rough, encouraging him as she cried out his name. The sound of rattling shelves and windows only made it seem more passionate, and that made it all fantastic.

She wrapped herself more tightly around him and he expressed how much he liked it with words and the increased enthusiasm of his thrusting hips.

Crying out her approval, she tried desperately to have a firmer hold on something else, as she’d managed to knock too many items off their perches. She might have shoved a painting askew, and a tiny, distant complaint from the painting’s hiding occupant fell on deaf ears.

“T-Table!” she suggested hoarsely.

It was right behind him, and it wasn’t exactly empty. There were a few things scattered on the surface. The room had been used recently, but they didn’t care, really.

She was sitting on the table in seconds, a cascade of objects clattering into a mess on the floor.

Whatever map was underneath her was going to suffer abuse at the torrid joining of their bodies.

Harry gasped as the globe on the table fell over and crashed to the ground, slicing the continent of Africa in half. “Shite, the globe…”

“Sod the globe! Just don’t stop!” She followed this with a throaty moan, mingling with his.

“Oh, you bet I won’t…” he growled.

She threw her head back and his lips were upon her throat, sucking fiercely his hand slipped beneath her bra to squeeze her breast.

Her fangs were impossible to stop now, and she could no longer ignore the fierce desire roiling insider her. She felt a primal possessiveness; an aching need to mark him.

“H-Harry…” she hissed through her teeth. She needed him to be part of her; wanted to have his blood coursing through her veins. The spiritual desire to connect could only be achieved by partaking of his essence, and she loved him so much it was impossible to deny the instinct. Her pheromones poured out of her, and any moment now, she was going to implode.

He groaned, telling her that he was going to come. He clamped his mouth over the soft flesh of her shoulder and she felt his velvety tongue slide over it, as if to prepare that particular spot for something.

The split-second anticipation of what she knew he was going to do was amazing. When he finally dug his teeth against her skin, she hit her climax.

It was about as much as she could take. She sank her fangs into the soft flesh of his neck, struggling desperately to listen to the sound of his impassioned cries as he exploded inside her while she rode the ecstasy of drinking his blood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He barely had the strength to lower them gently to the floor, and when he didn’t have to support her anymore, he slumped heavily upon her.

It took another few minutes for the intoxicating effects of her climax and blood-rush to leave her, and slowly, as her senses began to return, she realized that Harry hadn’t quite moved off. He hadn’t moved, period.

The hollow horror in her stomach solidified. Oh God, I killed him!

“Harry!” she shrieked, pushing him gently off her by his shoulders. “Harry!”

He moaned her name softly, blinking slowly as a weary smile began to stretch his pale lips.

Relief washed over her in waves and she pulled him close, cradling his head against her breasts.

“Oh Merlin… oh God, I thought I had killed you, Harry!”

“Alive…” he whispered softly, shifting drowsily about. “’Twas fantastic…”

If she didn’t get a hold of herself, she would burst out in tears.

She felt some of his blood trickling between her fingers and with a stab of fear, she felt for her own neck to see if he had managed to break her skin.

There was no wound on her, just a faint soreness which would probably bruise briefly.

The danger of infecting Harry gone, she turned to her other concerns. He was pulling his trousers back on, and he looked drunk. She helped some in spite of his rather slurred protests and coaxed him gently to set his head on her lap.

“Lie still, love,” she whispered.

He smiled, blinking happily. He was still high from the entire thing, though the loss of blood had obviously weakened him.

She dug her wand out of her boot and waved it at the wound on his neck. The wound closed and she wiped away the blood with her skirt, leaving two tiny pink scars. She summoned the replenishing potion from her chamber drawer, hoping the vial would be able to find the little nooks and crannies that would enable it to find its way to her.

“Hermione…”

“Hush,” she said, swallowing her tears. She pushed some of his hair off his forehead. “Talk later. Let me fix you, first.”

His hand sought hers and he clutched it weakly. “I wanted you to do that…”

The tears came at that. “Hush.” Please.

Minutes later, the soft tinker of a glass vial sliding beneath the crack of the door disturbed the silence. It was the replenishing potion and it slipped into her palm.

Steadying her trembling hands, she uncorked the vial and helped Harry drink its contents.

His first taste of it had him turning away. “Nasty stuff.”

“All of it, love. Please.”

He complied without further protest. With the vial emptied, she replaced the cork and set the container aside.

She eased him with gentle caresses, letting the potion take effect on him.

Moments later he sat up somewhat sluggishly. She helped him, but she could see through the darkness that his color was returning, and that his eyes were regaining sobriety. He still seemed a little listless, but he was evidently recovering.

Driven by anxiety, she examined him like a doctor would a patient.

He laughed quietly. “What are you doing?”

“I’m—I’m making sure—“

“I’m fine,” he told her. “I’m alright. Hermione, that was amazing. That was—“

“We won’t ever do that again!”

He looked positively astonished. “What? Why?”

“I was sure I’d killed you, Harry! I was—“

“But you didn’t.”

“I was so afraid!”

“Hermione, I couldn’t even explain how mind-blowing that experience was. Didn’t you like it even a little?”

Like it a little? “It was absolutely incredible, Harry! But—“

“Then don’t think about the ‘what if’,” he said gently, holding her hands. “All I can think of right now was how fantastic it felt… is that wrong?”

“I took your blood…”

He tilted his head, watching her for a moment. “And why did you?” he asked quietly.

“Because I wanted it so badly,” she replied just as quietly. “Because I love you. That’s—that’s why I couldn’t stop myself from doing it.”

He idly pushed some of her hair aside. He merely smiled; saying nothing and letting her come to her own conclusions.

She let her words simmer in her mind, turning it over and over so that she could appreciate what happened between them as much as Harry did. It had felt wonderful to have everything of him inside her, but as amazingly intimate the experience was, she couldn’t get forget the fact that she had taken his blood, and that it was taking some part of his life-essence away.

Killing him slowly…

She could still taste his blood. Could still remember how exquisitely the warm gush of his life felt against her tongue. It was utterly tantalizing to think that they could do this again.

It hadn’t frightened him. That was amazing. He was amazing.

But what did it all mean for her?

You’re a vampire now, Hermione… built to kill…

Sitting in the dark, even with Harry, she couldn’t push her macabre thoughts back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione opened her eyes to a new evening within the black comfort of her coffin. The events of the previous night came rushing back to her as she woke.

I made love to Harry as a vampire for the first time.

It was a mingling of ecstasy and death; intimacy beyond the realm of imagination and the purging of her humanity.

I’m a vampire.

Grimly, she pushed the lid up and rose, running her fingers through her hair, which no doubt looked perfect. Vampires didn’t get pillow-head. Vampires were perfectly groomed from the moment they rose out of their coffins.

She looked at herself and saw that her blue-black yoga pants and sleep tank top of the same color were barely rumpled.

Well… the dead don’t exactly toss around in their sleep.

Miserably, she hopped out of her coffin and grabbed the towel hanging off her coat-rack.

For the umpteenth time, she cringed at the sight of her pink flip flops. She reminded herself, yet again, to get a new pair. In black, maybe. She didn’t mind white, either. White wasn’t pastel. It was just white, so she seemed to like it a lot.

She trudged out of her cavern to get to the bathroom. The bathroom was actually nicer than one would expect, it being in the dungeon. It still needed a bit of work, but scourgifying the tiles, tub and toilet had turned it into some gothic chamber of comfort. Harry promised her he’d have someone over to make it much better, but she didn’t mind it so much as it was. It was clean and comfortable enough. That’s all that mattered to her.

“Good evening, sunshine,” came a mocking voice from the cavern farther down.

Hermione tried not to growl. She could choose not to reply, but she’d rather be damned than let Malfoy think he could get to her again. Putting on an expressionless mask, she stopped by the entrance of his cavern along the way.

It was interesting to note that he wasn’t exactly a prisoner in the sense that they caught him and forced him into captivity. Draco had actually surrendered himself and said he had information that might help the Order. He had used Dobby to get his message to the right people. His only request was that they protect him from avenging Death Eaters. It seemed like a reasonable request coming from Draco.

“Hello, Malfoy. Comfortable?” She knew he wasn’t, of course. There didn’t seem to be anything comfortable about lying on a lumpy bed in a cell that was in the dungeon of one’s bitterest enemy. Yet, Draco didn’t seem the least bit ruffled.

Almost like he’s more a vampire than I am.

Of course, that theory was quickly dispelled once she began to get a whiff of the blood rushing beneath his skin.

Merlin, I’m famished.

He smirked, giving her the once over. “It’s not 300-thread Egyptian cotton, I’ll tell you that, but the help’s not bad to look at.”

She looked at her nails, pretending she hadn’t noticed him checking her out. “I’ll be sure to tell Dobby you fancy him. I never took you for an elf-phile, Malfoy, but I suppose being alone in your mansion a lot, you had to make do with what you had.”

Draco’s eyebrow arched, but that was about as much of an objection she got out of him. “I’ve a question for you, mu—Granger.”

Humph. At least he has the sense not to provoke me again. “A question just for me and no one else?”

“Yes. What’s with those slippers? I mean, look at them! They’re disgustingly pink.”

She frowned. Point for him. “So I’m stuck with bad slippers. But you’re still in a cage, ferret face.” She turned to leave. She had better things to do that trade silly barbed words with him.

He yelled out something unintelligible. She didn’t bother to have him clarify it.

She took her bath, went back to her chamber wrapped in her towel and dressed. She left her chamber in black jeans, a dark red t-shirt that said, “Go on. Call me a witch. I want you to,” and her brown leather jacket. She was unable to help the erotic shudder that went through her as the sound of her own boots against the stone floor called last night’s events to her memory; they were the same boots, after all, that Harry hadn’t wanted to remove.

Harry, Ron and Remus were in the kitchen when she emerged from the hallway connecting to the dungeons. She couldn’t bring herself to greet them a good evening. It was difficult to be remotely cheerful when she was lusting for blood, and her little conversation with Malfoy hadn’t helped, either.

“I would suggest that someone tell Malfoy to shut the hell up if he wants to live to tomorrow,” she muttered as she passed them to get to the living room.

She heard someone sigh. It was probably Harry.

“Good evening to you, too!” Ron cried after her.

She hated it when she got this way: Cranky and unaccommodating, but she couldn’t help it.

Frankly, she’d gotten better at controlling her early evening bitchiness. It didn’t mean she felt any less terrible about it.

Peeking through the windows, she checked to see if her ride had arrived. It hadn’t.

Steeling herself, she went back to the kitchen.

Three pairs of eyebrows raised in her direction.

“I’m sorry for being a bitch. May I start over?” she asked as meekly as she could.

The eyebrows lowered, the tension leaving their shoulders all at once. Sometimes, it frightened her to see the kind of effect she could have on an entire room.

“Evening,” said Harry, as if to continue where she should’ve left off.

She sat beside him, trying to calm her nerves.

“Draco will be moved some time soon,” said Remus as he scooped some tea leaves into a small bag. “So you won’t have to put up with him for very long.”

“Can’t say I blame you for whinging, though” said Ron as he speared a humungous slice of pumpkin pie on a plate. “He’s an aggravating twat.”

Hermione was about to express her appreciation for his sympathy when her eyes fell on the pie and realization crept up on her. “Where did you get that pie? We didn’t have that last night, or else you would’ve eaten some already.”

He froze, mid-bite. It took a lot to disturb Ron when he was eating, but Hermione knew just how to do it. “Umm… what, this pie?” As if there was another. “S’always been in the pantry—“

She glared at him. “You got Dobby to make it for you, didn’t you?”

He opened his mouth to blurt what was probably a denial before he caught Harry’s gaze.

Harry shook his head as if to tell him lying would be a mistake.

Ron sighed. “It’s just one pie!”

Hermione knew it. “For shame, Ron! Did you at least give him a little something for his efforts?”

“He was willing! Not like I forced him to do it!”

“And just what did you tell him to make him so eager to do this favor for you?”

“Err—“

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, he was really happy you were alive…”

She gasped. “Lower than low…”

“Oy! I didn’t bring it up, he did! ‘Ron Weasley, sir! Is Hermione Granger ma’am really alright? Dobby is so pleased! Dobby wants to make a pie!’”

Harry and Remus laughed.

She shot him a disgusted frown. “He so did not say that.”

“Well, it was something like that!”

“You’re impossible! It’s like you’ve forgotten everything that S.P.E.W. stands for!”

“Forgotten? Hell, I bloody well never understood what the hell you were on about!”

“Go on, then! Eat your pie. It’s flavored with centuries of slavery and maltreatment!”

Ron shoved a hefty piece of it into his mouth stubbornly. “And it’s absolutely delicious!” Some of the crust sputtered out of his mouth.

“Ugh! I hope you choke on it!” She turned away, glancing through the kitchen entryway and to the windows of the living room. There was no sign of her ride.

She got up and trudged to the living room again, peeking down the street to see if there were any cars coming.

Harry came up beside her, hands in his pocket. “It’s nice to hear you arguing about spew.”

“It’s S.P.E.W., Harry. Don’t make me hurt you.”

He chuckled. “Right. Your ride late?”

She nodded.

“I can apparate you to his office, if you like.”

She smirked. “That’s right. You have your license now, don’t you?”

“Didn’t splinch a single thing.”

“How did Ron do?”

“Better than before. The examiner didn’t catch the lock of hair he left behind, though, so he got his license this time.”

She looked at him and he refused to meet her gaze, though she could make out the twinkling in his eyes.

“Confunded anyone lately?” she asked, grinning as she remembered the time Harry had asked her that very same question.

He tried to look innocent but broke down and chuckled. “Just the teensy, tiniest bit. Just quick enough to get rid of the hairs.”

“Good lord, Ron and his cheating best friends.”

“The beauty of it is he had nothing to do with it both times, so his conscience is clean while our morals are sullied.”

They shared a quiet laugh.

“So how ‘bout it, love?” said Harry, draping his arm over her shoulders. “I can take you there then just floo me when you’re done, so I can pick you up.”

She smiled at him in appreciation. “Harry… are you even recovered from last night?”

He cocked a smile. “Of course I am. Are you?”

She hadn’t expected him to throw the question right back at her, but considering her reaction last night, the question made sense. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I just… freaked out a bit last night. You’d gone limp—“

“That happens to a bloke after a right good shag. It’s usually ready to go again after a ten to thirty minute nap.”

She couldn’t help but sputter with laughter. “Silly! You know what I mean! I thought I’d killed you!”

“Got the life shagged out of me… not a bad way to go, if you ask me.”

Her laughter ebbed and she shook her head. “It’s not funny, Harry. Can you even fathom how devastated I’d be if you died in my arms?”

“Of course I can. You died in mine.”

She looked up at him, saw the pain on his face and put her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder.

He returned her embrace.

Hermione was about to accept his offer of apparating when Harry suddenly told her that her ride had just arrived.

Reluctantly, she pulled away from him to look.

And there it was. Cicero’s Volvo pulling up at the curb.

“I have to go,” she said hollowly.

His disappointment was evident, though he forced a tiny smile of resignation. “Yeah. I know. I’ll see you later, alright?”

She nodded. Silently, she headed for the door. She glanced at him over her shoulder and saw him looking out of the window into the street, but she wasn’t sure if he was actually seeing anything. His gaze was lost in thought, and whatever he was thinking, they weren’t the happiest of things. It pained her to watch him this way.

Turning away, she finally opened the door and stepped across the threshold of 12 Grimmauld Place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I thought this was a pretty sad chapter. Had a hard time writing it.

13. Chapter Twelfth: Avoidance

Author’s Notes: I’m sure some of you may have noticed that the title chapters are less about being titles and more about being themes. At this point, I feel that I should explain that so readers who might be interested can gain more insight from chapters just by knowing this. I suppose you can say that the titles serve as a bit of a hint to what the chapter intends to convey. For those of you who like looking for deeper meaning (as most of us Pumpkineers are! :wink: ), you can go back and realize that! I can even tell you all about it in review if you want me to. I don’t want to post it here as some may prefer to figure it out by themselves, but I’m always willing to discuss things.

I got some criticism regarding the time it takes between my releases. There were those who were really polite about it, and to those of you who were, I do apologize. Rest assured every moment I have to myself is devoted to writing; I don’t even like watching television. To those who… managed to *annoy* me with the way they said it… chances are I’ve already… responded in a most annoyed fashion.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Rating: NC-17. A bit smuttier than usual, I think, but it was ::cough:: necessary for the theme of the chapter. I’m sticking to that excuse, at least.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twelfth: Avoidance

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I was intimate with Harry in that way.” She finally told Cicero after a long recounting about the previous night’s events.

She had just fed in the other room nearly a half-hour ago and was having a proper discussion with Cicero. In the beginning, it was impossible to have a decent conversation with her when she was cranky from hunger. Now she had a much better disposition and she could actually tell herself to stop being grouchy long enough to talk nicely until she next fed, but she found that therapy without feeding was a disaster waiting to happen. Emotional powwow before every meal was just not possible.

Now as she sat before him, her hunger sated, she could let her feelings loose without fear of flying off the handle.

She knew Cicero understood what she meant by “that way”. She had never kept it a secret from Cicero that she had intimate relations with Harry, and she was honest about the fact that she had wanted to keep their lovemaking the way it was: Human. Cicero understood the implications of this new situation she was confessing to him.

His facial expression hadn’t changed in the least. “And how do you feel about it?”

She frowned, annoyed. “Is that all you can say?”

This time, he seemed surprised as he calmly leaned back on his comfortable sofa chair. “Well, what do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know… shouldn’t you be scolding me for it? I was an emotional wreck last night. I’d just cremated my parents, I almost killed someone and it’s only been two weeks since I was turned! I thought maybe I was acting irresponsibly.”

“Well… did you use protection?”

“Very funny, Cicero.”

Cicero smiled, looking vastly amused. “You were obviously ready to go that next step with him, whether you realized it or not. Before that, you were drinking synthetic blood just so you could make love to him guilt-free. Frankly, I didn’t think it was the healthiest thing, but you’d only been at it for a short time, so I let you. Now you seemed to have fixed that problem. This is progress, Hermione.”

“Progress for what? For becoming more the vampire that I am?”

He was silent for a few heartbeats. “You’re going to have to accept it some time.”

Her jaw tightened, feeling bitterness well up inside her. “Because that’s the only option I have, isn’t it? I don’t have a choice.”

Cicero fell quiet again, his expression thoughtful. “Have you spoken to Harry about this development in your relationship? I mean, really spoken to him about it? How he felt? Your deepest emotions while you and he made love that way?”

She paused, wondering why she didn’t do just that. But she knew the answer to it almost immediately. “I’ve been touchy. I can’t talk about any of this without blowing up in his face, and he doesn’t deserve it from me. He’s been very supportive and loving and… it’s hurting him. I know it is, but he’s taking it. He’s taking it for me. WHY is he doing that? Does he like being MISERABLE? How can he stand it? If I were him I’d—I’d… I want to tell him how stupid he’s being, and I just—I just—”

She realized a moment later that she was gripping the arms of her chair hard enough to rip holes into the upholstery.

Cicero remained straight faced. He was absorbing her words; processing it, maybe, because she hadn’t spoken this much about any of it to him, either. This was a milestone of sorts, but whether it would do her any good or not was yet to be determined.

“What usually triggers your anger, Hermione?” he finally asked. “At what point in your conversations with him do you feel the need to ‘blow up in his face’?”

She took a moment to consider. “When I feel he doesn’t see the reality of the situation. That I’m a vampire. He’s human. We might not have the happy ending he thinks we could have.”

“You say ‘happy ending’. What, to you, is a happy ending?”

“An ending where I make him happy.”

“And you don’t think you can give him this?”

“How can I? Being this way… as it is I’m changing. Becoming more vampire; less human everyday. The only thing I’m sure I can keep with me forever is how I feel about him. I love him. I love him so much, but I can’t give him that happy ending he always wanted.”

“And that is?”

“To marry. Raise a family. Grow old together…”

“And you think he cannot be happy any other way.”

“He’ll tell himself he can find happiness in me anyway, but he’ll realize, sooner or later, what he doesn’t have. What he can’t have because of me, and he’ll grow to resent me for it. I suppose… I suppose I can take that kind of punishment, but then he’d have lost more than I have. If I can turn back time for him and let him have the future he deserves after he realizes that I’m a mistake, then maybe I can take one lifetime from him, but… that’s not the way it works. He only gets one chance, and it’s either a mistake or it isn’t.”

“What is it that you want to tell him but don’t have the courage to say to his face, Hermione? Tell me.”

Her eyes filled, and just thinking the words broke her heart. She remembered the look in his eyes when she left him at Grimmauld Place. Saw the pain in his gaze as she walked out of the house.

With lips trembling, she spoke. “He doesn’t know what he wants. Not right now. He says he’ll give his dreams up for me, but I think he deserves better. He has sacrificed enough, and I won’t stand by and watch him sacrifice even more. We can’t be together. I can’t let us be together. I love him. If I ever… leave him, I’ll do it for him, because if I stay, I’ll bring him nothing but death… nothing but utter misery…”

Hermione closed her eyes as the wind whipped against her cheeks. Some wisps of her hair brushed against her skin, but the bun that held the rest of her brown locks stayed tight.

She felt Harry’s lips press on the back of her neck and she shuddered, smiling in spite of her dreary memories from several days before. She and Harry hadn’t fought as badly as their last exchange in the map room, but they had had moments of high tension, nipped in the bud either by forbearance or sex.

Despite her first time misgivings, they had indulged in that kind of sex one more time. The other times she had held back her instincts, and she managed it even without the synthetic blood.

Other than their sexual encounters, their moments alone together were strained, as if they were both always on the verge of saying something but holding it back for fear of setting each other off. Hermione prayed it didn’t destroy them.

God knows, I love him more than anyone. More than anything, she often thought, but there were things to consider in their relationship now, important things that weren’t going away. They would have to deal with it sometime, and Hermione hoped they would manage to without causing each other permanent damage.

She looked over her shoulder to meet his gaze and he caught it. He smiled briefly, adjusting his hold on his Firebolt and increasing the speed of their flight. She nestled back against him more snugly, rubbing her nose lightly against his jaw before settling back. He loved to fly, and she loved being in his arms. This was perfect. She wished they could be this way forever.

They zipped through the sky surrounded by various other brooms carrying Tonks, Remus, Shacklebolt, Ron and Draco.

The Malfoy Fortune heir wasn’t the least bit pleased that his broom had been tethered to Tonks’s as if he were seven instead of seventeen. He wasn’t too happy about the fact that his range of motion was limited, either.

When he first learned about the flight arrangements, he complained so loudly that Hermione scathingly told him, “Considering you aided and abetted Albus Dumbledore’s murderer, you’re lucky we aren’t dragging you by your ankles from the end of a chain, ferret breath.”

Draco very infuriatingly replied, “I suppose I am lucky. After all, you’ve been keeping me company these past few days in the dungeon, and for someone I hate, I must admit that I enjoyed having you around, Granger, especially when I catch you prancing around in those shorts of yours when you think I don’t see you.”

Harry had gotten so riled up by that that it took both Remus and Ron to hold him back.

They were on their way to the secret location of the Order meeting. The way to it took a lot of portkeying and elaborate apparitions. This was the final leg of their journey but was by far, the longest stretch. They had packed some clothes and overnight things. Her coffin had been shrunk with the rest of their possessions.

“Somehow, the phrase ‘Everything but the kitchen sink’ just doesn’t cut it,” she had said as her coffin was being put away.

Draco had actually found it funny, though he had expressed it with a derisive snort. There had to be something wrong with her if she shared the same sense of humor with Malfoy.

She was surprised to note that flying wasn’t the least bit as terrifying to her as it used to be. She wasn’t sure if it was because Harry made her feel safe or because her vampirism had removed the fear from her. Either way, she was very comfortable in Harry’s arms. She wanted to snuggle and slip her arms under his shirt. But of course it wasn’t appropriate, and she was fairly certain Draco would have something very unpleasant to say about it.

Hermione couldn’t tell where they were, exactly. All she knew was that they were somewhere over Ireland, and that sometime during their portkeying, they had crossed the Irish Sea.

They were flying over a thick growth of forest.

The traveling party took a sharp left and Draco had to struggle to regain his poise.

Ron smirked. “Enjoying the ride, Malfoy?”

Draco narrowed his gaze at him. “Bet you’re enjoying it, Weasel. You’re certainly in no danger of splinching your eyebrows with this mode of transportation.”

Ron reddened. “No, but you’re in danger of getting pushed off your broom.”

Draco scoffed. “Go on, then. I dare you to do it.”

Ron might have if Hermione hadn’t gone and warned him not to even joke about it.

“Why, sunshine!” cried Draco, grinning. He loved using the nickname now since he realized how infuriating it was for Harry. “I didn’t know you cared! Not that I’m all that surprised. I know I’m irresistible.”

“And they call me delusional,” Harry muttered aside.

Hermione ignored Draco’s conceit. If she were so inclined, she could match his vanity with her own, but she wasn’t quite ready to expose that embarrassing side of her yet. “I care about Ron. I don’t want him to go to Azkaban for offing you. You, on the other hand, can go to hell and I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”

“Bet you we’ll see each other there, vampire.”

“Talk about eternal damnation.”

“If I were you, I’d be having orgasms at the mere thought that I’d be spending forever with me.”

Harry glared at him. “Wanking off on yourself again, Malfoy?”

Draco was about to say something when Tonks began to yell at them all.

“Alright, the lot of you cut that out! We’re thousands of feet above the ground, for Merlin’s sake! I can’t believe you’re bickering at this altitude!”

“What does altitude have to do with it?” asked Draco. “Is snarkiness supposed to be inversely proportional to one’s distance from the ground?”

“Be quiet, Draco!” Tonks hissed, and that was the end of it.

Hermione huffed, muttering over her shoulder at Harry. “D’you think if I strangle Malfoy, we can make it look like an accident?”

Harry chuckled, his breath tickling the back of her ear. “Nope. But I’ve heard that pushing someone off a cliff may yield the desired effect.”

She grinned, craning her neck to speak in his ear. “I’m a bad influence on you, Potter. Or maybe it’s all those vampire books you’ve been reading…”

He smiled, keeping his gaze on the sky ahead of him to maneuver them safely. He bent to speak in her ear. “You don’t like what those books have been teaching me? I never was quite as good with theory as I am with hands on stuff.”

“Hmm, for some reason hearing you say that makes me want to kiss you.”

“It’s the teaching thing. Turns you on.”

“I think it’s the broom thing. Riding yours brings nice thoughts.”

His eyes crinkled merrily at the double entendre. “I don’t mind when you service it, either.”

She pinched his thigh for being twice as saucy.

Her mirth was disrupted by the sharp cold of ice and gloom. She felt despair; hopelessness, and amidst it all, she knew that there was something horribly wrong.

A cry of terror pierced the night air. It came from Tonks and she swerved dangerously out of course. Draco looked like he was going to be sick.

It sent Hermione’s heart leaping and she involuntarily clutched at Harry, the way she always did when she was frightened.

Something dark and terrible whipped past her line of vision and the icy coldness that pierced her skin told her enough.

“Dementors!” Shacklebolt cried.

There were over a dozen of them swarming to close in on their group like bats, their black, spectral clothing inky against the pale-moon night.

“Evasive maneuvers!” yelled Remus. “Fly low!”

“Tonks! Release me, now!” demanded Draco.

At that point, even Hermione thought he deserved to try and get through this alive by himself. Tonks apparently felt the same way. She let Draco go, and as one, the group plummeted to fly closer to the forest.

“Ron! Oh, Ron!” Hermione cried, horribly worried. The elders were experienced fliers and Harry and Draco were seekers, but Ron was a Keeper. Ron didn’t do the kind of flying this situation called for. “Harry, we can’t—“

She wasn’t even sure if Harry heard her, but he made a sweeping turn and they saw Ron coming up right behind them, pale-faced but determined to out-fly their pursuers.

Harry called for him, beckoning to him forcefully.

Ron swerved in their direction, barely avoiding a dementor on his tail.

As Ron came around, Harry flew by him, matching the pace of Ron’s broom, which felt painfully slow compared to the speed of the Firebolt.

“Get on!” Harry cried.

“What!” Ron and Hermione shouted together.

“Your broom’s too slow! Get on!”

“But—“

“With three of us on this broom, it’s still faster than yours. Ron, we haven’t time to argue!”

Ron’s jaw tightened but he grabbed hold of Harry’s cloak and hauled himself behind them, clutching at his Comet desperately.

Hermione shrunk it with a flick of her wand and Ron’s thanks were drowned out in the whistle of wind as Harry shot forward to dive into the trees. She was about to make very loud protests about the dangers of flying through the forest at this speed when Ron did it for her, yelling into Harry’s ear, about how absolutely mad he was and how Harry was going to get them all killed in one fell swoop.

Harry completely ignored these objections, making fast and impossible turns avoiding trees and dementors alike.

Draco appeared out of nowhere on his own Firebolt, pulling up beside them with dementors in tow. The seekers flew around each other, swimming through tree trunks and suspended foliage.

There was no sign of their other companions, but it would be easy to re-converge once the danger had passed.

Harry flew them deeper into the forest, and it almost seemed like they were going to get away as the dementors behind them thinned. Ron was already grinning and thumping Harry on the shoulder.

“Well done, Harry!” Ron cried. “That was ace flying!”

Harry blushed mildly, flushed with pride.

“Yes, because he’s the only one with the skill and agility to have managed those twists and turns,” said Draco dryly.

Hermione bit back a remark about Draco kissing her ass if he wanted any kind of affirmation for his flying, because after all, she was bumming a ride off her boyfriend. She instead ignored him. So did Ron, who was probably thinking along lines similar to hers.

They were just about to land when Draco suddenly cried out and veered towards them. A dementor had emerged from the brush, followed by four others.

Draco barreled into them, sending them in a brief spiral towards the ground.

Hermione shrieked and she could have sworn she heard Ron’s scream over her own. Harry steered expertly, but the dementor’s sudden appearance and Draco’s panic-stricken maneuver had done its work. Harry couldn’t avoid the crash, so he did the only thing he could do. He lowered their height as best he could so that they wouldn’t have far to fall.

The tail of Harry’s Firebolt caught on a branch and all three of them lurched forward as the broom lost flight. They tumbled, yelling as the rocks and growth dug painfully into their bodies by sheer inertia.

Hermione felt the ground scraping her knees and the heels of her palms.

Harry and Ron spewed such foul profanities about Draco’s Slytherin courage—which of course they meant was non-existent—that Hermione found she hadn’t the vehemence to add anymore to it.

Hermione felt the biting cold as the trees surrounding her froze into gray, unrelenting ice. They were hopelessly surrounded.

She felt someone grab her arm in a tight grip and she was hauled to her feet. It was Harry.

“We’ve got to try to make a run for it,” he said frantically.

“Run? Aren’t you Gryffindors supposed to be braver than that?” Draco hissed. “And in case you haven’t noticed, Potter, they’re all around us!”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Ron growled as he raised his wand. “Expect—“

“NO!” Harry cried, grabbing Ron’s wrist. “You can’t! You’ll hurt Hermione!”

Hermione was horrified. Harry was right, and she had put them in danger.

“Then I have to leave!” she shrieked, yanking herself out of Harry’s grip.

She broke free and she attempted to take off amidst Harry’s vehement yells of protest, but she didn’t get very far. A dementor fell upon her, scrambling to get hold of her. She was able to resist the worse of its powers, but not its physical strength. They were, both of them, dark creatures, but she stumbled on the ground when she felt the first icy effects of its horrible magic. It couldn’t possibly take her soul, but she knew it was going to try and it could weaken her in the process.

Harry cried out to her and she could see the helplessness in his eyes.

The dementors closed in on Harry and Ron while Draco stumbled to get behind them.

“Ron! Call your patronus! Call it!” she screamed in her most commanding tone.

“Don’t!” Harry cried over her.

His voice was drowned out in the grim moans of dementors swooping down to take their souls piece by piece.

Ron and Harry collapsed on the forest floor and Hermione screamed hysterically, the dementor atop her pinning her to the ground and struggling to get something from her.

Draco crawled from beneath Harry’s limp form, gasping and tumbling backwards to get away from the dark creatures hovering about. He held up his wand, looking at her with an unpleasant a sneer.

“This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me,” he hissed hurriedly.

If it was his way of asking her permission, then so be it.

“Do it!” she cried.

Draco summoned his patronus. It was an eagle. A large one and it beat its wings in a blinding ray of light.

Hermione felt the light touch of heat before it became a searing, flesh-eating pain. She screamed, covering her face with her hands as the power of the patronus charred her alive.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione broke the surface of unconsciousness to the agony of her burnt body. It was like nothing she had felt before.

Having had a sword run through her, she realized now that that had been more shock than pain. This, what she was feeling now, was pure torture. It was like millions of miniscule creatures were gnawing at her all at once just beneath the surface of her skin, and the pinprick stinging went right to the very center of her bones. The slightest wind; the softest breath; made the pain a hundred times worse.

She opened her eyes and knew only one worked right now, and as she tried to speak, cry out, say something, she could barely manage a sound. There was only a hollow, rasping wheeze.

Gingerly, she tried to orient herself.

She was lying on something soft, lumpy, but soft. And she was no longer on a forest floor. It looked like she was in a dungeon. Stone and moss surrounded her, the sound of running water echoing nearby. It smelled of dampness and earth. There was lighting. A few torches, and it was hot; terribly so.

Carefully, she raised her arm to look at it.

The horrific sight of her blackened, bleeding and weeping skin would have made her gorge rise if vampires ever did have the tendency to throw up. Instead, she felt tears pooling in her good eye. It slipped down her cheek and she raised her other hand to wipe it away. It wasn’t as burnt. The arm was whole and there was more pink flesh than black, but the back of her better hand had been scorched some as well. The three fingers of it looked burnt enough to fall off. She didn’t want to lose her fingers.

She heard the shifting of cloth and Remus came into view. She smelled his blood and she knew she needed it, but werewolf blood was not like human blood. Werewolf blood didn’t call to her like human blood did.

He didn’t say anything at first. He stared at her with his brows knotted in concern. Maybe he was waiting for her to speak.

“H-Harry…” she whispered painfully. It was all she could manage. “Ron…”

Thank goodness Remus understood. “They’re a lot better than you are, that’s for certain. They’re unconscious as of yet, but they’ll make it. So will you, for that matter, but I reckon it won’t be pleasant for you at all.”

She was relieved that they were alright, but it occurred to her that they would have died, because she had been there, and because Harry and Ron chose to die rather than cause her pain. She wanted to scream from sheer guilt, but she hadn’t the strength.

“We were attacked, as you might have figured out,” Remus continued, rising from his seat to go somewhere in the chamber.

Hermione hadn’t figured it yet, but she supposed it made sense. Dementors resided anywhere they pleased, but they liked being in places that humans often strayed. They definitely didn’t hang around thick, unpopulated, sparsely traveled forests.

Their travel party hadn’t unwittingly caught a pack of dementors; the dementors had been expecting them.

“Voldemort knew that many Order members would be on the move,” said Remus. “We weren’t the only ones attacked, and our decoys…”

Decoys. Another party had been assembled as decoys for them, sent in a route everyone had expected them to take.

Hermione looked at him hopefully as he emerged in her line of vision.

Remus shook his head, his face grim. “None of them made it. They were attacked by Death Eaters. And… they were massacred the way your—well, we have reason to believe the Death Eaters had a vampire with them.”

Massacred the same way my parents were. None of them stood a chance. She felt more tears spill.

It was only after a moment of guilty weeping that she noticed Remus holding a hefty bottle filled with red, viscous liquid. She recognized it instantly and her hunger surged.

“It’s bottled, but the blood’s newly given. Thank goodness for willing donors.”

Remus took a bowl as he removed the cork from the bottle’s mouth.

The scent of the blood reached her nostrils and her craving spiked. Her fangs stayed where they were, though, and Hermione realized that blood drunk from a bowl was not the same as blood drunk from its original vessel. The nutritional value of it, she imagined, wasn’t the same because the pleasure of drawing blood with one’s teeth was lost, but she could only suppose that no one had been willing to offer her blood that way. This would have to do, and it would help, anyway.

Like eating instant noodles instead of getting the good stuff at the Chinese restaurant. She would have laughed at the comparison if it weren’t so disturbing.

She watched the blood ooze from the bottle and pour into the bowl, gleaming crimson under the firelight.

When the bowl was half filled, Remus helped her take the blood.

In tasted better than she thought and she drank all she could, as quickly as she could. The warmth of it filled her and for a brief, blessed moment, the pain eased away.

Remus kept giving her blood until she’d drank most of the bottle’s contents, and when she can drink no more, the warmth from the blood seemed to settle deep within her, making her lethargic.

“Try to sleep,” he said gently. “Minerva’s still trying to find something to transfigure into a coffin. We… lost yours during the attack.”

She would have groaned if she had the energy.

“In the meantime, this bed would have to do. We’re underground, so you don’t have to worry about sunlight. Besides, you need treating in the next few hours. This works best for you for the meantime.”

She hadn’t the strength to agree or disagree. She just wanted to close her eyes and pray that when she woke up, the pain would be gone, or at least lessened.

Closing her eyes, she let sleep take her. It was the only reprieve she had.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The fourth time Hermione woke from sleep, a day had passed. For the first time since she’d been waking up, the pain wasn’t as severe, and when she struggled to speak, she actually made a sound.

Remus reappeared at her side again, this time he was smiling. “How do you feel?”

It seemed stupid to say she felt better since she still felt wretched, but it was an improvement from the last three times she woke. “Extra crispy,” she rasped.

He took her wisecracking to be a positive sign. “Your last sleep did you good. Fourteen hours.”

Daytime sleep. And then some.

She moved her hand and lifted it into view. It did look better. The charred skin was chipping off and she could see some patches of new skin growing. At the very least, it didn’t look gross anymore, just weird. Probably a teensy bit frightening.

She had regenerated considerably. As Remus said, sleep and blood had done her good.

Gently, she touched her hand to the burnt half of her face. She could still feel some crust, but it wasn’t very painful anymore. Perhaps a bit sore, and she could feel her eye. It didn’t seem like she could see out of it yet, but she seemed to have gotten her eyelid back.

She cleared her throat, trying to speak in a normal tone. “Harry and Ron…”

“They gained consciousness a while ago, but the healer immobilized them both, else they’d be here right now.”

Hermione didn’t doubt it.

Remus once again gave her blood to drink. She was beginning to wonder who her willing donors were. Whoever they were, Hermione owed them her thanks.

She could think of another person she owed thanks to.

“Thank you,” she said. “For taking care of me.”

His kind smile graced his weary features. “You’re welcome. Besides, I seem to be answering my true calling, whether you and I want to admit it or not.”

She reddened, embarrassed. “Oh, Remus, no…”

He chuckled softly. “Think nothing of it, Hermione. I’d rather it’s you than anyone else, you know? I am not the least bit bothered by it.”

Well she was. The idea of elves serving masters was revolting enough. The thought of her keeping a werewolf just because his instincts were telling him he should serve the vampire sickened her.

The sound of iron banging against iron rang out through the chamber. It was followed by the rumble of ball bearings grating against metal grooves.

Remus sighed and he stepped away from her. Hermione had a feeling she knew what was going on.

If she had the strength to grab the edge of her blanket and pull it over herself, she would have done it, but relative to the pain, the way she looked seemed like a trivial matter.

Harry and Ron tumbled into view, their gazes filling with shock at the sight of her.

She volleyed between asking them how they got away from the healer and being cheeky. She opted for the latter. “If you think this is bad you should see the other guy.”

Harry fell to his knees beside her, not the least bit consoled. He delicately touched the uninjured half of her face as the muscles around his eyes tensed. He looked over his shoulder at Remus. “Who called the patronus?”

For a moment, Remus didn’t reply. Harry would definitely take it the wrong way, no matter how he tried to say it. “Now, Harry, it had to be done. He—“

“Who called it?”

Remus paused, then sighed. “Malfoy. It was Malfoy.”

“Malfoy?” Ron gasped, probably shocked that Draco could conjure a patronus at all.

Harry breathed deeply, as if to control something. “I’ll kill him.”

Hermione could have sighed if she could. “He saved you both. If it wasn’t for him—“

Harry’s piercing gaze whipped to her. “Look what he’s done to you!”

She narrowed her gaze. “I told him to call it. The patronus couldn’t kill me and the dementors would have done you in.”

“He didn’t do it for us.”

She frowned. It was a hollow argument and he knew it. What difference did it make if Draco did it for them or himself? He did do it for himself, because he’d always been a self-serving bastard who thought he was better than everyone else. He led Death Eaters into Hogwarts and he tried to kill Dumbledore, but right now, he was the reason Harry and Ron were alive. Draco didn’t deserve grief for this.

“Leave him alone, Harry,” she simply said. “I’ll live. You would have died.”

Harry’s jaw hardened stubbornly, but he didn’t deny it.

Ron sighed, sitting dazedly on an old, overturned crate. “Malfoy had a patronus…”

“It was an eagle,” Remus said. “A big one.”

“Wonderful. I get a Jack Russell Terrier and he gets a great big eagle. Where’s the justice in that?”

Harry frowned. “Is that even important right now?”

“You’re right. What’s important and damning right now is that… I’m indebted to Malfoy.”

“We don’t owe him anything,” Harry hissed. “Can you even fathom the kind of pain Hermione had to endure—“

“Harry,” said Ron in a tired tone. “It kills me to see Hermione this way. You understand this, don’t you? But I’m going to admit to something I’m probably going to regret. Frankly, I had no idea a patronus could do this to her and—and if Malfoy hadn’t called the patronus, I’d have done it myself.”

Harry stared at him, unresponsive.

Ron fidgeted. “Harry, did you hear what I—“

“I heard you.”

“Then you understand what I’m trying to tell you. I’d have done it for you, because I couldn’t let you get killed. Heck, I don’t want to die. Hermione would’ve made me do it, at any rate. So the fact remains…”

Hermione wasn’t sure if she should say something. It was a bit unusual to hear Ron taking the sensible course rather than the emotional one, and she had to admit that she felt rather proud of him standing up to Harry, but she didn’t know if it was in Ron’s best interest to be admitting such things to Harry at this time.

Harry said nothing, turning his back on Ron.

She saw the look in his eyes; the anger and the outrage. It was just wrong that Harry was feeling this way for their best friend.

Struggling, she pushed herself to a sitting position. Harry tried to help her but she gestured for him to leave her alone. She glared at him, and she imagined that she looked quite frightening. With half her face burnt, she must have looked more the monster than she ever professed she was.

“Harry,” she began crisply. “Don’t you turn your back on Ron.”

He clearly hadn’t expected her reprimand. “What?”

“Don’t you turn your back on Ron! I won’t have it. It’s bad enough that you refuse to acknowledge that Malfoy did something to save your lives, but for you to act the git just because Ron admitted that he would have done exactly what he was supposed to just makes it all very absurd and—frankly—outrageous! I’m in a bad mood, Harry. This is not a good time to piss me off!”

His surprised expression had morphed into anger. “Well, forgive me for caring for you—“

“This isn’t about me! I’m fine—“

“FINE? You call this fine? You’re half-charred! You can’t even see out of your right eye! You—“

She gave a frustrated growl. “Again, this is not about me! Would you listen to yourself? You’re so consumed about what would happen to me. About what I’m feeling. About me, me and ME! I appreciate it, Harry. I really do, but stop it! Just stop it! It’s not healthy. It’s not right. The constellation of stars doesn’t revolve around Hermione Granger! For once, think about yourself, and Ron, and maybe even Malfoy! Draco didn’t deserve to die by having his soul sucked out of him just because I could get hurt!”

Somehow, Hermione had a feeling she was getting to things she hadn’t expected to bring up, and by the look on Ron and Remus’s faces, they just wanted to leave that room so she and Harry could have it out.

“What do you want from me, Hermione?” he yelled, anger and frustration clearly in his tone. It was the second time he had asked the question. “If I can’t look out for you, then whatever the hell else am I supposed to do? It’s all I can do!”

She laughed bitterly. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You have loads of things you can do, none of which have to do with watching out for me. You’ve a whole life ahead of you filled with enormous possibilities—“

Fear stabbed at the furious look in his eyes and he stepped away from her. “Stop it.”

She eyed him stubbornly. She knew he knew what she was going to tell him. They had just been putting off the inevitable. “Harry, listen to me. I think you and I—“

“I said stop it!” he shouted.

She narrowed her gaze at him. He can’t just shut me off like that. Pussyfooting’s over. He has to hear what I have to say! But before she could start speaking again, he turned, shooting her a glare before he left the chamber and sliding the door shut after him with a bang.

Hermione sat there, trembling from the spent emotions. She could feel Ron and Remus’s eyes on her.

“H-Hermione,” Ron began in a cautious, quiet tone. “Y-You didn’t have to go at Harry like that on account of me. He’s just very protective of you—“

“I didn’t mean for you to get dragged into this,” she said. “But I think it quickly stopped being about you the louder we yelled at each other.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry. Still, he shouldn’t be angry with you. Pissed me off that he was.”

He smiled hesitantly. “Th-thanks.”

Remus cleared his throat. “Ron, best go check on Harry. I wouldn’t recommend that you try to talk to him, though. Just make sure he isn’t beating the lights out of Draco in the other cell, you know?”

“Right. I’ll come by again, Hermione.”

She nodded as he left.

Remus sighed, shaking his head. “I suppose you had a point.”

“But?”

“You were very harsh.”

“I’m a vampire. I’m ruthless.”

“You’re not being ruthless because you’re a vampire. You’re being ruthless because you feel you have to be.”

Hermione took a moment to absorb the fact that Remus understood in two minutes what Harry had refused to understand in the last three weeks. “I’m not good for him anymore Remus. I used to be able to help him before. Be there for him. Now I’m this. He loves me, and he’ll do anything for me, but I’m nothing but a burden, at best, dangerous, at worse.”

“Now, Hermione—“

“They almost died because of me. He chose the lives of all of them for me. Sure, it’s all good and romantic now, but there will come a time when it will destroy him and everyone else.”

Remus’s gaze filled with compassion. “Hermione, this is a fluke. This won’t happen all the time—“

“That’s bullcrap and you know it.”

They were silent for several seconds.

Finally, Remus looked up at her beseechingly. “You can’t leave him, Hermione.”

She swallowed the knot in her throat. So Remus understood it more fully than he let on.

He continued. “Harry… that boy… Lily’s boy… when he’s with you, I see both his parents when they were so happy. And it’s not just because you and he have a relationship. Anyone can have a relationship with a suitable enough partner, but you and Harry… you were made for one another. It sounds silly and fanciful when others say it, but with the two of you it’s real. You simply can’t throw away something so rare.”

“That was then. Have you seen him that happy again, these days?”

“This is just a period of adjustment.”

Hermione nodded slightly, staring vacantly at the mold-ridden stone wall beside her bed. “You’ve been with vampires before, Remus. Tell me, at what point is the human considered adjusted? When he gets used to the constant blood loss? Or maybe when he no longer gets rattled by the viciousness? The ferocity? When he’s given everything he has to give and there’s nothing of him left? A vampire gives nothing in return, you know.”

Remus didn’t reply at once. “Of course you give something in return…”

She shook her head. “The burden of sacrifice falls on the human. He has sacrificed so much already. Surely you understand what I mean. Why does he have to keep doing that? Why does it always have to be him? His mother… she sacrificed her life for him, so that he could have a future. Is it so wrong that I’d want to do the same for him? If I stay, then I’ll be taking away everything his mother died for.”

For a moment, Remus was at a loss for words. Then he seemed to recover a bit. “If you leave him, you’ll kill him.”

She gave a bitter chuckle. “Now that’s fanciful. Nobody dies of a broken heart, Remus. Romantic as it may all seem, it simply doesn’t happen like that. People live, and they move on, usually to better things. At this point, anybody’s better than me.”

“Hermione…”

“No one deserves a vampire. We bring nothing but death.”

“It’s not about who deserves what,” said Remus, a renewed glimmer in his eyes. “It all has to do with being with someone. Loving someone enough to do things, or let them do things. Tonks… God knows, I’ll go spare without her, and I realize the sacrifices she makes for me, but more than anything, she wants to take care of me. That’s all she asks. And so I let her. I let her and it’s… not such a bad thing. In fact, it’s rather nice to know that someone will be there for you, no matter what. Why would you waste such a gift?”

She closed her eyes, letting Remus’s words wash over her. A gift, he called it.

He’s right. What Harry does for me… it’s a gift. It’s a gift.

She repeated the words in her head, like a mantra. Telling herself it was true. Telling herself that gifts were made to be appreciated. Cherished.

Setting aside her fears for the moment, she managed to nod, opening her eyes to meet Remus’s gaze as she did so.

The lines on his forehead softened, as if relieved that he had averted danger.

She wasn’t above feeling a bit of relief herself. Maybe this wasn’t as bad as she thought. Maybe, just maybe, Remus was right.

He’s right. It’s a gift. It’s a gift. It’s a gift...

Now all she had to do was believe it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry opened the door to Draco’s cavern and found Dobby standing guard. Behind the bars, Draco lay on the cot with his hands behind his head, his robes spread out beneath him as if to protect him from the grime of the mattress.

Draco sneered when he saw Harry.

Dobby looked ecstatic. “Oh, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is happy that you are up and about! Dobby—“

Without removing his determined gaze from Draco, Harry said, “I’ll not be needing you for the meantime, Dobby. I’ll call you back when I’m done here.”

Dobby’s huge, tennis ball eyes widened even more, no doubt surprised by the venom in Harry’s tone. But Dobby did not pose questions. He simply nodded and disappeared with a tiny pop.

Harry slammed the door to the cavern shut and paced in front of the bars, eyeing Draco with blatant contempt. He had come to take his pent up aggression out on Draco. Perhaps make the aggravating Slytherin realize that getting beat up the muggle-way could be just as bad as getting magically hexed.

The problem, Harry realized, was that now that he was there, he couldn’t find it in himself to pound on Draco when the boy lay reticent behind a cage. Not only did Harry think it was mean and dishonorable to beat Draco senseless in his present captivity, but it seemed like an awfully juvenile thing to do.

Harry hated that his plan for catharsis was an awful failure.

He grabbed Dobby’s sitting stool and hurled it against one of the many rotting crates dumped haphazardly nearby. The stool punched a hole through the rotting wood and clouds of dust came up. Yelling, Harry kicked the crate several more times, widening the hole enough to have the crate partially collapse in itself.

Breathing heavily, he stepped back, gritting his teeth.

“Storage crates,” said Draco. “You have to show them who’s boss.”

Harry glared at him. He held up his hand, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “You’re this close to getting the shite beat out of you, Malfoy, so shut the hell up.”

“This about your girlfriend, Potter?”

“Gee! How did you know?”

Draco scoffed. “It was either her or me, and in what universe would I ever choose someone else over my own life? Certainly not in this one, and certainly not for your mudblood bitch.”

Harry realized right there that all he needed to get his rage going was proper motivation. Blowing the lock on Draco’s cell with his wand, he kicked the door in and stalked towards Draco with surefire determination. Even Draco backed up in momentary fear. Grabbing Draco by the front of his expensive dress shirt, Harry pulled back his fist and clocked a solid one on Draco’s jaw.

Draco stumbled to the side, an absolutely dazed expression in his watery eyes. He spat blood, a scowl crumpling his aristocratic features.

“I had to use the patronus and having you two plebes live because I had to save my life was a consequence I was willing to put up with…” said Draco somewhat drunkenly. A sneer began to form on his lips. “Besides, seeing her burn makes it all worth the aggravation.”

That was it. Harry plowed right into Draco, knocking the fey boy to the moldy ground. That might have caused Draco’s initial yell of protest because heaven forbid his designer clothing get soiled. But his cries quickly died when Harry, clutching Draco by the collar of the same designer shirt while in full mount, pounded his fist on Draco’s face again, and again, and again.

The blood didn’t faze Harry in the least. All he knew was there was this blinding rage inside him that needed letting out and Draco was just perfect for the job.

Harry could have very well gone on until every bone on Draco’s face was broken, but he felt a massive force heaving him back and hauling him away. He was thrown towards the wall and he stumbled only slightly, advancing right back towards Draco and fully intending to continue from where he left off without giving a second thought about just who had overpowered him.

It was Ron, and the tall, big-boned redhead had to slam him up against the wall to stop him in his tracks.

The stars that blossomed in his vision from the blow was quickly cleared away by Ron’s flabbergast tirade.

“Bloody hell, Harry! Get a hold of yourself! He’s out! There’s nothing left for you to beat!”

Harry heaved lungs full of air as he let Ron’s words sink in. Slowly, his sense of self returned and he saw what he had done to Draco.

Draco was spread eagle on the floor, blinking very dazedly at the stone ceiling. Blood poured from his broken nose and split lip and he didn’t even have the wits to scowl or say something sarcastic. Harry had really done him in.

Now that he was giving it a second thought, Harry realized that Draco Malfoy had been no match for him in a blow-by-blow confrontation. In a situation where Harry saw nothing but his anger, Draco hadn’t stood a chance. While Harry wasn’t the biggest boy there was—often considered skinny, in fact—he still had what it took to—say, take blows from a six foot three young man like Ron, or punches from Dudley. He had considerably enough muscle, too, developed from years of manual labor from the Dursleys and perhaps the strange, wizard-type “weight training” they did to condition themselves for Quidditch.

So it was easy to determine that Draco, the fey, mansion-grown, rich man’s heir didn’t have much to recommend him in a all-out knock-down brawl, whereas Harry had stood up to the worse of them: Dragons, giants, basilisks, Ron and Dudley. It was no contest, and Harry felt the tiniest bit of guilt. Just a smidgen, though. This was Draco Malfoy they were talking about, after all.

“He said…” Harry gasped, realizing that he was still breathing heavily from the intensity of his emotions. “H-Hermione…”

Ron pushed Harry’s back to the wall again, but gently this time, just for good measure. “We’ll talk about that in a while. Right now, you stay right here while I go look over Malfoy and—and see what I can do for him if you haven’t sodding killed him.”

It was different now, Harry realized. Draco had saved their lives and Ron understood that. One just didn’t forget that, even if the person who saved you had been abusing your family’s name and heritage for the last six years. Godric Gryffindor expected it of his followers.

In any case, Ron seeing to Draco consisted of Ron nudging Draco’s side with the toe of his boot and saying, “Oy, Malfoy.” He held up two fingers to Draco’s face. “How many fingers?”

For a moment, Draco didn’t reply, then he spoke. “Big ugly weasel.”

“Well, that sounds like you’ll make it. Not sure about the nose, though, looks broken, and I think you lost a couple of teeth. If you asked me you never looked better.”

Draco gave him the finger.

Ron snorted and grabbed Draco’s arm none too gently. “Get up and sit your arse over there.” He nodded in the direction of the cot.

Draco wrenched his arm away and turned over, letting the blood from his nose and mouth drip to the dungeon floor. “I’ll do it without you, thank you very much. You’ll get blood on my shirt and you simply don’t ruin an Alessandro Guylaine with bodily fluids.”

Ron stepped back and let Draco do what he wanted. “Hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but in case you haven’t noticed, you’re in a dungeon. You’re overdressed.”

Draco managed to make lumbering look graceful and he staggered to the dirty dungeon cot with admirable Malfoy grace. “Well, mother always said it’s better to overdress.” He sat on the edge of the cot, slouching over with his elbows to his knees, his blood soiling the ground underneath.

“Aren’t you just the little mama’s boy?”

“Takes one to know one, weasel.” Draco flashed Ron a beatific and bloody smile but was unable to hold it, hacking and spitting seconds later.

“Right. Real classy,” said Ron dryly.

Draco sneered. “So sue me. This isn’t exactly a fucking prim and proper tea party, is it?”

Harry realized that there was absolutely nothing to feel guilty about when it came to Draco Malfoy.

“If it was I’d be shoving a scone down your throat,” said Ron, going for the bait.

An evil grin spread on Draco’s bleeding lips, but he said nothing.

Ron rolled his eyes and turned to Harry as he ushered them out of the cell. Looking at the lock, Ron only shook his head as he repaired what was left of it and stuck on one of George’s more clever locking spells. He gave Harry’s hand one look and scourgified Draco’s blood off it.

Harry muttered his thanks, somewhat embarrassed.

“Hey, Weasel,” said Draco before they could go.

Ron sighed and looked over his shoulder. “What?”

“Tell your sister that next time we meet I can definitely give her a ride on my broom.”

“Why, you—“

Harry grabbed Ron’s vest, stopping him in his tracks and dragging him away.

They left the dungeons and went up a short flight of stairs to get to the house proper. It was an old, stone manor, long disappeared from the face of any map. All around it were trees, weeds, vines and wildlife. It was warded one kilometer around on all sides and the only way to get to it was by an ancient Fidelius charm from its sole living inheritor Elphias Doge. It wasn’t a very grand place. It once housed a knight and his family and they lived a moderate lifestyle, perhaps with as little as two house servants and a small stable and squire staff. The manor was well kept enough to have clean rooms, working bathrooms and a usable kitchen, but the dungeons were moldy, and it wasn’t a very fashionable ancestral home. It had a wide variety of styles as far as furniture went and the only thing in the entire grounds that could claim any kind of elegance was a little pond out back surrounded by beautiful flowers of Narcissus and a picturesque stone seat held up by magnificently carved fairies. Unfortunately, to sit on the chair and stare into the pond left one bespelled of one’s own reflection. It wasn’t a particularly horrible curse. Anyone who happened to see one and pass one by can shake one out of the trance, but if one were to get caught and nobody else happened by, then one can very well sit there for just as long, never realizing that one’s body needed food, or clothing, or care. A victim can very well wither away and die sitting on the stone bench.

They headed back to the medical facility set up in one of the rooms, passing several Order members by along the way. The medical facility was filled with injured travelers, and those wizards and witches that were well or able assisted the healers however they could. All meetings were postponed until most of the attack-victims were in better condition. Food was not going to be a problem since most of the Order members weren’t really advocates of S.P.E.W., therefore they had their house elves working when it was necessary. The beds Harry and Ron had previously occupied was yet unmade, but at least that meant it didn’t need to be filled by a new patient.

Tonks, traces of repaired tissue on the skin of her cheek, frowned at them as they approached. “Well, it’s lovely that you two decided to return, because heaven forbid that someone should gainsay the healer who, by the way, only knows what he’s doing.”

The healer she was referring to was attending to a patient who had shattered his legs from falling off his broom. He arched an eyebrow at Tonks’s sarcasm before transferring his disapproving gaze to Harry and Ron.

“And how is Ms. Granger?” he asked.

Harry didn’t know if he could answer that while keeping his sanity intact.

Ron answered for him. “She looked awful and I can’t imagine that she’s feeling comfortable right now.”

Tonks’s brows knotted at this report but the healer only nodded.

“Yes, she couldn’t have been fully healed yet since the other night. Vampires regenerate quickly enough, but patronus injuries are always difficult for them. Perhaps another day’s sleep and she will look much, much better. You can give some of your blood for the cause, if you’re so inclined to help her, but I’d advise you two to take a few more hours to recover before you do anything like that. Dementors sucked your life forces, you see. For some people, that’s somewhat staggering. I recommend rest, but what do I know? I’m just a healer.”

Harry fidgeted.

Red in the face, Ron nodded. “Er, right. In a while, then. In the meantime, Harry and I went by Malfoy’s cell. He needs a healer. He—er—fell on his face and—umm—broke his nose. Knocked out a couple of teeth, too. He’s alright, but I think it somewhat rattled his head a bit, so he’ll probably tell weird stories about—er—Harry attacking him or some bollocks—um, sorry—odd story like that…”

Harry would be utterly shocked if anyone bought that bullcrap.

Tonks’s eyebrow arched.

The healer’s facial expression did not change. “Is that so? Well then, he will need a healer if he’s saying odd things. I’ll send someone over with an auror. Tonks, be a dear and bring Healer Thurston with you to Mr. Malfoy.”

Tonks nodded, maintaining her raised eyebrow as she gave Ron and Harry one last look before seeing to the task.

Ron and Harry gave their thanks and scurried on out of the facility, their stride propelled by guilt.

“You didn’t have to lie for me, mate,” Harry said quietly as they went. “I can take responsibility for my actions.”

“First of all,” Ron said, leading them through the many torch-lit hallways of the manor. “If anyone believed me while I barfed that story up, I’d say the Order staffed itself with a bunch of imbeciles and our chances of fighting this war successfully with them are nil. Secondly, I owe you for confunding that examiner at the Apparating Licensing Office. So now we’re both cheats and liars and we owe each other nothing. All I have left to do is get that blasted Malfoy out of my hair and I’m all squared with the Fates.”

Harry sighed. So he wasn’t as wily as Hermione when it came to confunding people. Then again, maybe Ron knew about that, too. Best not bring it up.

Ron checked rooms as they went, and at the third door, he walked in. Harry followed.

They were in what looked like a potions lab. It looked used in some parts, dusty in others. It wasn’t an abandoned room, but it didn’t look like anyone was using it at present. Ron lit the torches.

“Now,” said Ron, leaning lightly against a table. “I don’t really need to know anything about what happened with Malfoy. I don’t need to know anything, period, but you know you can talk to me. I’ll try not to say anything too stupid.”

Harry was surprised to feel that he did need to talk to someone. Gathering his thoughts, he sank into one of the many high stools and felt anxiety knotting his stomach anew. “I think Hermione’s going to break up with me. I-I can just feel it coming on! W-What do you think I should do?”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Whoa! Hey, back it up, now… tell me from the beginning.”

Harry sighed but nodded. He supposed getting into the details of it would do him some good. “We’ve been fighting a lot. It was easy enough when she first got back from St. Mungo’s, and then she got really quiet, as if everything was fine, but I can feel that she had things on her mind. Heavy things. When I finally got her to talk it was like anything could set us both off. Now I’m always afraid I’d say something, and I think she feels that way too, but we end up fighting anyway. You saw it in the dungeon, didn’t you? It’s usually like that. Sometimes, during the worse of it, we end up—well, you know…”

“Shagging?”

“Good lord… fine. Yeah, shagging.” Harry sighed. He realized he shouldn’t be so jarred by Ron’s vulgarity. There was, after all, little time for niceties. “But that doesn’t exactly fix anything. It’s some kind of distraction, or a fix of some sorts. It just… puts it off. Then just when I thought sharing something really special with her would make things all better, it just got worse!”

“When you say ‘really special’—“

“Please don’t make me explain that, Ron. You couldn’t possibly understand it.”

“Hey, now—“

“It’s not personal. None of you would be able to understand it. It was very intimate; between me and Hermione. All you have to understand is that it was special to me, too, but it didn’t help. It didn’t help!”

“Alright then,” said Ron in a calm, collected voice. “Easy now… so you think this is all leading up to Hermione breaking up with you.”

Harry flung a hand in the direction of the dungeons. “You heard her in there, mate. Tell me honestly. What did you think she was trying to say?”

Ron seemed to be giving it a thought and for a while he didn’t say anything. Finally, he spoke. “She was just upset.”

Harry groaned in frustration, pressing the heel of his hands to his eyes before looking up. “Whatever! She’s thinking it. That’s the bottom line, isn’t it? I love her, and I know she loves me, but she’s got this… this issue. It’s always been there, even when she was human. She thinks I deserve better than her.”

“That’s rubbish. She deserves better than your sorry arse.”

Harry took a moment to shoot him a wry sneer but appreciated Ron for the jab, anyway. Besides, the point was, Ron understood what he was trying to say. “Right. So now that she’s vampire, this issue of hers just got worse. I mean, now she thinks she’s a monster, or she’s awful, or short-tempered, or—or whatever the hell would make her seem unbearable. But it’s just not like that for me! It’s a helluva lot different being with a vampire than it is being with a human, sure, but this is Hermione, whatever she is, and she’s still really her, whatever she’s changed into and I—I—“ He groped for his next thought, finding what words he could think of inadequate.

“And you just love her.”

Harry stared at Ron in surprise. The simple words were always the best, after all. The bastard really does get it. “Yeah…”

“Have you tried to tell her all this?”

“It’s all I’ve been doing… and she just isn’t listening.”

“Have you been listening?”

Harry scowled. “Of course I have. I’ve done nothing but be there for her. I’ve been—“

“Maybe—“ Ron stopped and hesitated.

Harry waited. When Ron didn’t continue, Harry insisted. “What?”

A pained expression came over Ron’s face. “F-Forget it.”

“What?”

“I-I don’t—“

“For fuck’s sake, Ron! Just spit it out! I’m desperate here!”

Ron sighed, running a hand down his face. “Maybe you should give her some space.”

Harry let the full effect of Ron’s words sink in before he said anything. “Are you mad? There’s a BLOODY CHASM between us right now, Ron. If I give her anymore space, she’d have to use a telescope to see me!”

“Calm down! All I’m saying is that maybe you’re trying a bit too hard to make this work. Maybe you need to back off. Let her get some thinking time in without you being there pressuring her to think this way and that way.”

Harry thought this was the worse idea ever.

Ron wouldn’t be trying to sabotage my relationship with Hermione, would he?

Harry frowned at his own musings. Of course not.

He slumped into his seat, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can do that. I’m too afraid of losing her, as it is. Now you’re saying I should give her space. That’s almost like telling me to break up with her.”

“It’s not like that,” said Ron wearily. “Just give her time to let her realize things on her own.”

“And what if she realizes she doesn’t want to be with me anymore?”

Ron looked at him sadly. “That’s the tricky part about relationships. You both have to want to be in it. The sooner Hermione realizes what she wants, the better it will be for the both of you, no matter what she decides to do, and you’re going to have to live with her decision. It’s just the way things go.”

It was too depressing to think about, but that was the reality of it. Harry felt a little nonplussed getting sound advice from Ron. “Where did you get all this relationship stuff? I mean, no offense, but your emotional range… you know, teaspoon and stuff…”

It was Ron’s turn to shoot him a wry grimace. “Believe it or not, I learned a thing or two having that ‘relationship’ with Lavender. It was nice that she was so into me the first few weeks, but after a while, she began to feel like a leech, you know? She just wouldn’t leave me alone! Mental, that woman. I think if she gave me a moment’s peace when I wanted it, we’d have worked out better. I really did fancy her, anyway. I wouldn’tve kissed her if I didn’t.”

“Well, that’s a relief. Least you didn’t throw your chance with Hermione away for nothing.”

Ron reddened. “You just had to remind me about that, didn’t you?”

Harry shrugged. He supposed he did have to.

He got up from the stool and headed for the door. “I’m going to see if they need any help at the infirmary. You coming?”

“Yeah. Oy, do you think we can find something to eat first? All that drama’s got me hungry as hell.”

Harry nodded, clapping Ron’s shoulder. “There you are, Ron! Thought I’d lost you there for a while. ’Course we should eat first. I’m pretty famished myself. Now we just have to find the kitchen…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione’s second day’s sleep had been in a coffin. McGonagall had found a large crate, and it suited its purpose.

Healing came faster for Hermione having a coffin to sleep in, and by the time the third night came around, the burn tissue on her body was gone. Her skin was oddly translucent, some of her veins somewhat visible through the pale membrane, but it was nothing grotesque. Her right eye was gold instead of brown, but she could see out of it.

After she fed, Remus eyed her anxiously. “Are you going to be alright?”

She nodded, smiling slightly. “I believe so. Thank you, Remus. I don’t think I could’ve gotten through it without you.”

“Think nothing of it.” He patted her shoulder gently as he rose from his seat. “I’ve some things to attend to upstairs. The meeting will be held tonight, finally. Took a while, but we got around to it.”

“I’ll definitely be there. I bet they’re all dying to ogle the vampire, anyway.”

“There’s that…”

“And there’s what else?”

Remus paused. “Some of them are afraid of you.”

“Of course they are.”

“It’s just a heads up, really. Don’t let them get to you. Just remember that the people who matter to you are all glad to have you here and alive.”

She smiled at him gratefully.

He returned her smile. “I’ll see you later.”

He left.

Hermione gingerly got to her feet and went to rummage through her rucksack. Most of her things were still inside it, including her three bottles of synthetic blood and her journal. She was still trying to figure out how she was able to keep most of her things but managed to lose her coffin.

Normal people lose quills. I lose a fucking coffin. She snorted softly, bowled over by the utter irony. I could kill myself if I wasn’t already dead.

She dug out one of her T-shirts. It had a rottweiler staring out of it and it said, “Be my bitch and I promise not to bite you,” underneath. It seemed appropriate for the occasion.

The door slid open and she was about to ask Remus if he had forgotten something when she realized it wasn’t Remus at all.

She gasped softly. “Harry…”

He hadn’t dropped by to see her after their fight and she had a horrible feeling that she had finally chased him away. She missed him, and the only reason she hadn’t gone up to the manor to look for him was because she was in too much pain the night before. Besides, even if she did manage to get around, she imagined she wasn’t the prettiest sight there was.

He seemed surprised by her appearance. Either he hadn’t expected she’d regenerate so quickly or she looked scarier than ever to him.

“I’m glad you’re better,” he said, shoving his hands into his pocket. “I… I’m sorry I didn’t come by the other night. I got hung up helping in the infirmary…”

She waved away his apology. “Don’t worry about it. I wasn’t in any condition to be good company, anyway…”

He fidgeted.

She didn’t wait too long. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off on you like that.”

He lowered his gaze. “It wasn’t your fault. I didn’t have the right to be getting angry with anyone; even Malfoy. Just… you looked so… broken…”

“Well, I’m fixed now. I still look a tad lopsided, I know, but I don’t look as frightening as before. At least I hope so.” She just wanted the tension to go away. “I heard a few Order members are afraid of me, so I’m going up there with a bang.” She showed him her t-shirt.

He laughed softly. “Yeah, that ought to win them over.”

Silence fell upon them.

She felt her stomach knot. It was a new feeling. She never had it for Harry, at least not in a bad way. Not like this. “Listen, Harry—“

“W-Wait,” he said in that softly pleading tone of his. He crossed the distance between them, put his arms around her and took her in a tight embrace.

She sighed but sank into his arms. She didn’t know if Harry was deliberately trying to distract her or he just really missed not having talked to her at all the previous night.

Hermione realized that it hardly mattered, anyway. She had missed him, too. It was horrible to be fighting with him that way. She embraced back. She just wished they could always be this blissfully in love.

Unable to help herself, she told him she loved him and he whispered it right back, placing a kiss or two on the top of her head as he said it.

She pulled back a bit so she could look into his gaze as she spoke. She pressed her palm to his cheek. “I’ve been yelling at you a lot, lately, haven’t I? And you don’t deserve it. You’ve been so patient and supportive.”

There was a split heartbeat of strain around his eyes, and then it was gone, the intensity of his emerald gaze softening.

Their foreheads touched, noses brushing tenderly as they swayed ever so slightly to an imaginary melody.

He smiled. It was difficult for her to see if there was any sadness to it with him so close. “You’re going through a lot and I’m so desperate to take care of you. I… I talked to Ron some. I hope you don’t mind. I just needed—“

“You don’t have to explain,” she interrupted gently. “I want you to have someone to talk to, and I couldn’t think of anyone better than Ron. We both trust him so very much.”

He nodded, planting a short, but slow kiss on her lips. The grateful quality behind it made her heart melt. “Ron thinks I… I need to back off a bit. Give you space.”

She tensed, the words throwing her thoughts in a jumble. Could it be that simple? Had Ron—Mr. Emotional Range of a Teaspoon—actually hit on an insightful point? She had spoken to Cicero and Remus about what was eating into her, and they both gently explained that Harry was merely acting on instinct and emotion, and that she had to understand what he was going through. They never told her to tell Harry to back off. Maybe that was a viable solution. It seemed like a logical course of action, at any rate. It might be just the thing, right?

“I’m not breaking up or anything like that,” Harry added hastily, misinterpreting. “Gods, no! I just… I just have to recognize situations where you need time alone, I suppose. I… haven’t exactly figured out how this works, but the idea’s there, yes?”

“Yes,” she replied softly. “Yes, the idea is there. We’ll work with that. We can make this work, can’t we, Harry?”

“Of course,” he whispered, pulling her closer. “Of course. We’ll always try. And I’ll do anything. You know I will…”

The knotting in her stomach was forestalled by the onslaught of his wonderful kiss. His lips… his tongue…

She felt around his body for his wand.

A low chuckle rose from his throat. “What are you doing?”

“Your wand…”

“A little bit more to the left. Usually between my legs…”

She giggled softly. “Not that wand, the real one. Made of wood…”

“Well, the other one’s feeling rather woody about now—“

She grinned, feeling her instincts spike and her fangs inching out of her gums. “I need the one with the phoenix tail feather, you naughty boy. How else am I going to seal that dungeon door? Silencing charms will come in handy, too, don’t you think?”

She found his wand and charmed the dungeon with quick, graceful flicks. When the chamber was properly warded, she summoned a vial of her synthetic blood. She popped the contents of it in her mouth and instantly felt her instincts falling under control.

Harry raised his eyebrow at the vial, probably realizing that there wouldn’t be any bloodletting tonight, but he seemed able to get over his disappointment quickly.

“Ah, now it all comes clear, you wicked witch, you…” He was already pulling up the edges of her shirt and feeling for the clasp of her bra. “Should’ve known your intentions were impure…”

“Oh, shut it. Your thoughts aren’t exactly dove-white right now, either. Now, about this wand of yours…” She undid his trousers and slipped her hands into his pants, one hand to stroke him and the other to cup him.

He groaned as both hands squeezed with the necessary pressure. He smiled lazily at her ministrations. “Holy Merlin… you always were a hand in charms class…”

“Hmm, yes. I’m very good, aren’t I?” She slid her grip down him firmly and up again, letting her thumb roll over the tip of his cock. No easy thing, considering she hadn’t pushed down his pants and trousers.

He did that for her as he nodded. “The best.”

“We’ve never shagged in a dungeon, have we?” she breathed, kissing his throat lazily as she released controlled bursts of her pheromones.

He moaned as the pheromones hit him. She took that opportunity to press him back against the wall.

She slid down him and he was utterly powerless when she took him in her mouth.

Leaning back, a sound of pleasure escaped him.

She focused on keeping her fangs retracted as she licked, sucked and squeezed, even as brand new emotions were trying to jumble her thoughts.

Merlin, she thought, making sounds from her throat as she took him deep in her mouth. There’s a coffin in the room! Does he even realize that?

Instead of freaking out, she realized that the thought that she was giving him enough pleasure to not let the coffin bother him made her very, very aroused. She had to pull back from him to control the surge of vampirism that came over her.

She looked up at him as she momentarily used her hands to substitute her mouth and saw that he was watching her with heavy lidded fascination, running his fingers idly through her hair. She licked her lips as she managed to check her instincts and took him again, going into a steady, consistent motion.

The groaning and gasping sounds he made were much louder now and she knew that if she kept on, he would come. It excited her exceedingly, but before she could make it feel even better for him, he pulled himself away from her and coaxed her up.

His grip on her shoulders as he kissed her was almost painful, and she could tell he was letting his excitement drift down to a manageable level. When his heavy breathing evened, he helped her out of her trousers and knickers, shifting them so it was her back pressed against the wall.

She wanted to tell him that this was supposed to be only for him, but she supposed she hadn’t the will to resist, especially when she was already so wet. His fingers found her, one and then two of his digits inserting themselves as his thumb stroked her clit gently.

Gasping, she met his intense gaze and pleaded him with her eyes to put her out of her misery.

He kissed her languorously before pulling her shirt and bra off her, rendering her completely naked.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

The anticipation of what he was going to do to her almost made her come right then and she didn’t hesitate to do as he said. Her palms on the rough stone, she shifted and bent over slightly to accommodate him. Her vampire instincts reared, and she realized that this way, she could let her instincts go a bit more and she didn’t have to worry about biting him by accident. With vampiric eyes, she watched him over her shoulder as he pulled off his shirt. She admired the lines on his lithe body and shuddered with anticipation as she let the scent of his blood flavor the air.

He was inside her in an instant, his hands on her hips as they joined with a combined rhythm.

His thrusts tingled through her and she closed her eyes, sounds escaping her involuntarily. One of his hands began to circle her clit while the other fondled her breast.

This feels so amazing, she thought, her eyes rolling to the back of her head. She got louder.

He intensified his ministrations, his thrusting gone almost frantic. Without losing his rhythm, he bent over her and planted passionate kisses on her neck and shoulder, sucking on the skin at intervals. She could hear his moans between kisses, soft but deep with desire.

She was going to come and she gasped as she told him this, over and over, as if to beg him not to stop.

He nipped at her earlobe and hissed, telling her he was going to come with her.

It felt exhilarating to know they were so connected.

Craning her neck and reaching behind her to hold him by the back of his head, she let their lips meet, tongues tangling fiercely.

When their lips separated, he gasped. “Oh…” He thrust even harder. “… fuck!”

Hermione didn’t know if it was his profanity that finally did her in but she came so loudly and with such intense pleasure that she hardly even noticed that he was coming just as hard as she was, their cries mingling throughout the magically insulated chamber.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Even *I* blushed writing this, but like I said in my opening A/N, there’s a theme, so I had to write the sex this way to make some kind of symbolic adherence to that theme. *Anyway*, I hope it was still hot. That’s important in a smut scene.

14. Chapter Thirteenth: Exchange

Author’s Notes: This is going to be a long one, folks. Roller coastery, too. Brace yourselves. Much thanks to Lady Diamond, my beta-reader!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirteenth: Exchange

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry felt someone nudge him with an elbow and he looked questioningly at Hermione.

She was, unfortunately, back in her clothes, but he supposed he preferred that she had her clothes on while they sat in the tiny manor hall occupying three of the many seats surrounding a great table. She still looked good, anyway, even if there were still eerie traces of regeneration evident on her face and hands.

The t-shirt she chose for the occasion was a big hit, meaning many of the members kept their distance, which was fine, because if those members weren’t afraid, they’d likely be more blatantly unkind to her, as opposed to shooting her daggered looks.

Whatever whispering they had planned to do had been forestalled by Hermione’s earlier warning of, “I can hear you.”

To the Order’s credit, quite a few approached her amicably, telling her that they had been saddened by the news of her death and that they were sorry about what happened to her parents. Harry could tell Hermione was trying to be as gentle with them as possible, so as not to frighten them.

The number of meeting attendees was not as many as Harry first thought. Harry had at least expected that all of the Weasley brothers would be there, especially Charlie, but it appeared they were out on their own missions. Harry didn’t need to hear the details. Most of those they befriended in the last two days were aurors and healers; escorts to the more key members of the Order. There were few of them in the hall now, two of which Harry remembered as part of his advanced guard during the summer of his fifth year.

Mad-Eye Moody, whom Harry had seen hobbling about the manor and was now seated with them at the table, still hadn’t spoken to him. He was probably still angry at Harry for kicking him off Hermione’s interrogation. That was regrettable, but Hermione’s welfare was still more important to him that Mad-Eye’s opinion of him.

The meeting was just about to begin, the long table filled from end to end. Harry sat between Ron and Hermione and she was now shooting him a mildly reproachful look.

“What?” he whispered.

“Stop grinning!” she whispered back.

Harry was mildly surprised by this. “I’m grinning?”

“Like a fool,” Ron interjected from the other side. “What are you so happy about, anyway?”

Had the best shag ever just about half an hour ago, you see. It’s the sort of thing that puts a bloke in a good mood. He didn’t say it out loud, though, even if he was dying to. Hermione was blushing and glaring at him by turns, so he supposed she didn’t exactly feel like broadcasting what they had done in the dungeon.

“Happy? Me?” said Harry. “At a time like this?”

Ron nodded. “I concur. There isn’t any food! Not even tea! And we call ourselves Englishmen…”

“Oh, hush, Ron!” hissed Hermione. “Act dignified! And Harry, do keep that grin in check. It’s charming, yes, but you don’t want to charm anyone right now. You want them to think that the Chosen One means business!”

“Ugh!” said Harry. “Just when I thought that nickname was a bad dream, you remind me it’s real. How could you?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, unaffectedly taking his arm and hugging it. “It’ll come up in this meeting, I promise you. Look at them staring at you, wondering what the Chosen One’s doing with the Vampire Bitch.”

“Stop calling yourself that. Honestly, Hermione…”

Just then Draco was brought into the hall, escorted by Tonks.

Harry winced at his appearance. While they’d fixed his nose and probably his teeth, the bruising on his face remained and he looked a bit lopsided with the swelling of his cheek.

Hermione shot Harry a glare. “You didn’t.”

“Er… he fell on his face?”

She sighed. “Oh, Harry…”

Ron leaned over. “You should’ve seen him before the healer got to him. Like a butcher had tenderized him with a—“

“Not helping, Weasley,” Harry said, stepping on his foot.

Hermione withdrew from his arm and sat with her arms crossed on her chest.

Harry sighed. “Hermione, don’t be like that… I wasn’t going to, but he said such awful things that provoked me.”

She shot him a furious look before turning away.

“Great,” muttered Harry, glaring at Ron. He didn’t need these tiny disagreements with Hermione. Things were difficult enough with the bigger issues hanging over their heads.

Ron seemed surprised. “What’d I do?”

It seemed Mr. Teaspoon was back.

Draco was led to them and was made to sit on a nearby chair.

“And stay there,” Tonks told him firmly.

“Wonderful,” Ron muttered, exchanging exasperated glances with Harry.

Hermione made a face. “What is this, the teen corner? Why does he have to sit with us?”

“Because,” said Tonks. “If there’s anyone in this hall most willing to hex him for doing something stupid, it would be you three. Watch him. I’ve some last minute things to attend to.”

“Fine,” muttered Hermione.

“Happy to see me, Sunshine?” Draco said as Tonks left.

Hermione flipped her middle finger at him, her expression bland. “Ecstatic.”

Ron laughed. Harry growled. Draco ignored them both as he continued to address Hermione.

“You look better. Almost threw up my lunch when I first saw you after the patronus.”

“And you still look as sickening to me as the unfortunate day we met, Malfoy.”

Draco shook his head as if hopelessly disgusted. “Potter, why do you put up with this woman? I know! Bet she gives good blow—“

Harry cut in with a glare. “Finish that sentence and I’ll make what I did to you yesterday feel like a pat on the back.”

Perhaps remembering the feel of Harry’s fist on his face, Draco did find it in himself to shut his mouth.

Hermione seemed to reappraise her opinion about beating Draco by slightly bridging the distance between her and Harry.

The meeting was soon called to order and it began with Remus moving to give Harry a place on the board, which, of course, caused quite an uproar.

Harry would have slouched as low as he could go on his seat if Hermione hadn’t dug her nails into his arm to straighten his posture.

Remus defended his motion by first saying how much of an inspiration Harry was to his generation, citing examples of his good influence.

Harry heard Draco snorting and almost laughed when Hermione shot him a fanged grimace that made Draco pale with fear.

Remus also said that Albus Dumbledore trusted no one else during his final days. He continued on by pointing out that Dumbledore entrusted Harry with the most vital information about Voldemort they have, to date, information that they have decided shall be privy to only a select group of Order members.

Someone from the back cried out that Dumbledore trusted Severus Snape and look where it got him.

Remus frowned. “That was Severus’s failing, not Dumbledore’s. Whatever reason Dumbledore had for trusting him, it was as enduring as the trust he had for you and me. Now, none of us could ever be sure about what Dumbledore’s reasons were, but he trusted young Mr. Potter with his life. I’d certainly sleep better knowing we have Harry’s insight on account.”

Several more objections were raised, but much to Harry’s surprise, he garnered support from others, vehemently claiming that while many of them were happily sleeping in their beds, blissfully unaware of You-Know-Who’s return, Harry Potter was up and about, fighting the forces of evil on the side of good.

Ron nudged him and spoke in a low voice. “Next thing you know they’ll be telling people you can pull lightning bolts out of your arse-crack.”

“Or shoot laser beams from your bespectacled eyes,” Draco added.

Harry always suspected that Draco knew more about muggle lore than the bigot was willing to let on. Harry was, however, still sore about Draco nicknaming Hermione. “Ron, did you hear something? I thought I heard something.”

“Nope. Didn’t hear a thing.”

Good, dependable Ron.

Draco sneered. Hermione shot all three of them warning glares.

Several more debates arose, with Arthur Weasley having to pull out a signed parchment with the signatures of Bill, Charlie, Fred and George giving their unconditional support to Harry’s election.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Cue the sweeping musical score and it’s a fucking theatrical masterpiece.”

Hermione exchanged looks with Ron, who appeared to be mortified. There really was nothing to say that could justify the melodrama.

Harry tried to make light of it by grinning. “I bet your mum made them sign it.”

“Who else?”

After much discussion, and much to Remus’s and Arthur’s consternation, it was decided that the board had to vote unanimously on Harry’s appointment. Remus, Arthur and McGonagall were sure votes, but Shacklebolt was part of the board, too.

“Shite,” Hermione whispered. “Shacklebolt won’t let you sit on the board. I just know it.”

Harry shrugged. It was all the same to him. He might prefer to be off the board, anyway. “If it makes him happy, then so be it.”

It turned out that Shacklebolt did vote for Harry, and that he had done so of his own volition. Harry was very confused. So was Remus and Arthur, but far be it they’d question Shacklebolt’s reasons.

Harry caught Shacklebolt’s eye and was half-astonished when Shacklebolt gave him a dignified but congenial nod. Harry had no choice but to nod back, though he wasn’t sure what they were agreeing on, exactly. It was all very overwhelming to him. What was he supposed to do now?

To his horror, Remus seemed to answer his question by pulling a chair up between him and McGonagall.

“Good lord, I think he wants me to sit there,” said Harry to Hermione in a panicked tone. He didn’t want to sit beside McGonagall, not that she was a horrible person, but if he was going to be on some board, he wanted to be near the people he loved, like Hermione and Ron, not his former Headmistress. He still cringed every time McGonagall said his name, half-expecting that she would deduct fifty house points from Gryffindor and give him detention.

“You’ll be fine,” said Hermione soothingly.

Remus beckoned to him.

Oh, I knew it! he thought frantically. Why do I have to sit there, anyway? What difference does it make? It’s a table for Merlin’s sake.

“Harry…” Hermione said in a warning tone when he didn’t budge. “Don’t be difficult.”

Ron smirked. “All you have to do is sit there and brood. You’re good at brooding, aren’t you?”

“Shut up, Ron.”

Hermione waved at Ron dismissively. “Harry, don’t listen to him. Just go sit there and do what comes natural. Don’t worry about saying something stupid. When you do, I’ll cover for you.”

“Your confidence in me is inspiring.”

Draco’s lip curled. “Baffling, for me.”

She ignored the Slytherin, trying her best to straighten Harry’s rumpled t-shirt. “You’ll be fine. You always are.” With that, she practically pushed him out of his chair so he could get to the new one.

Harry righted himself with as much dignity he could muster under the circumstances and took his place beside Remus. The dozens of eyes on him was unnerving, but he focused on the Hermione and Ron’s reassuring presence. Draco’s disgusted scowl made him feel oddly empowered.

Draco’s disposition was brought up. Officially, he was under the custody of the Auror Department for conspiring to murder Albus Dumbledore and for abetting known Death Eaters in their attempted siege of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. But the motive for his crimes (to preserve the lives of his parents) and his subsequent surrender, as well as his voluntary statements with respect to vital information, mitigates his offenses. There will be a reckoning, but as long as he proved useful to the cause, he would exist on probationary status, with every opportunity to redeem himself. If he behaved himself enough, he might not even have to go to Azkaban.

“In the meantime,” said Shacklebolt. “We need a place to hide him. Minerva and I have discussed a few possible places. At first we thought of Hogwarts, but there are too many students there who would—“

“He can—erm—stay in my place,” said Harry before he could think better of it. I knew it. I’ve gone mad.

The entire room fell silent and Harry only then begun to feel panic at their undivided attention.

He chanced a glance at Hermione and Ron.

Ron looked like he was going to throw up. Hermione merely had her eyebrow raised for a few heartbeats before she nodded.

Thus empowered, Harry went on, stifling his awkwardness. “S-See, it’s working out the way it is, anyway, and it’s almost as secure as Hogwarts without having to worry about students stumbling in on him inadvertently. Besides, he saved my life. I at least owe the bugger—“ He blushed at McGonagall’s disapproving stare. “Pardon me… I owe him sanctuary.”

He met Draco’s silver-grey eyes. Draco showed no emotion, but he wasn’t sneering either.

Harry waited for what everyone else had to say.

“That sounds reasonable,” said Arthur.

General agreement rippled through the hall and it was agreed that Draco Malfoy would be put up in Harry Potter’s home, the duration of which a representative of the Auror Department would take regular shifts doing nothing but seeing to Draco’s good behavior.

With Draco’s accommodations settled, the Order went on to discuss the increased frequency of attacks on muggles, on the forefront of which was the Granger murders.

Harry looked to Hermione with much concern and was relieved to note that Ron had taken the initiative to sit by her and hold her hand. She looked calm enough, and Ron’s presence seemed to reassure her.

Vampires were brought up, and seeing as there was one with them right now, no one questioned that at least one had joined on Voldemort’s side.

“We’ve made little headway on the matter of vampire contacts,” said Remus wearily. “As most of us know, they’re a notoriously closed off society. They want little to nothing to do with humans and they don’t trust us in the slightest. It’s difficult, and we’ve found that they conspire to confuse us, rather than give us information and be done with us. It’s almost impossi—“

“The vampire in Voldemort’s service,” said Hermione. “He has an agenda all his own. He does not yet have the support of his kind. The upper echelons of vampire society do not approve of his affiliation with the Death Eaters, but he has something that Voldemort wants, which is why Voldemort hasn’t killed him.”

Harry stared at her, utterly perplexed. How did she know this? How long has she known this?

“Where did you get this information, Granger?” McGonagall asked.

“From a reliable source,” was all Hermione said. “A powerful vampire. I tried to get more information out of her but she caught on to me almost immediately. She said she might give me more information if I… gave her what she wanted. I couldn’t accept the deal. The price was too high.”

McGonagall exchanged looks with the rest of the board. Harry kept staring at Hermione. She suddenly wouldn’t meet his eyes. What was she hiding?

“Can you contact her again?” Shacklebolt asked.

Hermione smirked bitterly. “Oh, yes. That I can do, but if you want me to summon her just so I could try to get her to tell me more… don’t count on it. I’ve a notion she’s not the accommodating type. Perhaps I can… try. Though I don’t know if she’ll let me live through it…”

The entire group stared at her, probably wondering if she was serious. Ron, who was nearest to her, had pulled back, as if to regard her from afar. She remained still, making no retractions to her statement.

Shacklebolt spoke. “Not her, then. Other vampires? Surely you might get other vampires to trust you. They’re your kind.”

Hermione’s cheek twitched, but she replied. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. It isn’t like I can just walk into a vampire bar and ask the bartender what the word is out on the street. It doesn’t work that way. Vampires function in covens and hives and by affiliation. Every vampire must be accounted for by a faction, or else they’re free game. So an unaffiliated vampire could be used, abused or just plain ignored. I’m unaffiliated. I won’t get very far. My best chance is with the woman, but as I’ve said, it’s not much of a chance, even if I give her what she wants. She’s too ruthless to be easy.”

“What does she want?” Harry asked before he realized that he might not like the answer.

Hermione did not avert her gaze from him. “Something I don’t want to give her.”

Harry bristled and was already thinking he would talk to her later. It would lead to a fight, naturally. He could already tell she didn’t want to talk about it, and talk about her vampirism always set her off, but if she was talking to powerful and dangerous vampires in secret, he wanted to know why she didn’t feel like sharing this important fact with him.

That little voice in his head told him that this was the perfect chance to show Hermione that he was serious about giving her space, but he ignored it. Actually, he murdered it and stashed its corpse in a secret corner of his mind.

“You will share the information once you know more?” asked Shacklebolt.

“Of course.”

Harry couldn’t tell if she sounded offended. Maybe she was. Shacklebolt was treating her like an outsider.

More information was exchanged between the attendees; information that many had risked their lives to retrieve. There were rumors about Death Eater meetings, evidence that particular individuals were Death Eaters and whispers about who might be lending them a hand. The purpose of the meeting was to report this information to the governing board so that the board can later decide on what to do about it. Parchments were handed over to Remus, Shacklebolt, McGonagall and Arthur. Remus then told the whole congregation that he would share his copy with Harry. It was meant to show everyone that he was serious about making Harry part of the board.

Harry appreciated the support but he was always quite awkward when it came to handling attention, except maybe when he was being chased by dragons, pushed into lakes filled with merpeople and made to walk into a giant labyrinth, mostly because he was more concerned about saving his own arse.

Remus then brought up a most interesting point: Recruitment. “Harry’s generation has come of age,” he said.

Predictably, McGonagall reacted. “Out of the question. The seventh years must finish school.”

“I completely agree, and most of them still need time to mature, but I’d rather that they use their time in school to understand what they’re getting into rather than have them leave Hogwarts and join the Order on impulse, just because they think it’s what’s expected of them.”

McGonagall frowned. “I understand where you are coming from, Remus, but my school is not an army training camp—“

“It was, at a certain point,” interjected Remus. “In Harry’s fifth year, he taught a group of students how to defend themselves. He even called it an army. Dumbledore’s Army.”

McGonagall sighed. “It’s not the same. That wasn’t sanctioned—“

“Wasn’t it?”

The Headmistress actually blushed. “Well, not officially.”

“Semantics.”

“Besides,” Hermione said. “Death Eaters don’t seem to mind making the house of Slytherin a breeding ground for their minions.”

Draco smirked. “I knew you understood, Sunshine.”

She gave him a saccharine smile. “Drop dead, Malfoy.”

McGonagall’s lips tightened for a heartbeat. “Slytherin House is not a—“

“Come now, Minerva,” said Hestia Jones with a sigh. “It’s always been that way. We know it and they know it. A straight-laced Slytherin is an odd Slytherin. Even the ‘good’ ones couldn’t help but have an agenda or two.”

McGonagall turned to her co-chairs. “And if I agree to sanction this propaganda, how do you plan on going about it?”

“Nothing radical,” said Remus. “I’d rather keep it low key. Perhaps if you can give us a list of students who would fit the profile of an Order member—“

“I can give you names right now,” said Harry. The pointed stares that darted in his direction startled him still. “If you like…”

“Go on, then, Potter,” said Shacklebolt. “We haven’t got all night.”

Harry recomposed himself. “Neville Longbottom, Hannah Abbot, Susan Bones…” He went on and didn’t mind in the least that Arthur had produced a quill and parchment to write as he droned on. “Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, Ernie McMillan, Katie Bell, Cho Chang, Terry Boot, Anthony Goldstein…. I think Lee Jordan and Angelina Johnson have been helping the twins on the side, but that’s just a guess. If I’m right, I’d think it would do the Order a lot of good if they were made official.”

“How about Justin Finch-Fletchley?” asked Arthur.

“Put him on the waiting list,” said Harry automatically. “Cormac McLaggen, too. He’s a prat, but he might grow up and be useful in the future. Whatever you do, don’t take Marietta Edgecombe. Waitlist the Patil sisters, Alicia Spinnet, Zacharias Smith and Lavender Brown.”

Harry realized that he had gone through the entire list of the DA excluding Michael Corner, the Creevy brothers, Ginny Weasley and Luna Lovegood. Michael Corner was a git and would never be an Order member unless Harry saw a change in his priorities. The Creevy brothers, Ginny and Luna were under-aged, but they would likely insist on joining as soon as they turned seventeen, unless of course Molly Weasley had a say in what her youngest child chose to do with her life.

McGonagall’s eyebrow arched. “No Slytherins, I see.”

“Well, we can punish Draco and make him an Order member,” Harry said as-a-matter-of-factly.

“I’d rather get arse-raped by Colin Creevy,” Draco said, to the absolute shock of McGonagall and a few of the older members present.

Hermione shot him a glare. “Colin’s gay, not desperate.”

“Pfft!” said Draco. “Colin’s been wanting to get into my pants forever. Couldn’t blame him. I mean, look at me.”

“Right. You might want to put some ice over your face, Malfoy. It’s swelling.”

“Mr. Malfoy! Ms. Granger!” gasped McGonagall, probably having a stroke at watching her star pupil engaging in very bad behavior.

“Creevy’s gay?” Ron whispered. He wasn’t very quiet about it, even if he thought he was.

“I thought everyone knew,” replied Hermione in an attempt to whisper more softly. “He sort of did a low-key coming out thing by making a habit out of wearing really pink socks.”

“Well, he did seem to have an odd thing for Harry. Should’ve known it when he sent Harry’s photo back in that frilly, home-made picture frame. Those paper hearts really make sense now… say, was he the one who sent that valentine to Harry in second year?”

Oh, brother, thought Harry as, again, everyone’s eyes fell on him appraisingly. He would’ve kicked Ron under the table if he could reach.

“I hate to break up this gossip session,” said Shacklebolt with a stern frown. “But if you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about how we’re going to enlighten these recruits.”

“There’s a way to immerse them without actually putting them in danger,” said Hestia Jones. “Some of them can assist in caring for those injured in the line of duty. A lot of Order members are, after all, brought to Hogwarts for healing. The students can also be asked to do research… help make the more useful potions… keep them updated about what’s happening in the war, in general.”

Remus nodded. “And at some point, Harry would have to talk to them himself.”

Harry stifled a sigh, but apart from having to go back to Hogwarts, it really wasn’t a problem talking to his former classmates. He supposed explaining Hermione’s situation would be the easy part; telling them they had to eventually risk their lives to do their part was where the difficulty was.

Everyone else suggested several others for recruitment. It fell upon each of them to bring these individuals in.

The congregation moved on to interrogating Draco Malfoy.

Everyone had prepared questions for Draco and if they thought Draco would be an easy subject, they were mistaken. While Draco had agreed to give them as much information as he could, he was determined to disparage every single one of them with his quick and scathing wit in the process. When he was asked about Snape’s whereabouts, he replied that he wasn’t Snape’s keeper, and that they weren’t smart enough to catch him if Snape didn’t want to be found. He was asked about his father, an his mother, to which he said that his dad took up residence in Azkaban because he could walk in and out of it anyway, whenever he felt like it. He even managed to imply that McGonagall and Dumbledore got it on in the broom closet, much to McGonagall’s consternation. But then he became less and less funny. He began to hiss insidious intrigues and damnably scandalous possibilities, as if he could peer into a person’s soul and find those dark, suppressed desires and expose it for everyone else to see. He was his father’s son, after all.

However much of a coward Harry thought Draco was, he knew how to sow distrust among fellowmen. He really was dangerous.

Perhaps finally having enough of him, Shacklebolt ordered Tonks to escort Draco back to his detention cell.

“Oh, and Tonks…” said Shacklebolt. “Obliviate him of tonight’s proceedings.”

Harry smirked.

Draco visibly seethed but did not throw a fit. Outraged but dignified, he let himself be escorted out of the hall with Tonks expertly behind him.

Harry could almost feel the entire room breathing a sigh of relief when Draco left. Draco Malfoy knew exactly how to make a person uncomfortable; a master at spotting weakness and using it to his advantage. Harry, Ron and Hermione had been dealing with him for years, so they more or less knew how to handle his barbed words, but everyone else in the room hadn’t had that benefit.

“I don’t care what he does for the Order. He should be locked up in Azkaban forever,” Ron muttered. “He’s a creep.”

“Psychic vampire,” Hermione remarked with a raise of her eyebrow.

Elphias Doge, sitting at the far end of the group, nodded. “Dangerous lad. We’ll not take our eyes off that one.”

“Constant vigilance!”

It had only been a matter of time, really, before Mad-Eye came out with the words.

Finally, after they exhausted discussion about Draco’s testimony, Shacklebolt brought up the last order of business.

“We come to the matter of Ms. Granger’s non-death, as the case may be,” he said in a somewhat bothered tone. “The papers have reported her dead and as far as most of the wizarding world is concerned, she is. As a lot of you just found out, she’s very much… with us right now.”

The careful wording was not lost on Harry and it annoyed him a bit. Hermione, however, didn’t seem to take any offense. She shouldered the burden of weighted gazes with admirable dignity, staring back with only a hint of her ferocious nature.

Shacklebolt continued. “The reality of the situation is this. Ms. Granger’s death shook the wizarding populace, simply because she is known to be so close to Harry Potter, and as the story goes, Harry Potter is supposedly some kind messiah that can make miracles happen. To have one so dear to him killed makes the entire situation seem futile. In short, news of Ms. Granger’s death was a blow to the people’s morale.”

Harry felt half-indignant-half-inadequate, though he didn’t know if he ought to direct his feelings to Shacklebolt, who looked almost as annoyed as Harry felt.

“If we let everyone think that she is dead, the effects of it will take its natural course and perhaps give us some kind of advantage, whatever it is. We have reason to suspect that only a select few of You-Know-Who’s followers know she was turned. However low the morale of the people is, at present, it seems that admitting Ms. Granger is alive but turned might make the situation worse, not to mention the media backlash of the Ministry and Harry Potter harboring a vampire.”

Harry bristled. “Excuse me?”

“Harry,” Hermione said in a warning tone. She had her hand on Ron’s arm whose shoulders had gone tense. Perhaps Ron was outraged as well.

Harry was just about to tell her that he wasn’t going to sit by and listen to this rubbish when Remus clamped a hand to his shoulder.

“Kingsley is merely stating fact,” said Remus with astonishing calmness. “We—“ He paused briefly to appraise those present. “Well, at least most of us—don’t think it’s fair, either, but it is what it is. Dark creatures get the worse end of the deal, no matter who we are. When you think about it, Hermione could lead a better life without the press hounding her or the masses demanding for her execution.”

Harry never had an issue about keeping Hermione’s situation a secret from everyone. It was, in fact, for the very reasons Remus stated that he prefer her turning not be made the Daily Prophet’s next headline. It just angered him that some of the members would choose to keep her secret for the more outrageous reasons that Shacklebolt just stated.

He said nothing, however, heeding the silent plea of Hermione and Remus.

A vote was raised about whether Hermione’s true status, whether she would be kept secret or whether her true condition ought to be revealed. It was a unanimous vote to keep her secret. She had gone through enough. A media blitz would do no one good, least of all Hermione.

Harry knew Hermione was conflicted about revealing the truth. On the one hand, she probably agreed with the opinion of the board but on another hand, she didn’t want people she cared about grieving for her loss.

He thought maybe he could ask Remus if they could at least tell Hagrid about Hermione. The gentle giant deserved to know the truth, but Harry had to consider the fact that Hagrid wasn’t the most reliable secret keeper.

With the matter of Hermione’s status settled, the meeting was declared adjourned.

Harry joined Hermione and Ron as they headed for the doors. Midway, they were intercepted by Remus, asking them how they were doing; whether they felt better for their injuries.

It took everything in Harry’s power not think about how well he and Hermione were while they were in her dungeon. He was so busy trying to make a casual reply about restful sleep doing a lot of good that he hadn’t quite noticed that Remus had led them down an out-of the-way hallway. Only then did it occur to Harry that Remus was more interested in dragging them somewhere private without anyone asking questions than he was overly concerned about their health.

Remus led them down another secluded hallway where they were met by McGonagall.

Ron turned green. “I swear, whatever it is, we didn’t do it!”

Hermione scowled. “Ron!”

Harry couldn’t entirely blame him for his inane outburst. McGonagall had been a fair Head of House to them all their years in Hogwarts, but nine times out of ten, McGonagall summoned them because they were either in trouble or something very bad had happened. Since the worse had already happened and they seemed to be nowhere near getting bad news about the Weasleys, Ron’s natural assumption was that they were in deep shit.

As it turned out, they weren’t in any more trouble than they already were.

In one of the many manor chambers, they settled on the dusty furniture where McGonagall asked them about what they knew concerning horcruxes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

McGonagall proved to be an astute a listener as Remus was. She was quick, perceptive and of course, horrified. It took them longer to discuss horcruxes now, because somehow—somewhere—, between Hermione’s return from St. Mungo’s to the present, she had managed to amass far more information from her limited resources than it could have provided for anyone else. There was, of course, no primary material that explained horcruxes, per se, but the wealth of theory she had built up, derived from primary and secondary material of indirect subject matter, was astounding. She didn’t have her research notes on hand, but she spoke of it by memory, often saying that she found this footnote, or that cross-reference, or those citations, which led her to several relevant pieces of information.

No matter how intelligent Harry knew Hermione was, he still couldn’t get over how brilliant she could be.

The Headmistress seemed to take it better. McGonagall listened intently, interrupting once in a while to argue or expound on a point. Harry found himself listening just as raptly as Remus was. Ron just looked constipated.

When there was, it seemed, nothing left to discuss, their secret meeting was adjourned.

Remus made it clear that only he, McGonagall and Arthur knew about the horcruxes. Should someone else need to be told of it to further the search for the missing objects, they shall be told bits and pieces of information on a strictly need to know basis.

Arthur was keeping Shacklebolt busy for the moment with Ministry business. While Shacklebolt could be depended on to do things for all the right reasons, his reasons still might not coincide with theirs.

The rule was: The less people who knew about Voldemort’s horcruxes, the better.

McGonagall promised that she would pool her resources into aiding the search, including finding any material available on the subject.

The meeting over, McGonagall left the chamber first, then Remus. Harry, Hermione and Ron followed at their leisure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was at least another seven hours before sunrise and while a few Order members had opted to stay in the manor, there were a few already poised to leave.

Given the time, there was plenty of darkness yet for Hermione to travel safely, though the decision to leave was hers to make.

Hermione thought there was little point in staying at the manor, safety concerns aside. “I think we should head off,” she said. “There’s nothing left to do here and the traveling won’t take us more than five hours. We can make it.”

She saw Harry looking at her speculatively; an expression of his that she knew well. She felt that familiar feeling of irritability when he did that; that thing he did when he was taking it upon himself again to protect her.

Stifling any biting comments, she reminded herself of Remus’s words: “It’s a gift.”

Sighing, she packed her things without a word.

They were heading out of the manor soon after they decided to leave it. The first few kilometers required them to travel by foot since the wards around the manor prevented anything else. There was a time when they would have had horses, or a carriage, but nobody had any spare horses these days.

Their party was the same as before: Tonks, Draco, Shacklebolt and Remus.

Draco was back to being tethered, and he was doubly cranky for not remembering the last several hours of the day.

“The choice is yours, Malfoy,” said Tonks in a calm, grown-up tone. “You can either be tethered to me or you can be tethered to Ron or Harry.”

Draco gave a snort of disgust. “Some choice.”

“I’m waiting, Malfoy.”

His beautiful smile was filled with malice. “Can’t I be tethered to Granger? Give me something to call a patronus with next time, don’t you think so, Potter?”

Hermione almost sighed in exasperation when she saw Harry’s fists curling. She had figured out Draco long ago, but it was only now she realized how much fun Draco had riling either Harry or Ron up. Her boys always rose to the bait, and it was just the sort of thing that would encourage Draco.

“I’ll take him, Tonks,” said Harry dangerously. “He won’t be any trouble.”

Tutting, Hermione took Harry by the arm and began to lead him ahead. “No, Tonks. I think Draco best go with you.”

“Aw, Sunshine! Worried about me again?”

“Yes, like the plague I’m worried about you,” she replied as she walked off with Harry on one arm and Ron on another.

“Fine! Leave me here!” Draco cried out. She could hear the grin in his tone. “You should use this time to share all the secrets you’ve been keeping from Potter! Makes for a better relationship, I think!”

Hermione felt Harry go tense and Hermione almost rounded on Draco just so should could run back and hit him.

That insidious prick! He was just so good at striking at the very pit of a person’s soul, and she had to marvel at the fact that Draco had probably pulled that crack from the depths of his subconscious memories considering he was supposed to have been obliviated of that evening’s meeting. Draco was probably trying to imply that they had an affair of sorts, and that she had to tell Harry about it, but she knew Harry would take it differently. She knew Harry would be thinking about the other secrets she’d been keeping from him, like who she’d been talking to when he wasn’t around.

“We’ll meet at rendezvous point!” Remus called to them as they trudged through the bramble. “Try to stay on the charmed path!”

Harry still looked steamed long after the sounds of their travel party were left behind.

In an effort to get him out of his snit, Hermione decided to point out that they were way off the supposed charmed path that Remus had told them to stay on.

At that, Harry rounded on her. “Why do you let him call you that?”

Hermione stopped in her tracks, staring at Harry in shock as he walked a few paces ahead of her. She wasn’t sure whom Harry was talking about. “Excuse me?”

He glared. “That nickname! You stand around and tolerate it! And when he says something snarky, you get right back at him with something just as smart-arsed! It’s like you enjoy matching wits with him.”

“Harry!” she cried, too astonished to get angry. She already accepted that Harry was the jealous type, but Draco? “You don’t really think I—I did something with that rodent did you?”

“Mate,” said Ron cautiously. “I probably shouldn’t be sticking my nose into this but you’re being a bit unreasonable. Hermione and Malfoy? That’s just insulting.”

Harry had the grace to blush, but he didn’t look like he was going to be appeased anytime soon. “Alright, so that’s not what I think, but for once, Draco Malfoy’s made me realize something. You’ve got secrets and you’re deliberately keeping them from me.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a secret if I told you about it, would it?” she said loftily.

His jaw tightened. “Don’t get smart with me. You know what I mean. Who have you been talking to and what has she been telling you?”

She came up short and she hardened her expression. “I already told you who she is and what she told me.”

“You shared relevant information with the congregation, but you’re holding something back. Don’t lie to me, Hermione. You can’t. I know you too well!”

“It isn’t the first time I’ve kept secrets from you, you know!”

“Oh, yes, the time turner! You’re just a hand at keeping secrets from your best friends!”

Ron made a sound. “Alright, you two, please don’t fight.”

Harry made a dismissive gesture in his direction and narrowed his gaze at Hermione. “You’re going to tell me right now who this woman you’ve been talking to is and what it is she wants from you that’s so valuable.”

Hermione felt her vampire eyes flashing. “Oh, am I going to tell you, oh fearless leader?”

“Don’t you take that tone with me. Sod the Order and their governing board! This is your best friend, who just happens to be your boyfriend, asking you!”

She glared back at him stubbornly. “I don’t have to tell you anything. You said you would back-off, Harry. You promised that we would try it that way.”

“Well, you know what? Maybe I’m not quite so ready to do it that way. Maybe I was randy and I wasn’t thinking straight!”

“Oh, anything to get me in the sack, is it? D’you like shagging me in the dungeon, Harry?”

“You guys!” Ron wailed. “Stop! You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“Do you know what our problem is, Harry?” she went on. “We shag to forget that we’ve got problems. Big problems.”

“Oh, funny you should say that. I’m not the one talking to powerful, short-tempered vampires and keeping that fact secret from everyone else. So yeah, we’ve got big problems.”

“Look, I can’t tell you every little thing that pops up in my life—“

“Little thing? Are you mad? D’you think you can just put this away in a little drawer in your organized mind along with silly issues like what you’re going to wear tomorrow or cleaning out the pantry?”

“Jesus Christ, Harry! Was I ever this much of a nag?”

“Yeah, actually,” Ron interjected.

“Shut-up, Ron,” Harry hissed.

“Don’t talk to him that way!” Hermione hissed back. “He’s only trying to help!”

“He’s not even supposed to be in this conversation! What the hell are you defending him for?”

Ron shot him a scowl but said, “He’s right, Hermione. I’ll just be over—“

“You stay RIGHT HERE!” she yelled stubbornly. “Ron’s always been there for the both of us and we always take him for granted! So he’s staying now and seeing where all this is going. Besides, with him here, we won’t be shagging anytime soon, now would we?”

“Hermione,” Ron stammered uncertainly. “I don’t think—“

“Oh, you know what I think?” interjected Harry. “I think you’re just being contrary and impossible!”

“Ron,” she said loftily, ignoring Harry’s last statement. “You’re important to us. Right, Harry?”

Ron clearly didn’t know what to do. He stood there, looking like he was about to be sick as Harry glared at him.

“Right,” said Harry in a dangerous tone. “Important. Do you feel better now, Ron?”

“Yes?” Ron squeaked.

“Excellent!” Harry thundered, glaring at Hermione. “Then Hermione could stop trying to change the fucking subject!”

Ron paled.

Hermione grit her teeth. “Be careful what you wish for, Harry…”

“What are you talking about? We’re in a relationship! Not a bloody soap opera!”

“You two...” whimpered Ron. “Please don’t fight like this. It’s not you. You’re supposed to be Harry and Hermione, remember? You finish each other’s sentences! You talk with your eyes. Come on…”

“You know what?” Hermione said in a condemning tone. “I don’t know what we are anymore.”

Harry’s breath hitched.

She had hurt him. They were the only two people who could really hurt each other after all.

Shaking her head, she turned to continue walking. “I can’t talk about this right now. We’re in the middle of a bloody forest and I—“

She froze, a deep sense of doom spreading through her. She should have felt the presence of others. She should have known they were no longer alone, but she had been so consumed with anger that she hadn’t realized it until it was too late.

She pivoted to her side just when another body came crashing against her, ramming her back against the gnarled trunk of a nearby tree.

Silver spots danced in her eyes as she was held several inches off the ground by her neck.

She wasn’t choking, but she was in no position to fight back.

The hand holding her was as solid as iron, and as her vision cleared, she saw the familiar glare of gleaming golden eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron couldn’t believe how quickly it was all happening. One heartbeat Hermione and Harry were yelling at each other and the next moment he had his gaze transfixed on some odd movement in the brush.

Before he could muster a warning, something had come out of the darkness and attacked Hermione.

He pulled out his wand just a heartbeat after Harry did, but there were eight uncloaked Death Eaters upon them, half focused on them and half on Hermione.

Ron could tell they were shocked by her presence. They, like most people, had thought her dead. To see her alive and walking must have been dreadfully surreal.

But he hardly cared that he and Harry were surrounded. His attention was transfixed on Hermione and her captor, holding her so carelessly against the tree.

He didn’t know that many vampires. In fact, he only knew two, but one look at the stranger and Ron knew the man was a vampire. He was everything a vampire should be if ever there was an example to be had. His short black hair had tints of red shining in the dim moonlight, a sharp contrast to the alabaster paleness of his skin. He was tall, lithe and graceful even as he held Hermione in the brutal force of his grip.

Hermione whimpered and Ron could see blood seeping from her neck where the stranger’s nails dug into her flesh.

“Get your hands off her!” Harry roared, surging forward.

If the Death Eaters hadn’t held Harry back and kneed him in the gut, Ron might have done it for them. Ron wasn’t going to let Harry attack that thing. It looked powerful, and lethal. Harry wouldn’t have survived it.

Harry crumpled to the ground, rasping painfully as the air was punched out of him. But even so manhandled, Harry managed to glare viciously up at the man who held her. “Janus…”

Oh, hell no… thought Ron in rising despair while the Death Eaters took their wands. Out of all the vampires… why did it have to be him?

Ron had almost lost Hermione to this fiend. He wasn’t going to risk losing Harry as well. He crouched by Harry, gripping him by his shoulders. “Shut up, Potter!” he hissed.

Janus wasn’t paying them that much mind. He had his gaze on Hermione, and he was smiling his fanged smile. Ron could have sworn it was filled with pride and affection.

He tossed Hermione to the ground and she skidded to the forest floor with astounding grace.

Janus chuckled softly, his voice lulling and warm. “Is that fear you have for me, my pet?”

Hermione didn’t reply, her gaze remaining on Janus as he circled her.

The whisper of steel did not bode well. The vampire had taken out a sword from the scabbard at his back. What was he going to use it for?

Harry choked on a skipped breath. “It’s the sword,” he breathed. “He-He killed her with that sword.”

“Oh, bloody hell…” Ron muttered, glancing around them to assess their situation. It wasn’t looking the least bit encouraging.

“Give me your wand,” Janus told her in an undemanding voice. He held out his hand, beckoning gently.

She glared at him, refusing by doing nothing.

Janus smiled, again with that ghost of fondness lingering in his eyes. “Give me your wand.”

Even Ron felt the pulse of power. Hermione was not immune to it.

The defiance on her face was belied only by the handing over of her wand.

Janus took it and examined it reverently. “You are a conjurer, just as I suspected. I knew what I was doing when I created you.” He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.

Ron felt his gorge rise. The thought that this creature was touching her so tenderly made him sick. He could only imagine what Harry must be feeling.

Harry made a sound, like he wanted to scream, but he remained silent, watching it all with barely veiled outrage.

Janus looked up at Harry, regarding him with some amusement. “A part of her will always be mine, you know. She is a child of my blood. I made her. Only I have the right to unmake her.”

Ron did not like the sound of that.

Harry growled. “If you hurt her again—“

Ron dug his nails into Harry’s shoulder. Shut the fuck up, Potter!

“I won’t,” said Janus, hefting his sword a bit higher. “It will be quick. She won’t feel a thing.”

“Oh, God,” Ron whispered.

“No,” Harry said. “No! This isn’t about her! This is about me! I’ll go with you to Voldemort willingly! Just don’t—“

“I was not sent here for you,” said Janus in the softest tone.

It caught all of them, even the Death Eaters, by surprise.

“I’m not afraid to die,” said Hermione, her voice cutting through the tension. “I’ve done it before. Don’t know what the fuss is about.”

Ron gasped, horrified. “Hermione!”

The sound of Janus’s laughter rippled against them like fur. “So vampiric. And in just three short weeks.”

“I’m a quick study,” she said. “And really, what’s so hard about sleeping all day and partying all night? It’s easy to be a vampire.”

What the hell is she doing? Ron thought, panicked. Is she doing this on purpose?

Hope blossomed in Ron’s gut. Maybe Hermione had a plan. It certainly sounded like it.

Janus extended his sword and for a breathless moment, Ron thought he was going to run the blade right into her throat, but Janus merely used the tip of the sword to lift her chin. “You’ve been burned.”

“Patronus.”

“Oh, dear. That must have hurt like a bitch.”

“Like a woman scorned, actually.”

Janus stared at her with what Ron thought looked a lot like sadness. “I do not want to kill you. You are destined for great things. The Oracle only ever summons those who are…”

“Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” she hissed.

Ron wanted to pull his hair out. His best friends were beyond mental! They had death wishes.

Why is she antagonizing him?

Janus raised his sword in magnificent stance, poised behind Hermione’s kneeling form.

She closed her eyes.

Ron couldn’t think. There was a vague sense of Harry screaming beside him, and if Ron had any control over his faculties at all, he might have been screaming just as fiercely.

She’s supposed to have a plan, dammit! Where’s the fucking plan?!

And just when Ron saw the sword arcing to slice through her neck, Hermione dove to the forest floor.

The clash of steel rang throughout the forest, a pure note hanging in the air like a bell in full toll.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione looked up from her vantage point on the ground and saw fabulously long legs propped up in front of her. They were exquisitely shaped, tapering into knee high hiking boots. The entire ensemble sprung from decency-defying short shorts.

Yasmin was in fantastic form, holding Janus’s sword back without the slightest hint of effort.

Janus swore viciously before jumping back to a safe distance.

The Death Eaters made a motion to move but Janus yelled at them to stay still.

“Fools!” he hissed. “D’you think she’s alone?”

On cue, vampires emerged from the darkness surrounding them, some of them dropping gracefully from the trees overhead. There were a dozen, among which Hermione only recognized two: Abraham and Rashad.

“Took you long enough!” Hermione hissed at Yasmin before she could think better of it.

Yasmin’s melodic laughter danced in the air. “Oh, I had to decide which pair of boots matched this outfit best. It was either this pair or another Prada concoction that was divine. But they weren’t broken in yet, so I chose these. You like?”

Hermione glared up at her. “You are a sick and twisted—“

“Oh, hush. I’m here, aren’t I?” Yasmin turned prettily, lifting her sword in proper form without losing the flirtatious lilt to her shoulder. She looked to the Death Eaters surrounding Harry and Ron.

The two boys were gaping at Yasmin like she was some dark veela, and Hermione didn’t even want to think about what effect Yasmin’s spectacular cleavage was having on them. It wasn’t the time to be jealous, after all.

“They’re Death Eaters, am I right?” Yasmin chimed, winking at Ron.

Gulping, Ron nodded.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“And aren’t they such a bother?” Yasmin grinned before transferring her gaze to her vampires. “Take those Death Eaters and kill them.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a heartbeat. There was nothing she could do to stop the massacre, yet deep down inside her, she didn’t feel quite as outraged about it as she probably should have been.

Ron and Harry’s shock was evident, but it was lost in a sea of terrified screams as the Death Eaters were whisked into the bushes and silenced forever.

Picking herself off the forest floor, Hermione went to her boys. Gently, she slipped her arms around Harry who looked far too pale than was good for him.

Harry embraced back, but she could tell he was just too dazed to do anything else.

“Hermione,” Ron whispered. “Who the bloody hell is that? And—And where did all these vampires come from?”

Her reply was forestalled by Yasmin’s enticing voice. “Well, Janus. You’re alone and surrounded. I’m dying to know… what are you going to do about it?”

Janus didn’t seem afraid. “If I were so easy to take, you would have done so already. Your instructions are to take me, not kill me, and yet I’m not going with you alive. The question is What are you going to do about it?”

“Hmm… let’s see. Well, I suppose I’m just going to have to try.”

Yasmin attacked and their swords came together in a spectacular and lightning-fast exchange.

“We should go,” Hermione said, taking Harry and Ron by the hand to lead them.

Vampires closed in on their tight group, Rashad heading the pack.

“Umm, Hermione?” Ron muttered nervously.

“Quiet, Ron!” Harry hissed.

Hermione glared at Rashad amidst the sound of clashing steel. “Let us go, Rashad.”

“You know him by name?” Ron squeaked.

Harry shot Ron a wide-eyed glare.

Rashad shrugged. “Yasmin told us to detain you. You can try to get away and we probably won’t hurt you, but we’ll hurt your boys.”

Her heart skipped a beat and she felt Harry and Ron go tense, their hands growing cold in an instant.

“You wouldn’t,” she hissed ferociously.

Rashad shrugged again, unimpressed. She already knew that would be his answer. Vampires didn’t bluff.

Hermione felt Harry and Ron’s grip loosening as vampires took them from her. Their struggles were futile.

She gritted her teeth, eyes flashing at the vampires who held them. “Let them go.”

“Yasmin only wants a few minutes of your time. It’s the least you can do. She saved your lives.”

Hermione’s gaze went from the vampires surrounding them to Yasmin and Janus exchanging swords in the distance to Harry and Ron. She sighed and nodded. “Fine. But let it be noted that I don’t appreciate this kind of bullying. I don’t care if she’s the all powerful Yasmin. She’s still on my shit list.”

Harry and Ron were released and the vampires surrounding them stepped away, moving back to give them room.

“Hermione,” said Harry in a quiet tone. “What the hell is going on?”

Hermione’s attention was diverted to the clearing where Yasmin and Janus separated, walking around one another in a deadly dance.

Two vampires from the sidelines attacked Janus from behind. The last thing they saw was the edge of Janus’s blade.

Their heads rolled to the ground with a dull thump.

Harry looked away. Ron looked like he was going to hurl.

It disturbed her that she found it more fascinating than revolting.

“Bloody idiots,” Rashad muttered.

“Show off,” Yasmin said. “Really, Janus, was that necessary? They couldn’t have hurt you.”

“My patience wears thin,” said Janus in a mildly annoyed tone. “Hermione’s life is mine to take. It hurts no one but me to destroy her. Why do you meddle?”

Yasmin frowned. “I meddle because I’m told to meddle. You have your master, I have mine.”

“Voldemort is not my master.”

“Isn’t he? You were going to slay the young one because he told you to, not because you want to.”

“There are things bigger than me in this picture. Her death will serve a higher purpose. Who am I to gainsay that?”

“You are Janus. You do as you please. At least that’s how it used to be. You’re nothing but a human’s lapdog now.”

“Then take me alive if you can. I would strongly suggest that you try to kill me, because if I can’t have her now, I’ll try to get her again, and again, and I’ll do what I have to. I already killed the vampire world’s beloved Cicero for it.”

Hermione’s heart stopped at Janus’s words. “He’s lying. Rashad, tell me he’s lying.”

Rashad looked at her with true regret. “How do you think we knew Janus would come after you?”

She felt her insides knot, a sob struggling to rise out of her. “No…”

Janus raised his sword to prepare for a strike. “Give her up.”

Yasmin frowned. “You are in no position to make deals. You are at my mercy, tonight.”

“Then so be it.”

Janus moved, lunging like lightning towards Hermione. He was too fast to see, but he was only as quick as Yasmin.

Yasmin responded with admirable reflex, getting between him and Hermione to block the blade, but it became evident in the next heartbeat that Janus knew he wouldn’t succeed in slaying Hermione with Yasmin there to get in the way.

He turned, his blade going for someone else.

Hermione screamed just when Yasmin turned her own blade to deflect the attack.

Their swords met, but Janus’s weapon had enough momentum to manage to find its mark, however inaccurate his sword’s aim had become.

Six inches of sword plunged into Harry’s side; deep enough to kill, though Janus had probably been aiming for Harry’s heart and missed.

Yasmin swung, but she was swinging at thin air.

Hermione caught Harry’s body as it fell to the forest floor, a sob rising painfully in her throat.

He was alive; he was breathing, but the blood… so much blood. She pressed her hand to his wound and he gasped in pain. He was blinking dazedly up at her and Hermione knew how it must feel.

Ron fell to his knees on the other side of them, pressing his hands over Hermione’s. “This is not happening!”

“Stay with us, Harry. Stay with us!” She pulled her bloodied hands from beneath Ron’s, taking Harry’s head in her arms and holding him close; cradling him tenderly against her breast.

Yasmin cursed soundly, poising to take off after her quarry.

Desperately, Hermione looked up at Yasmin, speaking through her hysterical sobs. “Wait, Yasmin! Please! You have to get him help. Please. You’re the only one who could. Don’t let him die. Please don’t let him die!”

It felt like an eternity before Yasmin spoke. She swiftly barked orders at Abraham to take the others and find Janus. Abraham nodded and disappeared with the rest of the remaining vampires. It was only then that Yasmin looked to Hermione. “How much does he mean to you?”

And Hermione knew, amidst the blood and despair, just what Yasmin was asking of her.

A million thoughts and memories raced through her mind in a split heartbeat, winding back to that fateful day she met eleven-year-old Harry Potter on that train to Hogwarts. There had been a point of choice, a split second that could have changed her life forever, because she could have walked by that compartment; left it well alone. Her courage could have waned and she might never have had another chance to introduce herself to the Boy Who Lived. Yet she took that chance, and her life had been set in the path she was in now.

She had lived for Harry ever since. Everything she had done had led to this point in her life where she was faced with another choice that would lead to a million other decisions.

Yet one thing will not change. Whatever I do; whatever my decision, I do it for him. It has always been for him.

“Everything,” she replied in a determined tone. “He means everything to me. Please, just get him some help…”

“Everything?”

Hermione could see the question in Yasmin’s eyes, confirming if Hermione understood. She nodded. “Everything, Yasmin. Please…”

It was all the confirmation Yasmin needed. “Wrap him nice and warm. Now.”

Hermione moved urgently, pulling off her robes and coat. Ron did the same and hurriedly, they wrapped Harry as warmly as they could. She whispered that he had to hold on. He would be helped soon and that she wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

She heard him whisper her name back and she had to steel herself, else she wouldn’t be able to let go of him.

“Rashad,” said Yasmin. “Take him to Saint Aedan’s. Fly as fast as you can.”

Rashad nodded, bundling Harry in his arms without the slightest hint of effort.

Hermione had never heard of the place. Bustling after Rashad to make sure that Harry was secure in his arms, she frantically asked her questions. “Where is that? Is it far? How is it I’ve never heard of it?”

It was Yasmin who replied. “It’s not very well known, but it’s a wizarding hospital, and yes, it is far, but Rashad can make it. He’s fast. He’ll get there on time, I promise you.”

“Hermione,” hissed Ron in her ear. “Can we trust these vampires?”

She looked at him with vague sense of hopelessness. “We have no choice.”

Yasmin, choosing to ignore the exchange (because she would have heard it with her vampire ears) looked to Rashad. “Go.”

Rashad stepped into the clearing, crouching low on the ground. For a heartbeat, he did nothing, but then he gave a shudder, and he screamed just when large leathery wings ripped out of his back through his clothing. The pain on his face was lost to the awesome unfurling of wings. They seemed to expand, spread and Rashad was off, disappearing above the trees and beyond.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Remus, Tonks and their posse of aurors appeared just a few minutes after Rashad took off. They stumbled upon the scene with Hermione and Ron soiled with Harry’s blood. The heads and bodies that littered the clearing was not the prettiest sight.

Yasmin stood above all this with her sword.

The scene was most incriminating for her.

Hermione had to gather her senses in a hurry to explain what happened.

“So where’s Harry now?” Remus asked in a strained voice.

“Heading to Saint Aedan’s,” Hermione said wearily. “Yasmin promised Rashad would get him there in time.”

Remus looked to Yasmin. She winked.

Tonks’s eyebrow arched, her pink hair wiggling in agitation as she gave Yasmin the once over. “She doesn’t look like someone I’d trust.”

Yasmin chuckled. “Clever girl.”

Abraham reappeared with the rest of the vampires in tow. They caused a stir among the aurors and several wands were raised. Abraham did not pay them any heed. He went straight to his master. “We failed to find him.”

Yasmin’s smile wilted and she frowned. “I expected as much.”

“Tonks will take you to Saint Aedan’s,” said Remus to Hermione and Ron, coming to some kind of decision. “She knows where it is.”

Tonks frowned, hand to her hip. “And where will you be?”

“Here, gathering information. I’ve some questions for Ms. Omar regarding our friend, Janus.”

Yasmin laughed. “What makes you think I’ll answer your questions, werewolf? You’re cute, but not that cute.”

Remus grit his teeth. “It wouldn’t hurt you to cooperate just this once, Ms. Omar. Lives are on the line—“

“You should know better than anyone that vampires aren’t so accommodating. Besides, what do I care about life? I’m undead. I will go with you to Saint Aedan’s and perhaps you can entertain me with your feeble attempts to get information. I have to fetch Rashad from Saint Aedan’s, anyway, and besides that, I have some business to conclude with Hermione.”

“Can’t that wait?” Hermione hissed, feeling the inevitability of it stabbing her anew. It was like twisting the knife embedded in her heart. “I’d at least like to know first if Harry’s going to be alright. If he dies, then you didn’t fulfill your end of the deal and I don’t have to fulfill mine.”

“It’s not like you’d want to keep living your human life if he dies, Hermione.”

There it went again; the knife. “Please, just let me wait to see if he’ll be alright.”

Yasmin paused to give it some thought. “Fine.”

Hermione felt Ron nudging her from behind. “Hermione… what are you talking about?”

She looked at him sadly. “Let’s go to Saint Aedan’s, Ron. I don’t want Harry to wake up alone.”

Ron stared back at her with uncharacteristic intensity before he nodded and took her hand. “Then let’s go.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Hermione arrived with Ron in Saint Aedan’s, the healers had been working on Harry for three hours. It was another hour yet of waiting before the healer emerged, looking wearied in the extreme, but with a pronounced glimmer of hope.

Hermione and Ron met him half-way through the hall.

“We fixed him as best we could,” said the healer tiredly, his Irish accent thick. “Quite a few close calls, but he be a fighter, Mr. Potter is. All signs say that he’ll make it.”

Hermione had never felt such relief in her life. She sank into Ron’s arms and wept. Ron’s embrace was strong and reassuring.

Behind them, Remus and Tonks were sighing in relief.

Hermione could hear Tonks and Remus agreeing that Tonks should go and report back to Shacklebolt, but Hermione’s consciousness spread beyond that.

She knew, lurking in the shadows of the hospital, were Yasmin, Abraham and Rashad. They would be waiting for her to come to them.

Sun-up wasn’t that far ahead and perhaps out of sheer necessity, she could get herself another night to settle things before she fulfilled her end of the deal.

She looked up at Ron, pleading with her eyes for him to ask. She was a vampire. She wasn’t sure how the healer felt about her quite yet.

“Can we see him?” Ron asked. Perhaps he could read words from her eyes, too.

The healer’s gaze fell on Hermione and he hesitated.

She turned away, seeking solace in Ron’s embrace. Ron’s protective arms enfolded her.

“You may,” the healer said at last. “He’ll be asleep. He needs it. You have to promise not to try and wake him.”

Hermione didn’t know if she could stand to speak to Harry as if everything was going to be alright, so the healer didn’t have to worry about her trying to wake him up. She just had to see if he was alright. She had to look at him one last time.

She and Ron were led into the maze of hallways and finally to Harry’s room where he lay asleep on the bed attached to a plethora of magical healing objects. He looked pale and exhausted, his messy black hair lifeless upon his head.

Sinking into a chair by Harry’s bed, Hermione took his hand, tears falling from her eyes. She felt Ron’s hands on her shoulders, squeezing supportively.

How horrible was it for Harry when he had to stand over my dead body?

Hermione couldn’t imagine. Right now, there was every promise of Harry’s recovery, yet the pain of having lost him loomed so near she could almost feel the grief.

You’re going to have to say goodbye, anyway…

Sniffing, Hermione wiped the tears from her eyes and rose from her seat. She bent over, placing a delicate kiss on Harry’s pale, unresponsive lips. She touched his hair, careful not to disturb him as she savored the feel of his silky strands.

“If you can hear me,” she whispered so very softly in his ear. “I want you to know that I do this because I love you. I love you, Harry.”

She closed her eyes and listened to his breathing. The cadence of his rising and falling chest was even. He slept on.

She pulled away and turned to leave. Ron stared at her in astonishment.

“You stay here with him. I have some things to attend to,” she said.

“W-What?”

“I’ll be back, Ron. I promise. I’ll only be a while. In two hours it’ll be sun-up. I have to get a few things done before then.”

Ron stared at her a moment, probably trying to figure out if she was lying. After a while, he nodded.

She left Harry’s room and saw Remus waiting anxiously outside. She took a moment to tell him he should go in and see Harry, hopefully to distract Remus from asking any questions. Hermione gauged it right. Remus, bless him, loved Harry too dearly to be bothered by oddly behaving young girls. Besides, if worse came to worse, Hermione could order Remus to go in there and he would have no choice but to comply.

Driven by instinct, Hermione sought the darkest alcoves of the hospital.

She spoke into the grim shadows of a cluttered storage room. “I need more time.”

At first there was silence, and Hermione thought she might have made a mistake in supposing that anyone would be there to hear her, but the inky blackness came alive with the glow of purple orbs. “My dear… are you shirking our agreement?”

Hermione frowned. “Don’t insult me. Besides, it’s not as if I can run away and hide, can I?”

“I suppose not,” said Yasmin in affected weariness. “How much time do you need?”

“Just until tomorrow night.”

“They’ll be moving Harry to St. Mungo’s some time tomorrow. They’ll probably move you along with him. Where should I expect you?”

“Outside of Grimmauld Place.”

“We’ll be there.”

Hermione turned to go but was surprised to hear Yasmin calling her back. Hermione turned to listen.

“It occurred to me while I was waiting for you… I can’t have you going into this half-assed. Being in the coven… it’s a total commitment. If you’re doing this just because of what happened in the forest, I’m not exactly sure I should expect that commitment from you. I will call off this deal if you so desire. There will be a reckoning, mind you, but not so I can get you into the coven under duress.”

For a heartbeat, Hermione felt a flare of joy. She didn’t have to leave. She didn’t have to go with Yasmin, but just as soon as that hope blossomed, it died as she finally accepted the reality of her fate.

“If I stay with him, I will destroy him,” she said softly. “I’ve endangered his life twice over the course of three days, and both times, it was because of what I am. Cicero is dead because of me. Harry and everyone else I love might meet the same fate. It’s just not going to end. And I don’t just mean putting his life in danger, either. It’s everything. It’s his sanity. His entire life… I wanted to believe that I can be with him, that this sacrifice he makes for me is some kind of gift… but it’s just not real, is it, Yasmin? Gift though it might be, I’m taking his opportunity for a happier life.”

Yasmin chuckled, and Hermione could have sworn she could detect bitterness in it. “What do you want to hear from me, Hermione?”

“The truth.”

She chuckled again. “The awful truth… I haven’t been human for over five hundred years, but you see… you never quite forget what it entailed. As humans, we had such a capacity to love, and hate, and feel. We could give everything and keep nothing for ourselves, yet we were such victims of regret. Coulda, woulda, shoulda… missed opportunities; time lost…”

Hermione bit her lip, wishing she could keep her tears at bay.

“If you ask me,” said Yasmin quietly. “The only thing vampires could give back is loving someone enough to let go. Let a man live his life. Give him no reason to regret the day he met you. Give him a chance to realize, before it’s too late, that he could live without you and can do so happily… with somebody else.”

The tears spilled, but Hermione nodded. “I thought as much. I’ll see you back in London, then. And you needn’t worry about me going into this half-assed. I’m Hermione Granger. I don’t do things in halves.”

“Very well, Hermione Granger who doesn’t do things in halves… do what you have to do.”

Hermione nodded and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Hermione pushed the lid off her coffin the following night, she was in the dungeons of Grimmauld Place. How they got her there, she might never know, but it only meant that Harry was now in St. Mungo’s.

Grimly, she dressed and packed what possessions she can bring in her trunk.

As she made her way through the dungeon, she spied Draco reading in his cell.

She caught his gaze and he eyed the trunk with a raised eyebrow.

“Going somewhere, Granger?”

She didn’t have much time for niceties. “Yeah. Somewhere.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to your senses and left him.”

Stopping in her tracks, she turned and regarded him with unveiled revulsion. “What do you get out of sucking a person’s soul, Malfoy? I can explain dementors better than I can explain you.”

He snorted. “I’m a complicated guy. I couldn’t even explain myself, not that I have to, but seeing as you’re dying to know, I’ll try. I could care less how I make people feel. I hurt them; I make them feel like crap; I make them feel like they’ve earned my respect… it’s all relative to me. It’s the power I derive from it, Granger. You know what I mean by that. You vampires understand power more than anything. I sit here, behind this cell and still I managed to piss you off because I wanted to. It’s positively orgasmic.”

Hermione didn’t know why she even ventured to have some kind of conversation with him. She turned to leave.

“Hope he’s worth the heartbreak, Granger,” he called after her.

He’s an imp. An evil little thing with x-ray eyes that can find malignant cancers in your soul, she thought with passionate hate.

Hermione left her trunk at the bottom of the stairs and headed up to the library. She had to organize some books; see to it that Harry and Ron could find them when they referred to her notes.

It took a while, but she worked with purpose, focused on her task.

She was so intent on putting the necessary flags on the relevant pages that she hadn’t noticed that someone had come through the door.

Ron came into her line of vision and she looked up. She must have seemed guilty because a stern look began to settle on his face.

“You didn’t come back to the intensive care ward last night,” he said.

“I was busy.”

He watched her work for a few seconds. “I saw your trunk downstairs.”

There was very little point in denying it. “Did you?”

“Yes. Where are you going, Hermione?”

She went back to work, briskly putting the flags in along the margin of pages. “If I wanted to tell you, I would have.”

“Well then, when are you coming back?”

She didn’t reply, slamming the book shut with a bang. She put the book neatly at the top of the pile.

His breath hitched. “You’re not coming back, are you, or else you’re not planning to.”

“It’s complicated,” was all she said, opening the pages to her journal to make copies of the relevant entries.

Ron scowled. “Is this about the last fight you had with Harry? He was just upset at the time, and he almost died for goodness sake!”

She sighed, flipping through her notes. “This is not just about that fight, Ron. I made a deal with Yasmin. You were there, weren’t you?”

“That’s bullcrap and you know it,” he hissed. “You want to go, don’t you? Because if you didn’t, you’d find a way to stay. I know you, Hermione. You’d find a way.”

“Ron… this is about many, many things, and above all else, I’m leaving because I love Harry and care for you. It’s better this way…”

“Y-You can’t just leave. You can’t—at least wait for Harry to wake up—“

“No,” she said softly. “It just won’t work that way. If I have to go, I have to go now.”

“Why are you doing this? Do you think we don’t love you or something?”

“It’s not like that, Ron. This isn’t about me, alright? It’s just… this is the way things have to be.”

“How can you do this to Harry? How can you stand there and say you love him when you’re leaving and giving up on the two of you? I mean—bloody hell, Hermione! If you and Harry can’t work it out, then the bunch of us couldn’t possibly believe in love, or whatever—“

She finally looked at him, her eyes filling with tears. He fell silent, his outrage melting into compassion.

“It hurts, Ron,” she said. “It really does. I want to stay. I want to stay so much, but this thing that I am… I don’t belong in your lives, Ron. Not anymore. Harry should have better things to look forward to than the coming of sunset.”

His eyes glazed liquid and he blinked several times, swiping the back of his hand across his face. “What am I going to say to him, Hermione? How am I going to—you have no idea how hard it was for Harry when he thought you were dead. I had to watch him take it, and it was just—what am I going to tell him?”

“Tell him anything you want, Ron,” she whispered. “If he hates me for it, then maybe that’s even better. He’ll be able to move on quicker. Live his life the way he’s supposed to live it.”

“Hermione…”

She dug into the pocket of her coat and pulled out two sealed letters. She had written them the previous night, just before she fell asleep in the dungeons of St. Aedan’s. “Here. You can give him this. The other one’s for you.”

He didn’t want to take it.

She placed it atop the table.

Gathering her journal, she made to leave.

“I ought to petrify you. Bind you and keep you here,” said Ron.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “That’s more my style, Ron, not yours.”

As soon as she said it, she saw the split second it took for him to whip out his wand.

She moved with vampire quickness, easily avoiding the incarcerous hex he had thrown at her.

There was no resenting him for it. She felt no ill-feelings at all, because she knew why he had thrown that hex. He had done it for Harry, and perhaps Ron thought he was doing it for her, too.

She was before him in a flash, standing in front of him, toe to toe.

He gasped at the sudden proximity and she saw that the tears he had kept at bay had finally spilled over.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and released a haze of powerful pheromones into the air.

Ron groaned as the pheromones overpowered him, his legs losing strength as he slid bonelessly to the ground. “H-Hermione…”

She crouched down beside him, pushing the stray hairs from off his face as he blinked up at her in a drunken daze.

Leaning forward, she placed a tender kiss on his forehead. She held it for a few heartbeats before she pulled away.

Willing herself to be strong, she stood up and began to walk away.

She heard the feeble plea of Ron as he called her name and told her no. She refused to look back, because she would lose her resolve.

With steeled determination, she made her way down the stairs. She grabbed her trunk and forced her feet to take her to the door, and then past the lawn, and finally to the curb of the street where Yasmin’s stretch Jaguar awaited her.

The chauffer emerged from the driver’s side while Abraham emerged from the other. Abraham took her trunk to put it in the boot while the chauffer held the car door open for her to get in.

Hermione slid into the car, the door closing her in.

Yasmin sat crossed-legged in front of her looking terribly amused. “Are you ready, Hermione?”

Hermione blinked back tears and swallowed. “I am.”

The car rolled forward and Hermione peeked out of her window one last time. She couldn’t even see number twelve.

Harry… oh, Harry!

Pain flared within her and finally, she allowed her heart to break. Burying her face in her hands, she wept so bitterly that even Yasmin hadn’t been cold enough to scorn her.

She was so gone on her grief that she hadn’t even realized, until the following day, that she had left her humanity behind on the same day she had been born to it.

END PART ONE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I’m not going to create a new story for part two. The next chapter I release in this same account will fall in Part Two of this fic. Aiyayay… I guess Hermione isn’t the only monster there is. We’ve got some from Harry’s chest and this story’s turning out to be a monster in itself!

15. PART 2 - Chapter Fourteenth: Lost

Author’s Note: And here we are, in Part 2. After all that harrowing angst, we have even worse angst now. Just a little detail: I changed Yasmin’s name from Yasmin bint Omar to Yasmin ibna Omar. It means the same thing: “daughter of” but since “bint” in Brit-English means something bad, as Lady Diamond pointed out, I figured changing it wouldn’t hurt.

Much thanks to Lady Diamond for this chapter.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

PART TWO – SUNSET

Chapter Fourteen: Lost

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FIVE YEARS LATER…

Rain was such a pain in the ass, especially when the winds of September were just a bit colder and it made the water icy as it soaked into one’s bones. It didn’t help in the least that the Southbank just beneath London Bridge hadn’t a shred of warmth to its name. It was a dark enough night, the moon hidden behind thick clouds, and the only light to be had was the dim glow of street lamps overhead. The nearby pubs, unabashedly seedy, didn’t offer much for lighting. Nobody who frequented the area liked bright lights, anyway.

The dark kept the tourists away, they said.

Soft thunder rumbled in the distance and Harry huddled closer into his wool coat. Not that it made much of a difference. Sure, he had impervioused his coat and ski hat, but his hair and skin still got wet at the edges, and cold droplets trickled down his face and neck.

He shivered.

“I still don’t know why we have to wait out here when we can wait in there,” Ron muttered, jerking his head to the nearest pub. It was the Wheatshead, and it was even older and seedier than the area’s low-key fare, but they weren’t tourists, and they rather liked Wheatshead, anyway.

“Because,” Harry said patiently. “I was told to meet the bloke here, at this precise spot. Quit complaining. It’s only a bit of rain.”

Ron continued to grumble, but mostly to himself.

Harry let him. He was thankful enough that Ron had agreed to keep him company this time around. It had been an hour and a half since they first began to wait, which was usual for these clandestine meetings Harry arranged with his informants, but Harry couldn’t have managed alone this time.

Not tonight. Any night but tonight.

He suspected it wasn’t the night Ron wanted to be alone with his thoughts, either.

Five years to the day…

Harry wondered when he’d ever stop counting. Not anytime soon.

A lumbering drunk passed them by and shot profanities at them. Ron only had to glare at him to shut him up. The lush didn’t think to bother them again. He scurried away, terrified by Ron’s imposing bulk.

Ron had, in the last five years, grown rather huge. He wasn’t fat or anything like that (in spite of the copious amounts of food he’d been consuming), but apart from being almost freakishly tall (six feet, four inches), he was wide and thick at the shoulders, had trimmed facial hair and a scar cutting down the side of his face. He kept his hair short, because otherwise his mother would never let him hear the end of it, but it was what Ginny called an “army cut”.

“You look like a soldier,” Ginny had muttered in a most unflattering tone.

Five years of war had turned Ron into a regular toughie in spite of the fact that he walked around acting like he was still seventeen. Ron still thought everything was funny and he certainly didn’t waste good whisky and ale to depressing diatribe. When Ron sat at a bar, he was a hell of an enjoyable drinking companion; him and his brothers.

Brothers… less Percy and Fred.

The war had supposedly come to a screeching halt when some months into Harry’s supposed seventh year, several key Death Eaters were captured and sentenced. It was a small victory, and it seemed effective enough to set Voldemort back, but the many attempts to catch him after that proved futile, and just when they thought that Voldemort’s momentum was on the decline, it regained full-ferocity in a Ministry explosion two years ago. It was in that attack Percy perished; crushed to death beneath a slab of marble caved in from the floor above. The supposedly fading war began to escalate again. A year later, Fred took a powerful curse, yet unidentified, for his twin when Diagon Alley was taken siege by Death Eaters. Fred was still alive, but had been in a coma ever since, and while George continued to be optimistic about his twin brother’s recovery, those closest to him could almost feel that George was saddled by chronic anxiety and guilt. It hurt Harry just thinking about it.

Hogwarts continued to run amidst the turmoil and it remained one of the safest places in all of Great Britain, but sometimes, Harry felt that it was primarily there to train the next recruits. It was a sad way to use his alma mater, but the uncertainty of the times made it necessary.

Harry just wanted this war to end. Too many lives had been taken; too many relationships destroyed, too many futures left uncertain, but try as Harry might to engage Voldemort in a one-on-one duel, the Dark Lord remained elusive, amassing his dark army yet remaining hidden. Some of the information gathered suggested that Voldemort had suffered some kind of setback, yet there were theories that the postponement was intentional, and then there was the rumor that this was the plan all along…

Harry had very little to contribute to all the postulating and speculation. Though he still had some kind of connection to Voldemort through his scar, he had not utilized this supposed advantage to its fullest. The fact was his improvement on the matter of occlumency had far surpassed his legilimency. The Auror Department had quite a few occlumency masters in their rosters, and many of them had willingly trained him to improve on his skills, but legilimency, it seemed, was far more rare and specialized. Many could learn the skill of protecting one’s mind, but very rarely did anyone have the aptitude, let alone the talent, to read into the heart and mind of someone else. So the fact that he could block his mind from Voldemort’s intrusion but couldn’t read Voldemort’s thoughts… well, it simply cancelled out the use of the connection. It didn’t mean Harry’s scar never tingled. It didn’t mean Harry never suffered those searing, blinding headaches when Voldemort was angry, or the fierce cold when he was delighted. He might catch a vision or two, but the images were nothing substantial.

Harry did, however, suspect that Voldemort knew something was up with his horcruxes and therefore stayed out of harm’s way, just in case.

And as slow as Harry’s development in legilimency was in the last five years, he knew in his gut that if Voldemort had done something as horrendous as create new horcruxes, Harry would’ve known about it. He wasn’t certain as to why he was so sure of that, but he was. And in spite of the fact that all but one of Voldemort’s horcruxes were destroyed, Voldemort seemed to have made no further attempts to make new ones.

Harry could only suppose from the accumulated data they had on horcruxes that it was because Voldemort was stretched too thin to make a new horcrux. Dismembering one’s soul played tricks on one’s sanity, and even Voldemort couldn’t risk losing his faculties. Still, Harry wouldn’t put it completely past him to try anyway. There was still a chance Voldemort hadn’t the slightest clue about what was happening to his wretched soul fragments. They just had to find that one elusive horcrux, that object of Gryffindor’s that simply couldn’t be found.

All that searching… all the fighting. Can’t say I’m tired, but a pleasant change would be nice. Some tranquility would be a welcome thing.

Harry pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat.

He wasn’t that much changed from five years ago. He was probably a bit taller, but he had stopped growing at five feet, eleven and three-quarter inches, six feet when he wore his field boots. He had his own share of battle scars, but none more prominent than the one on his forehead. He really didn’t look all that different. He had experimented once or twice with facial hair but always decided in the end that the hair on his head was troubling enough, so he preferred the clean-shaven look, after all. He probably wasn’t as scrawny as he used to look. It was only natural he’d gain more bulk around the shoulders, but he still looked rather small compared to the hulking mass of Ron.

A mild warmth issued from the dragon tattoo on the back of his left shoulder, and while it wasn’t uncomfortable in the cold weather, Harry wished it would stop trying to get his attention.

Buggery thing…

If it had been up to him, he never would’ve gotten that tattoo. He hadn’t known what he was about, anyway, when he got it. He had been dead pissed, and Ron wasn’t in his right mind, either. He and Ron had stumbled drunkenly into a tattoo parlor and sat their banjaxed assess down to get inked. Harry had been so out of it that he didn’t even remember requesting it. All Harry could really remember of the entire debacle was waking up at home with what felt like a bitch of a burn on the back of his left shoulder. Upon closer inspection, Harry found out that he was the proud (supposedly), and rather bemused (more likely), owner of an inked Hungarian Horntail the size of Ron’s palm (which is huge in its own right) that reared and spewed jets of fire while it crawled around and preened.

After a flash of bitter déjà vu with respect to jokes about hippogriff and Hungarian Horntail tattoos, he realized in retrospect that it could have been worse. In his intoxicated state, he could have asked for something like stars and daisies, or something sad, like “Hermione”. He had, in fact, gotten the better end of the deal relative to Ron, who had ended up with an “I (heart) Mum” tattoo on his arm. Molly Weasley sent Ron howlers everyday for a week after that.

“What’s taking this bloke so long anyway?” Ron asked, pulling his coat more snugly around him. “Is this info so important that we’d wait martyr-like for him under the rain?”

Harry stifled a sigh. He couldn’t exactly blame Ron for complaining and it wasn’t as if he had been completely honest with Ron about this, either. He had told Ron that the informant had something that the Order of the Phoenix would be interested in. If Harry had told Ron the truth, Ron might not be with him right now.

“Just wait a while longer,” said Harry. “If he isn’t here in ten minutes, you can go on ahead to the Wheatshead and I’ll just follow, alright?”

“What time is it?”

Harry checked his pocket watch and gave Ron the time.

“Muggle rugby game’s on. That’ll do. Fine, then. Ten minutes.”

Ten minutes went by and Ron guiltlessly left him standing in the corner while heading to the pub across the street.

Harry sighed. He hoped he didn’t have to wait alone for very long.

Five years to the day that she left…

He groaned softly. This was why he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts on this night, of all nights.

It wasn’t as if he never thought about her. In fact, he thought about Hermione all the time. In the last five years, when he wasn’t fighting to survive a Death Eater attack, or he wasn’t raiding decrepit old castles for hidden horcruxes, or he wasn’t plunging wooden stakes through rogue vampires’ hearts, or slicing through werewolves with a silver blade, his thoughts were about her, and where he’d gone wrong, or perhaps why they could have been so right…

The pain of her leaving, while most days manageable, was scraped raw on days like this; days where there were so many thoughts or memories, good and bad, attached to them. It was just worse on his birthdays, or on Bill and Fleur’s wedding anniversary, and on this day.

Her birthday. The day she left.

It was odd, considering he was still in sleep stasis the night she joined the Coven of Isis. He was asleep from getting stabbed by that bastard Janus.

Ron had left St. Mungo’s to fetch Hermione from Grimmauld Place that night, only to find her preparing to leave. Harry later found out that Ron had tried to incapacitate her with a hex, but Hermione had out-maneuvered him and she had ended up hypnotizing Ron with a blast of pheromones.

Having been on the pleasant end of that kind of attack several times in the past, he understood how Ron hadn’t stood a chance, and perhaps it was the reason why Harry never thought Ron could’ve tried harder. He had, in fact, resented no one for her leaving except for… well, her.

She left. Just like that she left. She didn’t even wait to say goodbye to my face. She left a goddamn letter and that was the last I heard of her.

The sad thing about it was, no matter how hard he tried; no matter how hard he wished it, he couldn’t hate her, and he couldn’t stop hoping—praying—that one day, he would find her again.

And it was that hope which dragged him to seedy little corners of London meeting strangers and vampires who claimed they could deliver his message to her, the oft-whispered-about Hermione Granger, latest-protégé of Yasmin ibna Omar.

“Yasmin’s the master of the most powerful vampire coven there is,” said a muggle vamp-phile whom Harry had met during his rounds of the vampire circuit. “You’d best not mess with that one. There’s this story…” There was always a story. “…about one of her soldiers. ‘Sent the bloke on an important mission… turned out to be a clusterfuck and when he went back to her, telling her he had royally botched it up, she had him nailed to a dungeon, had his friends and family hauled in and had every single one of them beheaded before his very eyes before she killed him herself.”

It hadn’t comforted Harry in the least that Hermione had associated herself with someone like that, but as he later found out, many of the worse stories were untrue, or exaggerated. At least that’s what it seemed to him.

He had, in the last five years, learned so much about vampires and vampire culture that he could almost be considered a vamp-phile himself. It had become an obsession, something that gave him hope, something that could hurt him over and over again. It was like an addiction; like a drug. He went with it feverishly and enthusiastically when he was on the trail, despaired and hated it when he had nothing, and when he had been too long without leads, he sought ways to find that next fix: a rumor; a blood-flunkie who knew a guy, who knew another guy; a sighting; and so on and so forth.

Ron sometimes found it disturbing, but every once in a while, Harry would catch something that even Ron couldn’t resist putting his faith in.

“She’s out there, Ron,” Harry would say while they waited in some junkyard or deserted park because some bloke or bird had sent photographs of smiling strangers with what looked like a blurry image of Hermione in the background. “I just have to find her, is all.”

A lot of times, Harry wondered why he was doing this to himself. He would think: This is ridiculous, or I’ve absolutely lost my mind, and even Get a life, already! But it was impossible to resist when a lead cropped up, or a rumor reached his ears.

Ron had only tried to talk him out of it once. Harry must’ve looked so devastated because Ron had apologized to him profusely afterwards, buying him drinks until they were both smashed out of their wits. Ron never suggested such a thing again.

Honestly, Harry had tried to move on.

Once, he tried so earnestly that even he thought he had managed it. It was some time two years ago that he made a conscious effort to get on with his life. He reconnected with Cho Chang, had quite a few dates with her, had pretty good sex… it could’ve been a real relationship, but he had been fooling himself, and he only ended up hurting Cho. They were in a London street-fair and Cho was modeling one of those interesting ethnic shawls…

Cho flashed him one of her devastatingly pretty smiles that had the whole of Hogwarts sighing in its wake.

He smiled back, telling himself how lovely her straight black hair was and how lucky he was to have a girlfriend who liked Quidditch as much as he did.

“What looks better against my complexion, Harry? Red or blue?” She wrapped the blue one around herself becomingly and held up the red one with a flirtatious slant. She grinned as she switched views for him.

He stared at the blue shawl rather intently, thinking of another woman who looked brilliant in blue.

“You like the blue one. I can see it in your eyes,” she said, winking. “I’ll get it, then.”

A warm flush rose in his face but he nodded, telling her that the blue one really brought out her eyes.

Cho was paying for her purchases when a flash of frizzy brown hair caught his gaze. He turned to look and saw the brown ringlets weaving through the crowds. Without the slightest hesitation, he shot out after the anonymous woman.

Or perhaps, she wasn’t so anonymous.

Her name kept repeating in his mind.

It might be her, he thought. I’ve got to try. I swear, I just have to know.

It took several minutes. There were so many people. He came up behind her, saw that it could be her by the shape of her body; her height, and when Harry clasped her shoulder, he actually said her name.

“Hermione!”

The woman turned, startled. She wasn’t the least bit like Hermione. The woman had sharp, long features and her eyes were a brilliant gray. She wasn’t all that young either.

Harry stepped back, shocked, and he stammered an apology before turning to leave.

Only then did it occur to him that he wasn’t sure where he was, that he had left Cho behind, and that the sun was up in full summer.

It couldn’t have been Hermione in the least, yet all sense of reason had left him at the slightest whisper, at the mere memory of her.

He sat on one of the park benches, wondering what the hell he was doing to Cho.

He had broken up with Cho after that, telling her he wasn’t ready to have another meaningful relationship, just yet.

Cho hadn’t taken it so well. “Unbelievable… even from the grave…”

“Er… grave?”

“I’m sorry she’s dead, Harry, but I…” She sighed in exasperation. “I can’t deal with this. I can’t—I can’t compete with a dead idealized woman! That’s twice she came between us.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. She said it like she had Hermione’s name carved under her desk where she’d slice the tip of a blade over it every time Hermione “came between” them. He had a strong urge to tell her that Cho had let Cedric Diggory come between them twice, as well, but he stopped himself. It was a petty thing to say.

Cho left him in the restaurant, furious. He hadn’t tried calling her again. If she stayed angry with him, it was just as well. He couldn’t very well try with Cho a third time if he ever got the notion. It was too much, even for him.

His few casual sexual encounters before and after that with other women didn’t count as sincere attempts. Those were women who offered him comfort and consolation when the loneliness and despair became so overwhelming, and perhaps they had wanted a trophy of their own: Sex with Harry Potter. They had more to give him than he ever did, but they never asked for much, except maybe for a nice memory. Harry obliged. It was the least he could do for them when he could give them so little of himself.

Most often, when lying in bed with such women, he thought about Hermione being with other men. The hurt, anger and jealousy became palpable then, and it was usually around that time he would get up, dress and leave.

His interludes with the women were less about temptation and more about frustration, and loss, and pain, so when he was fixated on a lead, when he was hot on the trail of a rumor or clue, he could go without intimacy for months on end. The hope renewed his feelings for her. The hope made him feel like he was in a relationship again, therefore he would be faithful.

This was what worried Ron the most, Harry reckoned, and this was what Draco Malfoy took such delight in mocking him for.

Harry welcomed thoughts of his awful “houseguest”. It was better than being miserable thinking about her.

Draco Malfoy was still in number 12 Grimmauld Place. He was a prisoner of sorts, but he didn’t have to stay in his dungeon anymore. He actually had a room, and he walked freely around the house and he kept a job—in fact, as an archives-keeper in one of the Ministry’s many dusty, decrepit storage rooms. It was the most undesirable job there was, as it entailed very little human contact, was tedious, boring and overall wretched… but someone had to do it, and when all but this position had been denied Draco Malfoy, he indeed became that “someone”, as befitting, after all, of one who attempted to murder Albus Dumbledore and let Death Eaters into Hogwarts to boot—to support himself, because Harry would be damned if he dished galleons to support Draco. He was, however, bound in captivity by a charmed anklet when he didn’t actually have someone guarding him in the background. The anklet prevented him from leaving the house without permission, speaking to anyone in secret unless it was Harry, Ron or Remus and it magically prohibited him from flooing, apparating and sending owls. It bugged whatever wand he happened to have on hand to inform Harry, Ron, Tonks and Remus every single time he cast a spell, no matter how simple or harmless. The bugging-charm allowed them to see what spell he had cast, where he had cast it and to what he had directed the spell to. And while the anklet was a burden to Draco, it was no party for the rest of them, either.

In his worse days, Draco would cast spells that would have any of the four of them running to catch him at his dastardly deed. It never was quite as dastardly as Draco made it seem. Pranking them in this manner had once been Draco’s favorite pastime, until finally, they realized they had to do something about it. They bound Draco hand and foot and placed him with Mrs. Black’s painting in one of the many storage rooms of Grimmauld Place. Mrs. Black had wailed and screamed “Blood traitor!” with maddening volume. It was all well and good for Harry and the rest of them who had simply put an insulating spell on the room to keep the noise from escaping the storage room walls, but after an entire day in solitary with Mrs. Black, Draco had begged and threatened to be let out. He learned his lesson then, but on days he was feeling particularly vengeful, he would prank them again, regardless of the consequences.

There was still nothing lovable about Draco. He was still as sarcastic, still as soul-leeching, and still as haughty. He could be mopping the kitchen floor and he’d still be oozing aristocrat.

“You can take the boy out of Malfoy Manor, but you can’t take the Manor Malfoy out of the boy,” Draco had once said in his infuriatingly superior tone.

“Well, I’d imagine having it up your ass would make it a tad challenging to take out,” Ron had replied with equal haughtiness.

“Personally, I think it’s all that inbreeding,” Harry added.

Draco had scoffed. “Weak. If Granger were here, she’d be ripping into the marrow of my bones, by now. Mudblood though she is, she had the most deliciously vicious comebacks, unlike you two pussies.”

Harry knew Draco liked mentioning Hermione in a pseudo-positive light to irritate him. It made Harry think—whether he believed it or not—that Draco and Hermione had forged some kind of connection, which really grated at Harry, and just gave Draco something to taunt him with.

But really, Draco’s self-serving, narcissistic, acidic nature aside, he was usually bearable, or else one got used to him. At least, in the few times that Draco got caught in a Death Eater attack with them, he hadn’t turned-coat and hexed Harry behind his back. Draco usually found himself a safe hiding place and waited it out. Forced to defend himself, he would do so, with uncanny skill, and if he happened to save anyone’s life in the process, one can bet one’s wand that he only did it to save himself. That’s his story, and Harry didn’t think that much of Draco to even venture a hunch that Draco was doing anything for anybody. There was just no way in hell that Draco would do anything out of the goodness of his own heart. When asked if he even had a heart, Draco replied, “If I even have a what?”

Harry, at least, would never trust Draco completely, and if there ever came a time that Draco does betray them, it wouldn’t be a shock at all. One thing was certain: Harry never slept without his wand within easy reach.

A shuffle in the darkness cut through the showery sound of rain and Harry gripped his wand beneath his coat. Slowly, he turned, staying alert.

A figure emerged, coming into the dim lighting.

Harry could immediately tell he was human. He had that ungraceful gait that vampires never had and he was sloppily dressed. Vampires were always—as the joke went—dressed to kill.

Harry also noticed that the stranger had a fresh bandage wrapped around his wrist.

Blood flunkie? thought Harry with only the slightest arch of his eyebrow.

The stranger came closer and Harry remained where he stood, though his stance was defensive.

“That’s close enough,” said Harry. “Who sent you?” Not that he didn’t know, but he had to have some means of verification.

“Er—Henry Dresler?”

Harry relaxed only enough to throw the new arrival off his guard.

The name Henry Dresler wasn’t a code. The man did exist. He was a vampire who owned Tirgoviste, a club that catered to vampires and the humans who liked to hang around with them. The club was a high-end establishment and it liked keeping its fangs clean. Harry endeared himself to Henry Dresler when Harry took care of the Death Eater recruiter infestations in his club and—on occasion—various other irritants.

Vampire establishments and groups had lately found themselves at an impasse as a number of their brethren were rumored to be setting up camp with Voldemort. The unconfirmed defections were still on an individual level, but it was, to many traditional vampires, disturbing to have so many rumors of disassociation. Solitary hunters though vampires were, they liked to congregate in packs, hives, covens, fraternities and sororities. To have separatists affiliating themselves with a human was just wrong, at least according to Henry.

Henry, to maintain the prosperous quid-pro-Haul-Death-Eater-Ass-Out-Of-His-Club relationship he had with Harry, provided Harry with information and informants regarding all-things vampire. Most of the time, Harry acted in the capacity of the Order, but there were times like these that Harry was simply a bloke looking for the woman he hadn’t quite gotten over. Henry was always happy to oblige a romantic notion or two. Henry wasn’t all that old and jaded, to begin with. He said he hadn’t been a vampire for very long. That was the only history of himself he gave. He didn’t like going into details.

“Henry Dresler said you had some information I might find useful,” said Harry, trying to get a better glimpse of the stranger’s face.

“Yes—hey, hold on… don’t I know you?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. I’ve been around the vamp circuit a lot.”

“No, I mean, I know you. You’re that Harry Potter chap!”

“No shit, Sherlock,” muttered Harry dryly.

The stranger laughed. “Look here, don’t you remember me?” He stepped closer and Harry moved back in response.

Harry swore that he often found himself emulating Mad-Eyed Moody, but it was difficult not to act so paranoid during these dangerous times. “I said that’s close en—“

The stranger’s face was thrown in sharp relief and Harry found himself mesmerized at the sheer familiarity of his visage.

“Shite. I do know you,” conceded Harry, looking at the tall, medium-built man with the dark hair and boy-next-door face. “But I can’t—“

“So Your Sweetheart’s A Vampire, by Angel N. Buffy.”

Fuck. Me. Hard. It was Allan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry downed his third shot of whiskey and blew a breath through his lips. He blinked off the initial punch of the liquor and let the warmth settle in the pit of his stomach. It was working. He was feeling less agitated.

“Ah,” said Ron after squinting at him observantly. “We have color! Now all you have to do is breathe.”

Harry frowned at his best friend and nudged his glass so that the bartender would fill it up again. “I’m fine, Ron. I’m just a bit shaken, is all. Give me a second.”

“Good lord, what in hell did the informant tell you?” Ron asked while the bartender refilled Harry’s glass. “Bad news? Horrible news?”

“Nothing like that…”

“Now I need a drink.” Ron signaled for the bartender to give him a glass of whiskey.

“What are you talking about? You’ve been drinking in here for the past half hour while I was out there in the cold!”

“I’ve a fast metabolism,” said Ron with a shrug. He got his drink and he held it lightly over the table. “Now, tell me what happened out there. You come in here looking so pale and you down three shots of whiskey in less than two minutes… better be good!”

Harry sighed and braced himself. “Alright, first thing’s first… it wasn’t Order business.”

Ron stared at him for several heartbeats before downing his whisking and shooting Harry a glare. “You bastard, I knew it! I knew it! This is a Hermione-thing, isn’t it? Of course it’s a Hermione thing! It’s her bloody birthday today! You lied to me. You know what, Potter? Fuck this. I’m leaving.”

Ron threw down a wad of muggle bills and left. Harry sighed and leaned over the bar, head between his hands.

Oye… the drama.

Moments later, Ron returned and sat back down beside him. “I’m only back because I’m hella curious.”

“Right.”

Ron got himself another drink. “Well, don’t just sit there and brood. Tell the damn story!”

Harry nodded, glad that the obligatory walk-out was done and over with. “That bloke I met outside… we knew each other. Met each other before.”

“When, where and how?”

“Five years ago, in St. Mungo’s. It was the night Hermione was turned. She needed to feed. This bloke was her first.”

Ron looked a bit confused. “Her first? Her first what? Her first shag? I thought you were her first shag.”

“I am,” Harry said with martyr-like patience. “She didn’t shag the bloke, she fed off him.”

“Oh. Fed off him. Got it.” Ron shuddered.

“We on the same page now, Weasley?”

“Yeah. I think I remember who you’re talking about. That bloke—what’s his name… Chester… Jake…”

“Allan.”

“Right! I knew that. So… old acquaintance. That’s cute. Does this mean you have to send him Christmas cards from now on?”

Harry ignored Ron’s wisecracking. “He saw her, Ron. He SAW HER a week ago.”

That shut Ron up for a good while.

One scotch later, Ron was ready to listen again. “Saw her where? How? Are you sure this bloke isn’t screwing you sideways?”

“He saw her in Gossips.”

“Gossips? That club off Oxford?”

“Yeah. She was there and she needed to feed… she called vampire services and Allan just happened to be available. It was a regular ruddy reunion.”

“Holy hell…” Ron let out a breath and got yet another drink. “I can’t—“

They sat in silence for several more minutes and Harry let Ron mull it over. He needed the quiet time himself.

Finally, Ron broke the silence. “This could be nothing, you understand. Even if this guy is someone you knew in the past… well, maybe he did see her, but it hardly means he’ll see her again. Or that you’ll see her…”

Harry nodded. “You’re absolutely right.”

They stared at one another a moment.

Ron cleared his throat. “So did you ask about how she seemed to be doing? Who she was with? How she looks?”

Harry recalled the details of his conversation with Allan and told Ron as much as he could remember.

Harry tried to slow the rapid beating of his heart. She was in London. Might still be in London. He couldn’t believe it. This was the first time in five years that someone had actually and definitively come to him and said, “Yes, I saw Hermione. We talked a bit. Had a few drinks…” It was always, “I heard she was…” or “A friend of mine might have mentioned her…”

Calming himself, Harry struggled to steady his voice. “H-How… how is she? I mean, did you ask…?”

Allan seemed surprised. “Oh, well, of course I asked. It’s only polite, isn’t it? I asked her how she was doing and she said she was doing alright. She had a good job and she was in good company. She was drop dead gorgeous, by the way. No pun intended. Didn’t know she could look that good in leather, but oh my God.”

Harry had to focus really hard not to daydream. “What did she tell you? Did she tell you where she was staying? How long she was going to be in London? Did she tell you where she was going from here?”

“Well, she didn’t say where but she did say they were sticking around for a while. She didn’t give a specific date, but considering vampires live forever, ‘a while’ could be anything from a month to a couple of years.”

“Did she say if she went to that club often? I mean—“

“Knew the owner, she said, but that was it. Doesn’t mean she goes there all the time. For all I know, it could’ve been her first time there.”

Harry nodded. This was true. London was a relatively small place and Harry had been frequenting the vampire circuit for almost five years. If Hermione had frequented Gossips, he would’ve known about it. However, it was big news that she knew the owner of the club. It was another solid lead.

“What else did you talk about?” asked Harry.

“Well… I asked her if she was seeing anyone.”

Harry frowned. “Oh, did you, now?”

Allan saw the look on his face and understood it, but he was as easy-going now as he was five years ago. “Hey, she’s hot. Can you blame a bloke for trying?”

Trying? Harry didn’t know if he was glad or disappointed that Allan got turned down. On the one hand, he wasn’t sure if he could bear it if she began to date someone else, yet if they had arranged a date, it would’ve been a sure fire way to see her again. “Blew you off, did she?”

Allan shrugged. “I don’t think she’s seeing anyone, or anyone serious, at least. She would’ve said so. But she said she was done dating humans, which pretty much finished it for me.”

Harry didn’t know what to think. Did that mean she’d dated a lot of them before?

He shook his head. That was hardly important right now. “Is there any chance at all that you’ll see her again?”

“I might, if she calls vampire services again to feed, but then chances are the dispatcher would send someone else.”

Oh God, thought Harry with rising excitement. “Maybe you can make arrangements with the dispatcher, you know, to send for you if it’s her? Then you call me when you do get sent for. Make it happen and I’ll pay you triple of what I’ll give you tonight. I’ll even fund the grease money. Just let me know how much it’s going to take.”

He hesitated. “Umm… you know, I’d love to help you, but even if I knew who the dispatcher was, lots of vampires, specially the ones that don’t want to be found… they get pissed when their blood donor rats them out. Hermione might not kill me, but Yasmin might get word and she might complain to the management and… well, you know how vampires get.”

Harry’s heart sank even as he understood Allan’s predicament. Vampires didn’t fire you for things like that; vampires killed you for things like that. And if Harry went to Gossip’s owner for a similar deal, the owner would be just as afraid of Yasmin.

He had very little choice but to resort to a different tactic. It wasn’t completely hopeless. There was more than one way to go about it. After all, not everyone was afraid of vampires.

“We’re done here, then. It was good information, thanks.” Harry paid him and emerged from the darkness, crossing the street to Wheatshead.

Ron expelled a deep breath when Harry finished his story. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’ve to get Dobby to stake-out Gossips for me.”

“Dobby! Harry, d’you—“

“I have no choice. A human’s too conspicuous and nobody I know in the circuit would do it for me. I’d do it, but… but I couldn’t risk my presence forcing her back into hiding. It has to be Dobby. Besides, maybe she’ll be more accommodating to an elf.”

Ron smiled wanly. “How do you know she hasn’t changed in so many ways?”

“She wouldn’t, at least not so much that we wouldn’t know her.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Ron didn’t reply. He knew enough not to argue when Harry was being obstinate. He ordered Guinness stout and drank gulps of it before speaking again. “Harry, if you do finally find her—and I’m not saying you will this time around—“

Harry smiled tiredly. Ron had watched him try and fail for five years. If he was going to crash and burn again, Ron at least wouldn’t be the one who poured the gasoline.

Ron continued. “What are you going to say to her?”

Harry chuckled miserably. “Are you kidding? So many things that the problem is, I don’t know where to start.”

“Are you still angry with her?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had angry thoughts about her in the last four years, but… I don’t know how I’d feel when I see her.”

“If you see her.”

Harry swirled his shot-glass and saw the sliver of whiskey pooling at the bottom. He asked for a refill. “I’ll find her sooner or later, whether she wants to be found or not.”

Ron sighed, tilting his glass of Guinness slightly. “And how long do you expect me to haul your banjaxed arse from seedy bars every time you come up to a dead end?”

“For as long as it takes?”

“I know you’re not mental… yet, Harry, and I don’t believe you’re a sucker for punishment… yet—,”

Harry had to sneer.

“—but why do you keep doing this to yourself?”

“I don’t know. To prove a point? I always told her that if she ever disappeared in some far-off corner of the world, I’d find her.”

Ron snorted softly. “I wonder which one of your parents was this bullheaded, because you had to have come by it honestly, or else you’re just a bloody jackass.”

Harry paused ponderously. “Maybe Ginny’s right. Maybe I just need closure. If I can get Hermione to tell me to my face that we’re over and done with, forever and ever, amen, then I can go on.”

“But her letter…”

“It’s a letter, Ron. She didn’t even give it to me herself. At least she handed yours over to you face to face…” He looked at his glass of whiskey miserably. “At least you got to say goodbye.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “Actually, it was more like me sitting on my arse on the floor, weak-kneed with longing, but hey… same difference!”

Harry managed a smile. “Amazing, what those pheromones could do. It only works two ways, though. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“The first way is if the vampire is sucking your blood. The second way is if you’re attracted to the vampire in the first place…”

Ron reddened. “Touché. You know I fancied her then.”

“Do you, still?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Fair enough. So, are you done with that Guinness, or what? I’ve a few things to do before we go home.”

“I’m done, but I can’t go with you from here. I promised George I’d meet him at the Leaky Cauldron.”

“Fine. Don’t get too drunk, then. Your dad’s going to be at the house tomorrow and you don’t want to have to greet him with a hangover.”

“Yeah, yeah. And you… don’t let them get their fangs on you.”

“I never do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry kept a tight grip of his wand while keeping his other hand close to his kit of vampire deterrents. He had two wooden stakes strapped to each arm and silver knives holstered to his hip and boot. Of course, if these vampires ever got the notion to swarm him, he wouldn’t stand much of a chance fighting them off. The best way was to cast a patronus and run, and then pray that they were all too busy trying not to get burned to follow after him.

Of course, there wasn’t much to worry about being in Tirgoviste. The high-end club for vampires and humans thrived on the idea that humans can prance into it without fear of getting attacked. Still, Harry was completely cognizant of the fact that he was a key player in a war, and that he couldn’t very well go anywhere unarmed and unprepared.

He approached the darkly lit entrance of the club and cut straight to the front of the line.

Humans and vampires alike complained but he paid them no heed as he hitched a nod in the direction of the bouncers. The bouncers, Benjamin and Earl, knew him well. Benjamin, the vamp, smiled at him and nodded to his human counterpart, Earl.

Earl unlocked the chord that closed him and his partner in. “Nice surprise, Potter. Boss is a little busy, though. You might have to wait a while.”

Harry shrugged, glancing uneasily at the enraged line of club-dressed customers. He looked terribly grungy with his loosely fit jeans and grey t-shirt. Even with his wool coat, he wasn’t fit to get into a swanky club. “I’ll wait outside his office for as long as it takes. No big deal.”

“You’ve weapons on you?” asked Benjamin.

“Always.”

Benjamin sighed. “Just don’t kill anyone along the way.”

“Hey, as long as they leave me alone, I’ll leave them alone.”

Earl smirked and gestured for him to move along.

Harry walked through the ropes and wove through the crowded floor. Tirgoviste looked like a castle with carved gargoyles and dungeon-like décor. The gothic design was offset by modern touches amidst the medieval ambience. The air smelled of all kinds of smoke: tobacco, cigarettes and pot. Immediately, anyone could tell between the humans and the undead. While the humans smoked, drank and ate, the vampires nursed their pretty pieces of chocolate and seduced their humans for the darker delights of later.

Harry felt someone slither up his arm, stopping him in his tracks with a burst of pheromones. The pheromones didn’t quite affect him as much as the lady vampire probably wanted. He shuddered slightly but shook off the effects. She was pretty, but it wasn’t the type of look he got attracted to. Besides, he was here on business.

He gently shook off the fingers that were trailing along the scar of bite marks along his neck. “Sorry, umm… I’m a bit busy.” He left, not the least bit eager to see the look on her face. Vampires aren’t supposed to get blown off by humans in places like Tirgoviste.

He passed the packed bar and heard the bartender shout out a greeting to him. Harry waved and moved along, letting himself through the ropes of the staircase to Henry’s office.

Henry’s office was dark from the inside and Harry could only assume its occupant was out on the floor, but he knew the club owner never stayed out of the office for very long. Henry would be back soon and Harry could wait.

He sat himself down on one of the reception couches and watched the crowd beneath.

Vampires and humans interacted as if no barrier of death existed between them.

I didn’t care about that either, he thought randomly. He spotted a human and a vampire making out in one of the dark corners of the dance floor and he sighed. He recalled Henry’s words about his club.

“Nobody comes here to find love, Potter. Humans come here for the euphoria of dying, without the hassle of death.”

Harry frowned as his gaze roamed to other club goers, dancing like they were ready to take their clothes off and shag standing up. Pointless, meaningless encounters. Sex is a fix and there’s no such thing as a human-vampire relationship.

He was just beginning to get depressed when the lights in the office suddenly blinked open. He stared at the office door in surprise.

An expensively dressed vampire stepped out and she stopped in her tracks at the sight of Harry. Like most vampires, she exuded a sultry allure, instantly attractive with her dark aura and blood-red lips. Her curly brown hair with blonde highlights framed her mocha tinted skin like rays from a dark sun and she stood staring intently at Harry with her nearly-transparent green eyes.

She seemed so powerfully familiar that Harry had to wonder just how long he’d been doing this that he would find himself staring at familiar faces in the vamp circuit.

Seconds later, a tall man with an athletic build emerged from behind her. He had dusty blonde hair, an undeniably handsome face and he looked absolutely polished with a crisp, expensive business suit. He was surprised to see Harry but he probably wasn’t as surprised as Harry was.

Henry had, up to that point, seemed like such a straight-laced vampire. The man, by all appearances, kept his nose clean, acted mostly like a human being and poked fun at the entire club-culture. He certainly never seemed like a man who would have illicit interludes with strange women in his office.

“Potter!” said Henry, smiling his fanged grin. “Well, I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Er… yeah. Sorry.”

“I was just going to have chocolate with Aida over here.” He looked at the woman. “Why don’t you wait for me at the bar, sweety. I’ll join you as soon as I’m done here.”

Aida… where have I heard that name before?

Aida cast him a smoky smile right before she stared at Harry with barely veiled curiosity.

Harry stared right back. He wasn’t the newbie in this joint.

She descended the stairs in a graceful, vampiric glide.

Harry arched his eyebrow at Henry ever so slightly as he walked into Henry’s office.

Henry grinned. “What’s the matter, Potter? Never had sex with a vampire in the dark?”

As a matter of fact… but Harry didn’t say that out loud. “Just tell me where you didn’t do it and I’ll sit there.”

Henry chuckled, gesturing to the couch.

“Well, of course you didn’t do it on the couch. Why would you when there’s an office desk and a mini-bar?” said Harry wryly as he sat.

“Indeed. So, did you meet the informant?”

“Yes, I did. Did you know we knew each other?”

Henry’s eyebrows hitched as he sat himself behind his office table. “No. Do you, really? Wow. Small world. So you liked the information he gave you?”

“Oh, yes. Might be a winner.”

“Good! What brings you here, then?”

“I need to know why she came to London.”

Henry leaned back on his seat, eyeing Harry with a hint of warning. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Henry, you’re not a very good liar. Hermione was in London if she’s not still here. She wouldn’t come back here for kicks because I’m here. She’s spent the last five years hiding from me, and now all of a sudden she’s risking being found. She wasn’t here of her own accord; she was ordered to be here. I want to know why.”

Henry waved his fingers in a silky dismissal. “It flatters me that you come to me with such questions, thinking that I have the answers.”

Harry counted to ten mentally. The thing about Henry was that as likable, as accommodating and as human as he seemed, he was as just as vicious as any vampire. He just didn’t make it so obvious. “You may not know all of it, but you know enough.”

“Really, Harry,” said Henry, looking at his nails. “Even your Death Eater busting’s not as valuable as losing the good graces of my fellow vampires. If, by discussing my guesses with you, I inadvertently spread rumors about vampires I certainly don’t want to anger, I’d rather have Death Eaters on my floor every night. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Harry thought hard about this latest obstacle. It was amidst his reflections that he realized just who Aida was. “Well, of course, you wouldn’t want to anger any of the important vampires, which is why I’m finding it difficult to reconcile it with the fact that you’re fucking Andrew White’s baby girl in your office… in a nightclub. How very precious of you to treat his daughter with such class.”

Andrew White was one of the richest vampires in the city. He made his money off humans with illegal transactions and shady dealings, and while his primary influence existed in the underbellies of humans’ organized crime, he was a force to be reckoned with in vampire society. Businessmen like Henry liked to stay on White’s good side, and shagging White’s daughter in a nightclub was definitely a sure-fire way to get on White’s bad-side really quick.

Aida White was Andrew’s daughter from his human life. She was one among his many children from different women, but it was Aida who somehow managed to win her father’s complete affection, and it was the reason that—when Aida asked to be turned, Andrew did so without hesitation. A vampire’s daughter was no small thing, as most vampires haven’t had the pleasure of procreating before getting turned.

Henry studied Harry carefully. “Andrew White wouldn’t take the word of a human against the word of a vampire. He won’t believe you.”

Harry sighed. “Won’t he? I’m not one for bragging, Henry, but I’ve stuck around this circuit long enough to have a… reputation. I might not be a vampire, but I can play your games. Everyone knows that.”

Henry sighed. “Look, it’s not as if I have any confirmed information. They’re all just theories, really. If you want to follow unconfirmed leads, fine.”

“Just tell me, Henry.”

Henry tapped his fingers on the surface of the table. “There was a massacre in Albania, about three weeks ago.”

“A massacre?”

“Ten vampires killed in their coffins at high noon. They were set on fire while they slept.”

“Who did the deed?”

“It wasn’t a vampire, else they would’ve found his remains either in the chamber or right outside it. It had to be a human or a werewolf, but since humans and werewolves don’t mess with vampires unless another vampire tells them to, they were very well working for someone. The big deal is that out of the ten, two were very close to Yasmin ibna Omar.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched in astonishment. “You’re not meaning to tell me someone messed with her Blood Kin, are you?”

“Abraham and Rashad are dead.”

“Jesus.” This was big.

“Indeed. So you could imagine the phenomenal rage this put Yasmin in. An investigation was launched, and while it’s practically a given that Janus is behind it all, Yasmin wanted the perpetrators of the crime hanged by their balls in a slow, painful death for all to see and remember. Given the significance of the task, and in a true dramatic, Yasmin fashion, who does she send on the hunt?”

Harry’s brows knotted. “Hermione?”

Henry looked annoyed. “Well, of course! Who else? I already told you, Potter. Short of making Hermione her Blood Kin, Yasmin considers Hermione one of her more special protégés. It would be beyond poetic if Hermione managed to bag the ones responsible for the massacre. Now here’s the theory part: Hermione followed the trail of the perpetrators to London, and while perhaps she has caught them—“

“Oh? How do you know that?”

“Like I said, this is all theory, but the sudden reappearance of two particularly smarmy individuals, a werewolf and a human, who have, previously, been none too delicate about their prowess in offing ‘snooty vampires’ leaves little to the imagination.”

“Reappearance?”

“Nobody really noticed that they disappeared, but their bodies turned up a couple of days ago… well, what remained of it, at least. Their chopped up remains had signs of torture and… oh, I’d imagine it wasn’t an easy death at all.”

Harry looked grim. “Hermione wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t torture anyone; not for anything. She just wouldn’t.”

Henry shrugged. “Maybe not. I’m just guessing, after all. I’m thinking that if she’s still in London, there are two reasons. One, she isn’t quite done with the hunt. There might be a couple more of them out there. It’s possible. Or two… Yasmin’s in London for some reason and Hermione, like the dutiful protégé that she is, is sticking around for her. Now, considering it’s a bit silly to suppose that Hermione hadn’t caught these supposed extra perpetrators, I’m leaning towards the second reason.”

Harry pondered this information. “I can’t imagine that Yasmin would take it lightly that humans had the gall to perpetrate an unprovoked attack on vampires, even if they were ordered to. Usually it’s just werewolves. Since when have humans been taking such extreme orders from vampires?”

Henry chuckled. “You know when.”

“Do you think vampires should be taking sides in our war?”

Henry was quiet for a few heartbeats. Finally, he spoke. “Seems to me, Potter, that this war… isn’t just yours anymore.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Grimmauld Place was always an ideal meeting place for the governing board. It was protected by a new Fidelius Charm; it was comfortable and it was accessible. Meetings that included significantly more attendees required a different venue, owing to the fact that Remus and Arthur thought it best that the less people who knew about Grimmauld Place, the better.

Harry sat in the tearoom with Remus, Arthur, McGonagall and Shacklebolt while Tonks and Ron kept Draco company in another room. Of course, Ron keeping Draco company meant verbally abusing one another, but that was a minor detail.

“How are we doing on the vampire-werewolf situation?” Shacklebolt asked.

Harry and Remus exchanged glances, both of them with a look of futility.

“Shall I go first, or should you?” Remus asked.

Harry shrugged. “Hardly matters. I probably have as much relevant information as you do, which probably isn’t much to begin with.”

Remus sighed. “Most of the werewolves stand by their vampire masters, so when their master defects, they’d defect right along with them. None of them have a voice in the vampire hierarchy. They’re servants and more often than not, they like it that way. But the vamp masters are hardly our main concern since vampire defectors and separatists usually happen in the lower ranks. Masters stay put because they usually like where they are, which is at the top. The real problem is with the independent werewolf packs. We know that Greyback has been with Voldemort from the start, but we’ve lately had more pack-wide defections. Voldemort’s gaining momentum with the werewolves.”

Independent werewolf packs were werewolves unassociated with vampire masters. They were a society in themselves.

“How do we counter the pack-wide defections, then?” Arthur asked.

“I’ve still got strong ties with Kramer and Patel, and they’re quite good at keeping other packs neutral, if not totally on our side. That should hold us up for a while, and I’m confident they wouldn’t defect. They want to end this war for our side as much as I do, but Wainwright… he might be a problem. He was a mercenary to begin with. I don’t know how long before Voldemort figures that out and buys Wainwright’s loyalty.”

Teri Kramer, Jamil Patel and Zachary Wainwright were alpha males, ulfric, to three considerably formidable werewolf packs in Europe. They’d thrown in their support for the Light when Fenrir threatened to usurp them should they refuse to join Voldemort’s side. They were important allies and much would depend on them in the final showdown, if and when the war came down to it.

“But I thought we had Wainwright under control,” McGonagall said, frowning.

“Stella and Guy could only rein him in for so long,” said Remus gravely.

Stella was Wainwright’s lupa, the ulfric’s mate and alpha female. Guy was Wainwright’s frekki: beta male. Both had more influence on Wainwright than anyone else, but Wainwright wasn’t ulfric for nothing. He still had his own mind, and the only thing that had almost as much influence on Wainwright as Stella and Guy was galleons.

Arthur frowned. “Should we start paying him, then?”

“No,” said Shacklebolt. “That’ll give him and his pack, including Stella and Guy, the idea that they’re back on the market. They have to understand that being on our side is a matter of choice, not galleons.”

Remus nodded. “Kingsley’s right. We’re just going to have to rely on Wainwright’s integrity.”

Harry thought that wasn’t very encouraging.

Shacklebolt looked at Harry. “How’s the vampire situation, going?”

Harry shook his head, half-embarrassed. “Same as always. The vampires aren’t exactly joining Voldemort in droves, but the fact is he’s getting fangs while we get none. Henry said it’s an old-school vampire thing, that if I got the right vampires to join us then the rest would follow, but the problem is, I could barely get a look at these revered vampire masters, much less get their secretaries to schedule appointments with me. Short of offering blood, I’ve done all I could. Things aren’t going well.”

Arthur sighed. “At least Henry is being cooperative… d’you think he’d pull for us if we ever need vampire muscle?”

“We already do need vampire muscle, but he isn’t budging unless his betters tell him it’s alright. He’s just as snooty as the rest of them, except that we have a working relationship, which, if you want me to put it bluntly, only means we have use for one another.”

“Is there any hope at all for this situation, Potter?” McGonagall asked. “We know how to fight these vampires, yes, but we can only cast patronuses every so often. If there’s too many of them to fight off…”

Harry nodded. “I understand, and yes, there is hope. A sliver of hope. I’m working on it, Headmistress, but I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

Remus’s eyebrow arched ever so slightly in his direction. Harry inclined his head in a gesture of, “I swear I really am working on it!”

Not that Harry was a known slacker. Harry had, in fact, grown more dependable as a leader in the last five years than he had ever been in Hogwarts as a student, just that the vampire issue seemed as futile to Remus as ever, and the good werewolf couldn’t help but doubt Harry a bit when he declared that here was “hope”.

Remus, apart from Ron, was almost as privy to Harry’s Hermione-obsession, except that Ron was at Harry’s disposal when he needed company to pursue it while Harry left Remus to his own devices. The man, after all, was married and had a wife to shower his attentions on.

Nymphadora Lupin was, of course, still called Tonks. That would never change. What had changed since Tonks and Remus married three years ago was where she’d been living. In times of war, it seemed silly to be particular about keeping house. So Harry took the opportunity to beg them to stay in Grimmauld Place, arguing that it would be safer for them both and more strategically sound. Harry also pointed out that Remus would need the dungeons, anyway, whenever the full moon came around. Besides, the old mansion was too big a place for two friends and an enemy to live in.

When Tonks did give in, Harry made it a point to make Tonks feel that she didn’t have to take care of all of them. It worked out quite well, considering Tonks was about as un-fussy as any bloke. Sure, she was cleaner, and she kept hers and Remus’s private space spic and span, but she could care less about cleaning up the rest of the house on a regular basis. The cleaning bug only ever bit when everyone was in accord that they all had to pitch in and do something about the dust, grime and mess, so really, cleanliness, or the lack thereof, was hardly an issue. Draco complained about it quite a bit, but since he wasn’t willing to take the initiative, he was generally ignored.

Mrs. Weasley sometimes made her disapproval known, but since it wasn’t her house and she wasn’t the one living in it, she said very little. It was all in her eyes, really; the way she arched her eyebrow and the way she stared at a particularly dirty spot.

Digressions aside, Remus and vampires were moot. Remus didn’t hate them; he just didn’t think they’d ever be helpful or manageable. The only reason Remus let Harry do vampire-detail was because Remus knew Harry used the resources to look for Hermione on the side, and Harry had grown exceptionally good at defending himself against them, so there was only a bit of worrying to be done for Harry on the matter of safety.

“Vampires,” Shacklebolt muttered none too pleasantly. “Buggers think they’re better than everyone else, is the problem.”

“Well, they are notorious for their vanity,” said Remus in a matter-of-fact tone. “They couldn’t help it, I suppose.”

Shacklebolt continued to grumble.

They settled a few more details before they adjourned. McGonagall and Shacklebolt left for their respective residences.

“I have to go talk to my son about his antics with my other son,” Arthur said, looking somewhat nettled.

Harry stifled a wince. He had a pretty good idea what Arthur was going to talk to Ron about. It was never a good thing to stumble into one’s childhood home dead pissed while one’s mother bore witness to the indignity of one’s drunken behavior. He understood why George drank, and he certainly understood why Ron drank, but Molly Weasley was never quite sold on the idea of her boys drinking, and she was under the impression that if they just found nice, charming witches, they’d settle down and be good.

There was very little chance of that happening in the near future, but Harry wasn’t going to tell Mrs. Weasley that.

Alone with Remus, he braced himself for the confrontation.

“What, pray tell, is this sliver of hope you’re working on?” asked Remus.

“I talked to Henry again last night. Went to his club and everything,” Harry explained. “I managed to get him to admit to me that Yasmin’s in town.”

Remus didn’t look quite as impressed as he ought to be. “Oh, joy.”

Harry sighed. “Oh, don’t be like that, Remus. You know it’s a big deal. She hasn’t been in London since… well, since she came to recruit Hermione. That was five years ago. She’s like the bloody queen of vampires, Remus, if I can get her to our side—“

“Ah, there’s the rub.”

“It’s completely possible that she’d give me a chance. If she saved my life five years ago, it means she just might—“

“She saved your life because she would get Hermione for it. A vampire’s good graces doesn’t come cheap, especially if you’re talking about a vampire as powerful as she is.”

“I understand, but the timing is good. The vampires are keeping things under wraps, but something happened in Albania three weeks ago that might have shaken our Mistress of the Dark enough to reconsider taking our side in the war.”

“You’re postulating, Harry. You’re assuming far too much—“

“If Henry is thinking that this war we’re in is trickling into vampire society, then Yasmin is thinking it too. She isn’t the type to sit back and watch the situation get worse. She’ll want to do something about it, but being a vampire, she won’t ask our help. We have to do the asking, and if we have to make them believe that they’re doing us a favor, then I’m willing to prostrate myself at her feet and beg.”

“That’ll work,” said Remus dryly.

“I’m counting on it.” He told Remus about Hermione in Gossips, and about his plan to get Dobby there to stake the place out.

“And if Dobby does spot Hermione?” Remus asked. “What are you going to do? Apparate on over there and try to convince her to get her boss to join the cause?”

Harry chuckled bitterly. “I wish, but no, I won’t apparate on over there. I instructed Dobby to give her a written message. What she does with it is up to her.”

Remus eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not going to go over there?”

“No.”

“Who are you and what have you done to Harry?”

Harry just shook his head and leaned tiredly against the wall of the hallway. “I’m not entirely blind to the fact that if Hermione had wanted to be found, I would have found her. God knows… I denied it long enough to get myself sent to St. Mungo’s in a straight jacket, but five years is long enough to come to terms with a lot of things, isn’t it? So she doesn’t want to be found. I can… respect that, but I can’t let the search go completely, either. I’ve invested too much of my time and emotions on it, so I’m thinking that the least she could do is give me closure.”

Remus nodded sadly. “And you’ll have no one but Ron to help you pick up the pieces.”

“The fool cast his lot with my sorry arse long ago, Remus. Far be it I’d tell him otherwise.”

“Can you do it, Harry? Sit back and wait? Supposing it were true that Hermione’s still in London… she’s so close, Harry. I don’t know if I can stand it if I were in your shoes.”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“And what if you don’t get your chance, this time? What if she walks away from this? What’ll you do then?”

“Then maybe… maybe I’ll let it be the closure I’m looking for. If she could walk away now, then I’ve lost her, Remus. That’s the awful truth of it, isn’t it?”

Remus nodded gravely.

Harry then prayed that the truth wasn’t as awful as that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From: henrydresler@tirgoviste.com

To: yio@coi.net

Subject: Order No. 09191979

Order No. 09191979 has been completed. Awaiting further instructions.

H.D.

From: yoi@coi.net

To: henrydresler@tirgoviste.com

Subject: Re: Order No. 09191979

Excellent, my love. Stand by. Taking over this matter at present.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: The club Tirgoviste does not exist, at least as far as I know. “Tirgoviste” is the name of the Wallachian castle in which Vlad, the Impaler, grew up. Later, he used the castle to entrap the undesirable individuals of his kingdom after he fed and entertained them, then he burned them all alive. Vlad, in case you don’t know, is the person upon which the character of Dracula of Bram Stoker’s Dracula was based.

Gossips and Wheatshead exists according to the internet. Yay to the information highway!

16. Chapter Fifteenth: Search

Author’s note: You’re probably going to hate me for this chapter because it’s kinda boring, but I had to write this because I love you. I swear.

A few readers also mentioned that Harry seemed so obsessed with finding Hermione that he’d forgotten everything else. Not true. Although it was briefly mentioned in the previous chapter that he has been doing important things aside from finding Hermione, this chapter expounds on just how much Harry’s done in the last five years.

You must all thank Lady Diamond for the quick release of this chapter. Great big thank you! ^_^

Standard disclaimers apply

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Fifteenth: Search

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry pushed through the doors of the Hit Wizards morgue facility. The facility was brightly lit, chasing away the darkness of night outside. He had worked all day that day to procure the necessary permits and ID passes to get past these doors, but there was something to be said about being Harry Potter in a world where it meant something. Though it had taken him hours to get the necessary signatures and recommendations, he had no doubt in his mind that he had still managed to cut through a sizable chunk of red tape.

The witch behind the reception desk looked up from her The Good, the Bad and the Dead: Examining A Crime Corpse, by Hugh Dunnit. She was dressed in eerily muggle-like scrubs and she wore glasses that were even uglier than Harry’s. She looked to be in her late twenties and her short strawberry blonde hair was tied up with rubber bands in two stiff pig-tails.

She rose from behind the counter to attend to Harry. She had a big smile, as if it was a pleasant surprise to actually have someone walk into the room on their own two feet, instead of being rolled in horizontally.

Parallel to his musings, she said, “Well, you’re not inferi, are you?”

That was one of the oddest questions Harry had ever heard. “Er, no.”

In retrospect, when one worked the night shift in a Hit Wizard morgue facility, it wasn’t such an odd question, after all.

“Just checking!” she chimed, smiling pleasantly through her slightly buck teeth. “You’re way past regular hours, you see. A normal person would come here around fivish, sixish. It’s past midnight, so you understand my concern.”

“Umm… yeah.”

“I’m Mary,” she said. “Mary Lee. Trust me when I say I’ve heard every conceivable joke there is about my name. It’s worse for my brother. His name’s Frank.”

“Frank… Frank Lee?”

“Yes, as in, ‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!’ He gets it every time from muggles. With wizards, it’s just ‘Frank Lee, it’s nice to meet you,’ or ‘I’m not very keen about our new minister, to tell you, Frank Lee.’ Hardly anyone calls him just plain Frank. They always have to stick his last name in. They find it amusing. At least my name doesn’t fit as easily into regular conversation. The best anyone’s ever done is sing my name in song, as in ‘Merrily we roll along…’”

Harry could only stare at her as she chattered on incessantly. He supposed she didn’t have that many people to talk to who could actually answer back. The problem with dead, unanimated folk was that they were dreadfully boring.

“Now,” said Mary in a voice that woke Harry out of his stupor. She produced a logbook and plopped it in front of Harry, pushing a pot of ink and quill nearer for him to use. “Write your name and the purpose of your visit. Identification would be nice, too.”

Purpose? Stifling a sigh, he did as he was told, stating “Auror business” under purpose. He took out his badge and laid it atop the logbook.

Mary glanced at the logbook and badge when he was done and arched an eyebrow. “Harry Potter… bet you don’t get jokes with that name.”

He thought about Draco and the countless times Draco disparaged him. Draco never said his name nicely, and sometimes Draco would turn it into “Potty” or “Potthead” or something else equally offensive, but he never directly made fun of the name name. He gave her a contrite smile. “No.”

“Come along, then.” She closed the logbook and tossed his badge back to him without ceremony. “When people write ‘auror business’ like that, they usually want to see a body and be told all about it. Am I right?” She ducked out of the reception desk and beckoned for him to follow her through more double doors.

Harry wondered about leaving the front desk unattended but realized that there was hardly anything to worry about. This was a morgue, not the Café de Paris*. There wasn’t exactly a line to get in.

He walked right behind her, following in her surprisingly brisk strides. She wore big, clumpy black boots, and the soles of it gave her about two more inches of height. She didn’t break her stride in the least when they entered the containment facility. This morgue looked no different from all the other morgues Harry had been to, and in the past five years, he’d been to quite a lot, just not the one in the Hit Wizard facilities. Like most morgues, the walls were lined with rows and columns of compartments with airtight trap doors. Most, if not all the compartments had a body preserved in it.

“Well?” said Mary. “Am I right?”

“R-Right,” said Harry, recomposing himself.

“Talk to me, Mr. Potter.”

“Er… I’m looking for two bodies, actually. I don’t know who they are or what they look like. They probably came in about three or four days ago and my sources tell me they might be mutilated, one or both of them possibly lycan… anything like that lately?”

She smirked at him, amused. “Oh, well, not exactly your run of the mill request, is it? Mutilated… I suppose you can say that. And lycan! We have those, but this one in particular came in four days ago. Is a body very important, or were you talking more along the lines of body… parts?”

Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer to that. She must have understood the look on his face.

She brought out her wand and waved it. Two trap doors at the end of a low row opened. The beds of metal upon which the bodies were placed had white sheets covering them. It seemed to Harry that the bodies were unusually small.

Mary tapped her wand on two examination tables and the metal beds settled gently upon them. She gave her wand another wave and the sheets lifted off the bodies, or what was left of them.

On one bed was a head. On the second bed an arm. They were in perfect condition, if slightly unattached.

Harry stared at them, only mildly surprised. “Well, there’s not much left of them, is there?”

Mary shook her head, the grin not quite gone from her face. She put on rubber gloves. “Now, who would you like to do first?”

That came out wrong, but Mary didn’t look the least bit perturbed.

Harry didn’t know exactly how to say it. He gestured to the head.

“Ah, Mr. Shortstaff,” she said. “I’d wager my attached neck he got loads of disparaging jokes for that name. Care to take the wager?”

Harry supposed that working in a morgue made jokes about dead people actually funny. He shook his head. “And lose? Perish the thought.” And there he was, making dead puns.

She chuckled. “’Twas easy to identify this one, as you might imagine. We ran a check based on his facial features and came up with Bobbin Shortstaff. Local lowlife. His blood had massive traces of the lycanthropy veneficus and his skin tissue, even dead, still reacts to silver. The detachment of his head from his body was done with one clean stroke, almost surgically precise, but since no surgeon I know works with such a big scalpel, this had to have been done by a swordsman. ‘Twas silver sword, or silver alloy, if the cauterization at the edges of the skin-tissue of his neck mean anything. The trajectory of the slice had to have been from the back of the neck. The sword would have come out through his throat. Hardly matters, as he would’ve been dead before he knew it. Could’ve been worse for him. Someone as skilled as the one who killed him could have very well made it slow and painful, but see the look on his face? Blissfully unaware.”

Harry wasn’t exactly seeing “blissful” in the dead man’s eyes. He looked to the limb. “And this one? Cut by a silver sword, too?”

Mary shrugged. “Could’ve been the same sword. Same precision; same skill, but this arm is human. Muggle or wizard? We couldn’t have known by examining the remaining tissue, but here…” She took the arm and turned it over, palm up. Just beneath the back of the elbow was a tattoo of the Dark Mark. “It’s not magically inked,” she said. “It’s an honest to goodness muggle tattoo. We made inquiries based on the markings and came up with the name Leonard Reichert, wizard. Leonard and Bobbin weren’t exactly buddies before this, but they frequented the same circles, and then there were reports of them going somewhere to take care of the same business. Nobody wanted to know details when they talked about it, just that about three weeks ago, they disappeared for three days. When they came back, they had tall tales for their respective friends. No one believed them, of course, but they’d gotten paid for something, and in the end, their stories sort of matched.”

“How, matched?”

“Well, they had equal amounts of bullcrap, I’ll tell you that, but they had one detail in common: Arson.”

“Lovely,” Harry muttered, mulling over all the new information he had gathered. So far, Henry’s information seemed to be checking out, but it was entirely possible that Henry was leading him the wrong way in the first place. Henry had, after all, called it unconfirmed information. “Were there any signs of torture at all?”

“That I can’t say. These tissue samples are in relatively good condition. There were no fractures in the skull and bones and I didn’t find any bruising. I didn’t find anything foreign in the traces of hemoglobin, there seemed to be no singeing of any kind—something that could have been caused by electrocution—and they didn’t have pins sticking through their nails and eyeballs. If there was any kind of torture, it would have consisted of physical blows to the other parts of their bodies, not these.”

Harry felt a bit unsettled, realizing that even if his beliefs about Hermione not resorting to torture were true, he wasn’t sure if her being able to cut off heads and limbs made it any better, or worse.

Maybe she didn’t wield the sword. Maybe someone else did the execution. After all… Hermione was never one for violence…

“I can make copies of the written reports for you,” she continued. “It can give you more details that I couldn’t quite remember right now. It’s got pictures and everything, too, so in lieu of these body parts, you still get to take home good visuals. You investigative types like that sort of thing, I noticed.”

“Oh?”

Mary regarded him thoughtfully. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

He could brood, yes, but he was never quite the strong silent type. “Well, not when there isn’t much to say…”

“It’s the morgue, isn’t it? Happens all the time. Most of the people who walk in here begin to whisper, as if they’d disturb someone if they talk loud enough. I don’t know where they get the notion, really. I don’t care what they say; nothing’s noisy enough to wake up the dead,” she declared with a flourish, pulling the sheets back over the head and the arm. She peeled off her gloves and threw it in the bin, waving her wand to put the beds back into their compartments.

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets as she put the remains away. “I’ve seen a person rise from the dead. I mean, I didn’t see it, but she was dead… and then she wasn’t…”

“Vampire?”

“Yeah.”

Mary shook her head and wagged a finger. “Never trusted the creatures. When the evidence guys roll a body in here, I always look for bite marks first, and then I test the blood for vampiric veneficus. Last thing I need is some newly risen vampyr rampaging through my morgue thirsting for blood, and it doesn’t help that I’d be the handiest fresh blood in these parts. Nope. I send the infected ones straight to the nearest medical dungeon. Either that or I cut off their heads. You can’t believe the shite I get for doing that, but hey, they can take this job if they think they know better. The point being: Vampires aren’t dead, they’re undead.”

“That I know,” Harry said, mostly to himself.

Mary must have heard him. She looked at him with one upraised eyebrow and Harry had a feeling that she was staring at the scar on his neck. She said nothing, however, and went to the office to get him the paperwork she promised.

Apart from the soft sounds coming from the office, it was really quiet. It wasn’t graveyard quiet. It was sterile quiet, like there was nothing alive in the room to make the slightest sound, which was really quite true being in a morgue, and all.

A muggle might find it creepy, but wizards, especially a wizard like Harry who, besides having lived and spoken with ghosts and poltergeist, has had a relationship with a vampire, averted dragon attacks, set inferi aflame, battled boggarts, dementors and werewolves, and dueled with the scariest dark wizards. He couldn’t really be spooked by a bunch of dead bodies in a room which, as Mary pointed out, wouldn’t wake up no matter how noisy it was.

Mary later returned with two tightly rolled scrolls tied with dainty pink ribbons. Harry supposed he could appreciate the decorative touch.

“Thanks, Mary. I appreciate your help, ‘specially at this hour.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t have done it for just anybody,” she said with a mischievous grin. “You’re Harry bloody Potter. Now I can tell all my friends I laughed and flirted with you. You really are as handsome as they say you are… in a geeky, dorkish sort of way. Like a dreadfully endearing nerd, actually.”

“Er… thanks, I think.”

“We could look like nerds together, if you’re so inclined. Coffee, maybe? Not like anyone around here’s going to miss me if I’m gone for half an hour.”

He figured he had to be the only bloke in England who could score a coffee date in a morgue. “Well, see…”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Of course you have a girlfriend.”

“Something… like that.” He didn’t feel up to making complicated excuses. It had everything to do with his girlfriend, and he didn’t have to explain that said girlfriend happened to be his ex, who was a vampire and whom he was hopelessly hung up on.

Mary sighed. “Oh well, ‘twas worth a try. You only live once.” She shrugged, and it half looked like she was gesturing to the morgue, as if the entire room of dead bodies was testament to the number of lives one was entitled to.

Harry could only offer her a half-smile. In a typical dorky fashion, he saluted her with the scrolls he gave her as he left the morgue.

However depressing a morgue might be on any other day, Harry was feeling a tad giddy. If Henry’s story about the two body parts had merit, then it was entirely possible that everything else Henry insinuated about Yasmin and Hermione may have merit as well.

This was a good lead. It could most definitely get him somewhere.

Snatching up his wand, he quickly apparated to Grimmauld Place where he called on Dobby to perform the task Harry had set for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Staring into the fires beyond the hearth always put Harry in the mood to remember, even if some of the memories were ones he wished he could forget.

Maybe ‘wishing to forget’ is a bit much. I just wish it wouldn’t hurt so much remembering.

Two weeks had gone by since Harry first put Dobby on duty in Gossips. Every time Harry called on Dobby to report, he was disappointed by the same words: “Dobby didn’t see Hermione Granger, Harry Potter, sir. Hermione Granger, ma’am, was nowhere to be found.”

There was a whiskey bottle and glass poised on the coffee table already. He wondered just when he would accept that this was another failed attempt at finding her and that he needed to drink himself into a stupor, yet again.

At least I’m home, he thought with bitter humor. That’ll save Ron the trouble of hauling my drunk arse back to Grimmauld Place.

A sound disturbed the silence of the library but Harry didn’t bother to look up. He wasn’t quite up to dealing with Ron in his present mood. He wasn’t sure if he was up to dealing with Remus or Tonks, either.

Apart from his constant anxiety over the situation, he’d had to meet Order-duties almost everyday of the last two weeks. He was exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally. He simply could do with a lot less drama at the moment.

“Moping again, Potter?”

He almost groaned. I don’t need Malfoy, either. Then again, the rest of the world could do without the damn bugger. “Sod off. I’m not in the mood.”

He realized a moment later that he shouldn’t have said that. It only served to make Malfoy want to stick around.

“Let me guess,” sneered Draco. “You came up with another false lead. Pity.”

Harry didn’t reply.

“Shouldn’t you be drinking yourself into a coma with Weasel, by now? It’s rather late in the day for you to be so sober.”

Harry looked up at him and glared. Fine. He wants to pester me, then fine. He’s asking for this. Harry cast a spell and Draco yelped as he found his ass getting stickied to the sofa chair across from Harry. Draco’s pants stuck to the upholstery like he was crazy glued to it.

“Potter--!”

“I have a brilliant idea, Malfoy. Why don’t I drink with you? You always said I was a sucker for punishment, so I’ll suffer your company.”

“You ought to feel bloody privileged that you’re in the presence of Malfoy, is what you ought to be thinking. Goes to show that you have to cast stupid spells just so I wouldn’t walk out on your self-pitying arse.”

Harry conjured another whiskey glass and filled both glasses up. He magically slid a shot-glass to Draco. “There’s a muggle game, Malfoy. Don’t know if you’ve heard of it. It’s called ‘I Never.’”

“I’m all aflutter to know this game,” said Draco through grit teeth.

“It’s a lot of fun, and right up your alley. You’ll see. The object of the game is to get your opponent to reveal things about himself that he would never otherwise admit. It requires honesty, I admit… think you can be honest just this once, Malfoy?”

Draco scowled. “I’m many things but I’ve never outright lied, Potter. Never had to. I’m Malfoy, remember?”

“Oh yes, I forgot. Why lie when you have your name to hide behind with?”

“Now you’re getting it.”

“This works out well, then. We take turns saying we’ve never done something, and if that something you’ve never done is something your opponent has done, he has to drink his whiskey. But if what you’ve never done is something your opponent has never done, either, you have to drink your whiskey. Following me?”

“Never, but I get it.”

“Do you want to play?”

“Humph. If you dare. Pointless, to me, though.”

“Oh, I’d reckon you’ll like it in a bit. I’ll start, to demonstrate. I never met my mother.”

Draco glared at him and downed his whiskey.

Harry grinned. “See? It’s fun.”

Draco’s lip curled in disgust. “I never had to do laundry until I came here.”

Harry scoffed, downing his drink and refilling their glasses. “You can do better than that, Malfoy. Like so: I never had to pay for sex.”

A deep flush rose in Draco’s cheeks and he shot Harry such a murderous scowl that it could’ve killed Harry if an avada kedavra was attached to it. Gritting his teeth for a few heartbeats, he quickly knocked his whiskey into his mouth and swallowed.

Harry howled with laughter. This was turning out to be a great idea.

“Alright, Potter,” spat Draco. “If that’s how you want to play, then I’ll bite. I never had my heart broken.”

Harry smiled bitterly. “That’s the spirit, Malfoy.” He drank his whiskey. “I’ve never wanted to kill Albus Dumbledore.” He waited for Draco’s response and saw the fey young man tense for a heartbeat.

Draco’s fingers tightened around his shot glass and in the next second, he knocked the jigger full of whiskey into his mouth.

Somehow, Harry felt that the brief flinch from Draco colored the gesture ambiguous. It didn’t quite give Harry the answers he was looking for.

A flush rose in Draco’s cheeks. Draco wasn’t really much of a drinker. He never drank too much because he thought it was undignified and Harry and Ron never really asked him to join them. Whether the reddening of Draco’s cheeks had to do with the alcohol or something else, Harry would likely never know.

Harry filled the glasses.

Draco loosened his collar a tad. “My turn, Potter. I’ve never been abandoned by someone I love.”

Harry had to admit that Draco was pretty vicious at this. “Liar. Your father abandoned you.”

“Who said I love my father?”

“Your mum, then.”

“She didn’t abandon me. She’s probably dead. You don’t disappear from the face of the earth while in the service of the Dark Lord unless you’re dead.”

He shook his head in mild disbelief. No affection for his dad and so seemingly unaffected by his mother’s death. Draco was indeed a piece of work. Harry drank his whiskey. “I’ve never ratted on my friends.”

Draco cackled. “Boy, you must think I’m an absolute prick! Anyway, I’ll take it as a compliment. Drink your shit, Potter.”

“Bullocks! You never ratted on your friends?”

“I’d have to have friends, first. Quit stalling and drink.”

“Sad,” said Harry, refilling his glass and drinking its contents.

Draco sneered. “Spare me your pity. Friends are a burden. I haven’t had to grieve for ‘friends’ since this war started and I’m perfectly fine about that, thank you very much. Now where were we… ah! I never slept with my best mate’s sister.”

Harry shot him a grimace. “Well, neither have I, twat.”

Draco gasped. “No! You’ve never slept with the Weaslette ever?”

“Unlike some people I know, I’ve got scruples. Drink your whiskey and don’t call her Weaslette.”

“She lets me call her that,” Draco said as he gulped down his shot.

Harry filled up their glasses and leaned back on his seat, grinning. The hot flush of the whiskey was already rushing through his system and he knew that the alcohol was doing to him what it did best: Numbing the pain. “I never slept with Millicent Bullstrode.”

“I don’t sleep with ugly women, no matter how pure their blood is.”

Harry laughed and drank. “I just had to know, you know.”

An evil grin spread on Draco’s lips. “I never fucked a vampire.”

Harry scowled. “For the record, I never thought of it as fucking.” He picked up his glass and drank, immediately refilling.

Draco threw back his head and laughed. “Wasn’t sure if you had it in you, scar face! I have to admit, I’m impressed! Was she good?”

“In what universe would I honor that with a response?”

“I’m not asking for details, you know. Just a general comment.”

“It’s been five years, Malfoy… and I’m still looking for her. That general enough for you?”

“Hell, yes. Most interesting.”

“Alright, move along. I never slept with Crabbe or Goyle.”

Draco’s lip curled in distaste. “Look here, you just want to drink whiskey!”

“Ain’t that the truth. But seriously, you’ve never?”

“Blow me, Potter. And for your information, if I’m going to sleep with men, it wouldn’t be with ghouls like Crabbe or Goyle. I’d choose manly blokes like Cedric Diggory or Sirius Black. Too bad they’re dead because of you.”

Harry glared at him before downing his drink. “Careful, Malfoy… you know you don’t like it when I get upset with you.”

Draco smirked but backed off from that conversation. He immediately carried on with their original purpose. “I’ve never had to fight my best mate for a woman.”

“Whatever,” Harry grumbled, pouring whiskey in his glass and drinking it. He’d had a lot of shots already and the whiskey was really kicking in. His vision blurred but he was far from drunk. Tipsy, maybe. “Like you said, you’d have to have friends, first.”

Draco ignored Harry’s last jibe and chuckled, pleased with himself. “I knew it! So you did fight over the mudblood! Figured back then it was only a matter of time before you did. For a mudblood, she was pretty hot.”

“Don’t call her a mudblood, and I didn’t realize you saw Hermione that way. You always harped about how unattractive you thought she was.”

Draco shrugged. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what that was all about. I was obviously an insecure child trying to mask my true feelings. Not that I was secretly in love with her, you understand. I just wanted to nail her. That’s all.”

Harry couldn’t help himself. He threw his fist and landed it right on Draco’s nose. It was like an instinct instilled in him. Draco talked trash about Hermione and Harry had to defend her honor.

Draco’s head snapped back and he doubled over, hands to his bleeding nose. “Son of a BITCH! Are you still on about that? For fuck’s sake, it’s been five years!”

“Don’t talk about her like that. She wouldn’t have touched you to hit you, Malfoy, so you can just shut your trap about her virtue. Merlin, after all these years… you’re still a twisted little fuck.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Harry couldn’t fathom at all how Draco could manage one of his smart comebacks even with his blood spilling on his hands. That was true arrogance. “I think we’ve exhausted the use of this game, don’t you think?”

“No shit,” Draco said nasally.

Harry undid the sticky charm on Draco’s butt and Draco stood, pulling out a handkerchief.

It still astounded Harry that Draco could have an immaculate handkerchief on him; this from the boy who never did laundry before he came to Grimmauld Place.

You’d think Mr. Lord of the Manor here wouldn’t be bothered to launder handkerchiefs and press them to be perfectly folded in his pocket. But there was Draco, shaking a perfectly starched kerchief out.

Harry watched Draco walk out of the library, muttering swear words as he left. His anklet clicked against his shiny shoes.

Five years and they barely talked to Draco, unless it was to disparage him or to tell him to sod off. Harry didn’t know if he should feel sorry for the guy. Draco certainly didn’t make it easy to feel sorry for him. The bloke made it clear enough that he was only sticking around to keep safe from avenging Death Eaters, and Harry had to admit that over the course of five years, there had been attempts to kill Draco, though he wasn’t really number one on the hit-list.

The only ones who ever had proper conversations with him were Tonks and Ginny, only because Tonks felt obligated as Draco’s relative and because Ginny found a somewhat disturbing fascination in his dysfunctional existence.

Harry’s thoughts turned to Ginny. Ron had hinted every once in a while that Harry should try to renew ties with her. In the few times that Harry gave it serious thought, he always came to the conclusion that he wasn’t willing to risk hurting Ginny the way he had hurt Cho. Besides, Ginny had enough issues trying to keep George from falling off the deep end; the last thing she needed was another bloke with emotional baggage.

Anyway, Ginny was back with Dean Thomas, now. They’d been together for a year and Ginny was showing signs of a willingness to move in with Dean. Harry saw no reason why everyone shouldn’t just let them be happy. Dean had, after all, grown up since their days in the dorm rooms of Gryffindor tower.

But in retrospect, thought Harry bitterly. A lot of us would give anything to be 22 years old and act 22, instead of having been forced to act way beyond our years…

He looked at the bottle of whiskey. It was only just half-empty and he could very well finish the entire thing all by himself, but after having traded barbs with Draco, it seemed silly to wallow in self-pity and finish the entire bottle all by himself.

Sinking deeper into the couch, he just closed his eyes and let sleep overcome him.

Harry felt like someone had punched him in the kidney and that he would be pissing blood for most of his life. The weakness in his body was palpable and all he wanted to do was lay very still. He opened his eyes and let himself get oriented. It took a while, but it finally dawned on him that he was in a hospital, and that there were far too many charms and potions attached to him. Must’ve been bad, this time around, he thought dazedly. The curtains of his room were drawn over the windows, but he could tell through the cracks of the cheap upholstery that it was dark outside. He tried to recall exactly what happened and realized that things had gone fuzzy after Janus stabbed him with the tip of his sword. “Hermione?” His voice sounded raspy and sleep ridden. How long had he been asleep?

Someone in the room stirred. It was too noisy to be Hermione.

Sure enough, Ron came into view. “’Bout bloody time,” he muttered.

Harry wondered what he was so cranky about. He wasn’t the one who had gotten attacked by a vampire. “Where’s Hermione?”

“Nice to see you, too.”

He supposed it was rather mean of him. “What happened?”

“Well, apart from you getting stabbed?”

“After that. What happened after that?”

“We managed to get you to Saint Aedan’s on time. It’s a wizarding hospital in Ireland… you almost bought it, mate.”

“The hospital? I’m rich, but not that rich.” He didn’t know where he got the energy to be snarky.

“I’m serious. Hermione and I were desperate to get you help…” Ron looked up at the windows. “You were moved to St. Mungo’s soon after…”

A sinking feeling coagulated at the pit of Harry’s stomach. “How long have I been out?”

“Four days.”

He knew it. “Shite. I missed Hermione’s birthday.” It’s just as well. Not like I can take her out to dinner and dance in my condition… then again, I could’ve given her present… “Where is she, anyway?”

Ron looked terribly uneasy at the question. “She’s not here.”

Harry’s eyes widened in horror. “You didn’t forget her in Ireland, did you?”

“Er… no. Wouldn’t that be a nightmare, though? She’d be so mad…”

Harry waited for Ron to go on, but when Ron didn’t add anything else, he began to feel a worry infinitely more profound. The silence extended and Harry was struck with a cold sense of foreboding.

She can’t be dead, can she? Ron would tell me if she was…

“Ron? Where’s Hermione?”

Ron’s gaze lowered momentarily, his hands digging nervously into his coat. “She… left.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. “And where did she go?”

“I… I don’t know, Harry.”

It was at that moment Harry felt a spike of panic. Oh, God… she’s gone after Janus, or something. He knew he was too weak to get up and do anything but he wanted answers. “Well, does anybody know?”

Ron shook his head.

What the hell was wrong with Ron? Why wasn’t he more freaked out about this? Why wasn’t he—

“Maybe…” Ron began, holding out what looked to be a sealed envelope. “Maybe she tells you in her letter…”

Harry stared at the letter in Ron’s hand. He didn’t quite understand.

Ron nudged it forward, not meeting Harry’s eyes. “She wrote me one, too. I… I’ve read it and it didn’t say anything about where she was going. Maybe yours…”

Harry’s anxiety gave way to confusion, eyeing the letter suspiciously. “Ron, what’s going on?”

Ron’s brows knotted, like he was going to cry but was making a supreme effort to stop himself. He swallowed. “I already told you… she left. She… she’s not coming back, Harry. She’s gone.”

Harry’s insides went cold and his mouth felt dry. “What do you…”

“I went to fetch her at Grimmauld Place three days ago and she was… packing. I tried to stop her Harry, I swear, but she… she did something to me. I could barely move…”

Ron continued to speak but Harry had stopped listening. He was shaking his head and trying to clear his mind of the sudden daze that had befallen it.

“I-I don’t understand,” he said. “She left because… is she going after Janus…?”

Ron paused, his breath hitching. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Harry, but she told me she was leaving because she had to; because she didn’t belong with us, and that you… you should… you should have better things to look forward to than—I don’t know—the coming of sunset, or something…”

“Coming of sunset…” Harry repeated softly by rote. “W-What does that mean? What was she trying to say? What is she—“

“Harry, I—“

Harry blinked and refused to let the sting in his eyes coalesce into tears. He knew what Hermione meant but he didn’t want to believe it. “WHY would she say that, Ron?”

“I don’t know!” Ron cried, frustrated.

Pain flared on Harry’s side, where his wound was, and he gasped. He was cramping. For a moment, all manner of emotion scattered at the overwhelming pain.

“Shit,” Ron hissed, summoning a healer. “Harry, just relax…”

Harry grit his teeth against the pain but grabbed the sleeve of Ron’s shirt in a tight grip. “She left me, didn’t she?” he rasped.

The healers came and began to administer potions and charms on him. The stabbing ache on his side became a dull throb and disappeared with the healer’s soothing voice.

“She left me,” Harry moaned miserably, the numbing caress of the charm liquefying his thoughts. “Merlin, she left me…”

He could hear Ron whispering “I’m sorry, mate… I tried… I’m sorry…” in the turmoil of his grief.

Questions began to bubble to the surface in an effort to fill the sudden void he seemed to be falling into.

Was she angry at me? Did I do something wrong? Did I not love her enough? Did she not love me? Why did she leave? How could she leave? What did she want from me? What did you want from me, Hermione?

Hazy from spells, he turned to his side—away from Ron, away from the healers, and curled up on his side to close his eyes.

“Harry?”

“Hush,” said the healer. “He’s medicated. Let him sleep it off. And next time he wakes up, try not to upset him…”

Harry closed his eyes, tuning them out. The questions repeated in his mind, over and over. He had no answers and he was torn between anger, hurt and utter disbelief.

This is a nightmare, is what it is, he thought desperately. I’ve felt this before. I thought she was dead but she wasn’t. Now Ron’s telling me she left… well, she hasn’t. She couldn’t have left. She wouldn’t leave me like that. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t… Hermione would never do something like that…

Similar thoughts and questions continued to plague him, and it was these feverish musings that rocked him into a drunken slumber.

Harry was nudged awake quite gently by someone small. His eyes heavy with whiskey, he woke instantly when he saw the familiar tennis ball eyes of Dobby.

Bolting off the couch, he almost knocked Dobby over with his legs; never mind that Harry had a headache the size of England. It was dark out and Dobby had come calling without being summoned. He had to have news about Hermione. It was the only reason.

“Did you see her? Did you give her the message? Did she—did she ask about me?” It was official: He became seventeen again when it came to Hermione.

Dobby looked horribly apologetic. “D-Dobby was discovered, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby was commanded to leave by the Mistress of the Dark Club. Dobby would have stayed anyway but they wanted to attack Dobby…”

Harry’s heart sank and his headache worsened. Pressing his hand to his eyes, he sighed. “It’s alright, Dobby. It isn’t your fault. It’s my….” He noticed Dobby’s overall appearance for the first time. “Are those tea towels you’re wearing?”

Mournfully, Dobby wailed and began to bang his head on the coffee table. “Theys took Dobby’s clothes! Theys grabbed and pulled and theys took Harry Potter sir’s message! Dobby’s a great big failure!!!”

Harry had to wrench himself out of his daze to register that Dobby’s head banging was far louder than both their heads could take. He scrambled to stop Dobby, promising to give him clothes right now if he just stopped doing that.

Hiccuping and grateful, Dobby did stop and skittered to Harry’s side.

Stifling a wince, Harry lumbered through the library and led Dobby to his room where Harry had to dig through his drawers to find any possible throwaways.

There was a time in his life when everything he owned was worth discarding, now he had to look for them in his drawer full of decent clothes.

You’ve come a long way, Potter, he thought with bitter humor.

He finally found a t-shirt that had a hole through the armpit. It was repairable by his standards, but poor Dobby shook and sobbed so pitifully in his tea towels that Harry handed the shirt over without hesitation.

Dobby gratefully wore the oversized shirt and Harry was compelled to throw in a couple of mismatched socks.

Only after Dobby had gone did Harry realize that his chances of finding Hermione in Gossips had gone to nil, and that his failure, yet again, left him utterly and completely disappointed.

He sat on the edge of his bed, slumping as he stared into nothing. What was he going to do now?

The loud clap of apparition shook him out of his daze and sluggishly, he made his way out of the room and down the stairs. He felt miserable, but he’d swallowed enough disappointment to know how to get on with life when all he wanted to do was lock himself in a bathroom and drown himself.

He found Ron and Charlie in the living room looking quite filthy. They smelled like it, too. Like they had crawled through sewage.

Harry fanned his hand over his face. “I’m not going to sugarcoat this. You stink. Like hell you stink.”

Charlie laughed, slapping a hand to Harry’s chest on the way to the kitchen.

The blow was considerable. Charlie was no wilting flower, and the dirty handprint he left on Harry’s shirt smelled of something else entirely.

Ron grinned at the disgusted look on Harry’s face and patted his bespectacled friend’s shoulder as he followed after his brother.

The handprint Ron left didn’t smell all that good, either.

“Where’d you two come from?” Harry asked. “Weren’t you two supposed to be feeding dragons today, or something?”

Ron, when not fighting Death Eaters, had taken employment with Charlie, caring for dragons. While Charlie was still based in Romania, a new habitat in the highlands of Scotland made it possible for London-based blokes like Ron to keep a career in dragon keeping.

Never, in Harry’s wildest musings, did he ever envision Ron would be a dragon keeper. Ron didn’t like beasts in the first place, but Harry supposed many things changed in such uncertain times. Ron certainly couldn’t think about pursuing a Quidditch career, not with the way he had been so involved in the war. It was surprising that he was able to keep a job at all.

Harry was in an odd job himself, though many thought it was everything he wanted. He had, after Hermione left, spent the next two years going through books of N.E.W.T.s level subject matter. It was partly for the horcruxes, partly for his own sanity, and partly for his obsession to find her. At the end of two years, Tonks convinced him to try taking the necessary exams to pursue a career as an auror. Though Harry might have preferred trying for a Quidditch career himself, Tonks mentioned that being an auror would give him access to many resources that he would be able to use (and abuse, if he so desired) in his more “personal quests.” Becoming an auror was a means to an end, and he had to admit that it gave him credibility in the Order.

Harry took Tonks’s advice, qualified for N.E.W.T.s, applied for the auror training program and found that he was quite good at it. Actually, he seemed to be better than average. So now, three years after Tonks first put the notion in his head, he was a highly competent auror. He would have much preferred to be a seeker for Puddlemere United, but as Hermione once said, “Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

“We were feeding dragons,” said Ron, opening the chiller to pull out cold muggle softdrinks. “But one of the newly hatched Peruvian Vipertooths wandered out of his nest and nearly drowned himself in a bog. Had to rope him out ourselves, and the bog water… well, it’s no blue lagoon.”

Harry took a seat around the kitchen table. “D’you run by Hogwarts today?”

“Yep. They still need a Quidditch instructor,” said Ron, pulling the tab off his soda can.

Harry shook his head. “It’s beyond me how McGonagall expects me to keep a part-time job like that while she very well knows how the Auror Department has me jumping through hoops seventy hours a week.”

Charlie shrugged, taking the seat across from Harry. “You know how she is about school. It’s her thing.”

Harry grinned. “It ought to be. She’s the Hogwarts Headmistress. But honestly, what’s the big deal? Does she think I need extra galleons, or something? Sure, aurors don’t get much—“

Ron barked a sardonic laugh. “That’s a huge understatement, lad.”

Harry ignored him and went on, “But it’s not like I’d ever run out of money…”

Which was true. Harry had enough good investments from his massive inheritance to give him a steady income and it wasn’t as if he was some kind of swinging bachelor. He indulged himself every once in a while with a nice pair of shoes, and sometimes, he shelled out a bit more money to informants and the like, but apart from that, he didn’t live an extravagant lifestyle. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Ron shrugged. “You know what I think? She just doesn’t want to say it, but it’ll do the school loads of good if the Boy Who Lived was teaching in it.”

Harry frowned. “Bite your tongue.”

“I’m just saying.”

“You take the job, then. When you think about it, it’s a practical choice for you. Your first job’s in Scotland and all you really have to do is drop by Hogwarts twice a week for a couple of hours.”

“I have no problem taking this second job, but I have to get asked, first, don’t you think?”

“Sod asking. Take the initiative and apply.”

“I don’t think Ron’s good enough on a broom to be a Quidditch instructor,” Charlie said.

Ron frowned. “Well, who needs Malfoy when I’ve got such loving, supportive brothers like Charlie, over here?”

Charlie sighed. “I’m just telling the truth, Ron. Would Malfoy tell you the truth?”

Right on cue, Draco pranced into the kitchen and headed straight for one of the cabinets, never losing stride as he spoke. “All the time! Observe: Your hair’s too red. Your noses are too long. You both smell like dragon poo. And best of all, you both have faces only a Hungarian Horntail would love—to eat, that is.” He reemerged with a take-away box labeled “Draco’s”. “Ah, my éclair and no one else’s, because I paid for it and it’s mine.”

Draco smirked and left the room triumphantly.

Charlie sighed. “Remind me never to ask the truth from Malfoy again.”

Ron scowled. “The truth can’t ever be as awful as Malfoy.”

Harry thought it could’ve been worse. Draco could have stayed and regaled Ron and Charlie of tales about Harry’s latest failed attempts at finding Hermione. Right now, he didn’t want to think about the colossal implications of this latest dead end.

“He has a point, though,” said Harry. “Lots of shower rooms in Grimmauld Place begging to be used, especially right now.”

“Fine. I get it,” said Charlie, making his way out of the kitchen.

As Charlie left, Ron took his time enjoying his drink, not the least bit bothered by his filth. “Harry, I spoke to Ginny today and… you know what? I think she’s happy.”

Harry pretended to gasp and gush. “No! You don’t say? Terrible. Just terrible!”

Ron shot him a wry grimace. “Yeah, yeah. Old news… or so I’ve heard.”

“Ginny and Dean have been happy for ages. You’re the only one who hasn’t accepted it, mostly because you’ve got this strange idea that Ginny and I should be dating…”

“Oy, it’s not that far-fetched. You came up with the idea first, as a matter of fact.”

Harry chuckled. “Yes, I did, didn’t I? And I suppose it doesn’t matter in the least that I’m the one who ended it.”

Ron shrugged. “It doesn’t. Anyway, I just really thought a second try would suit you both. It’s not like you and she broke up in bad terms. It was more like a mutual parting of ways, and she seemed to work out her issues about you and Hermione getting together back then. I think she only really took it against Hermione. Never you, you know? But she worked it out with Hermione, too, so it’s absolutely a non-issue.”

Harry stifled the twinge of pain at the mention of him and Hermione. “Well, of course she would work it out with Hermione. Issues like that seemed silly after what happened to Hermione, you know. But what I couldn’t understand is… why would you want to saddle your sister with someone carrying so much emotional baggage?”

“I wasn’t thinking of it that way. I was thinking you needed someone who could help you let go of the baggage. I was thinking you needed someone like Ginny.”

It only became clear to Harry, then. “There’s only one person who can get me to let it go. You should know that.”

Ron shrugged a shoulder. “She’s not here, is she?”

Harry could very well hate Ron for saying it, but he didn’t. “If that means anything to me at all, I would have stopped searching a long time ago.”

Ron gave a barely discernable sigh. “How’s the last lead going?”

Harry should’ve known he couldn’t avoid the subject for very long. “Dying. They found Dobby out and threw him out of the club. They took his clothes and everything he had on him. The poor elf came reporting to me in tea towels.”

Ron looked truly sympathetic. “I’m sorry, mate. It was a good lead.”

“Close… seemed so close. Allan saw her. He irrevocably, undeniably, most assuredly saw her.” Harry felt the situation sinking in and the disappointment pierced his heart. “She was in London and I didn’t know it… how can she be that close without my knowing it?”

“How could you have known? Where were you three weeks ago?”

“Canterbury,” said Harry. “I was investigating an abandoned Death Eater hideaway.”

“There was absolutely no way you could’ve known.”

Harry sighed, slumping miserably in his seat. “It could be the last time she’ll ever be in London, Ron. And to make matters worse, I blew my chance at speaking to Yasmin about the war. The more I think about it, the more I realized that if I could’ve made that part of the plan work, so many lives can be saved… I should’ve risked staking out Gossips. I mean, maybe—“

“If you staked-out Gossips, your chances of finding Hermione would have been worse,” said Ron sternly. “They know you in the vamp-circuit, Harry. If you hung out in Gossips, word would get around, and there’s no telling what kind of opportunities you would have missed because everyone knew you were there. Dobby was your best chance, but it’s not entirely over, is it? You can still find out if she’s in London.”

Harry shrugged. “Don’t think I haven’t asked Henry about it in the last two weeks. He’s clammed up. I threatened him once with Andrew White’s daughter, but that threat isn’t going to work again.”

“Well, doesn’t that mean Henry’s hiding the fact that Hermione’s still in London?”

“It doesn’t mean anything. Henry could pretend he knows something just as well as he could pretend he knows nothing. As agreeable as Henry seems, he’s still a vampire. He does what he thinks suits him.”

“So you have nowhere else to go from here?”

Harry didn’t quite want to accept it just yet, but what else was there for him to do? He had an urge to go to Gossips and beat information out of the owner, but even on Harry’s worse day, he hadn’t quite crossed that blurred line, yet. He had been lucky as an Auror. As of yet, he didn’t have to make ambiguous decisions, but on days like this, he couldn’t help but wonder if he might have gotten just a bit further if he had—say—planted a tracking charm on Allan in the off-chance that he’d run into Hermione again, or tapped into Allan’s mobile phone records so Harry could trace the call to the dispatcher, hence gain access to an even better means of finding Hermione. Of course, both methods could have seriously put Allan in danger with his bosses, or the coven’s vampires, but the risk, and perhaps the guilt if Allan came to harm, would have to be a price Harry was willing to pay. He hadn’t found himself willing. Not yet. Sometimes he thought it was only a matter of time.

“I’m still desperately trying to find a way to revive the lead,” said Harry. “She was in London if she isn’t still here. Surely it wasn’t just Allan who saw her, and among the dozens who did, there’s another one willing to give me this information. I confirmed the existence of a couple of dead blokes two weeks ago… what was left of them, at least. A head and an arm, from two different people. The head belonged to a werewolf and the arm was human—wizard. It had a tattoo of the Dark Mark.”

“Of course it would,” said Ron dryly.

“The bodies gave a lot of credibility to Henry’s theories about why Hermione and Yasmin may still be in London. If Allan was willing to talk to me about Hermione, then there’s another bloke out there willing to do the same. I just have to find him…” It sounded impossible, of course. Short of distributing fliers, he honestly didn’t know how he was going to manage it.

“In the meantime?”

“In the meantime… life goes on, I suppose.”

“Hey, it happens when you’re making plans!”

Harry didn’t feel as enthused. “Right.” He rose from his seat to head back to the library. “You, my friend, are in desperate need of a bath. Give it a try. You might like it.”

Ron shrugged. “I might. Are you going to drink tonight?”

“Done it. I don’t think I need to do it again.” Harry was just about to leave the kitchen when Ron called his attention. Harry looked at him over his shoulder.

“I don’t know whether I should keep your spirits up or whether I should tell you to let it go,” Ron said, “but whatever it is, Harry… I hope it works out.”

It was times like these Harry understood why Ron was his best friend. “Thanks.”

Ron waved him off and proceeded to finish his drink.

Harry left without the slightest clue about what to do next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry must have dozed off on his desk, because next thing he knew, Tonks was nudging him awake none too gently.

He found his arm buckling from the weight of his head and his forehead came crashing down to the surface of the table. It was all quite painful. A very rude awakening, but it was still somewhat embarrassing to be caught sleeping at work.

“What did I tell you, Harry?” Tonks asked him sternly as he tried to blink himself back to consciousness.

As he took account of the time (10:30 pm), where he was (at work, taking his usual night shift) and why he was so goddamn tired (stayed up all day the previous day threatening/convincing his informants to tell him anything that might help him revive his dying lead), he tried to answer Tonks’s question. “Erm… stop giving Crookshanks cookies because he’s gotten too fat?”

Tonks frowned. “Okay, I did tell you that, but that’s not what I mean right now. You were up all day again, weren’t you?”

“Not on purpose. I swear,” he replied in sleep-ridden tones. Blimey, I must’ve really been out of it. “I’m usually better at sleep-deprivation than this. Someone must’ve done something to the coffee. I need the good stuff…”

“The coffee’s fine. You haven’t slept in days, is what. You’re Harry bloody Potter, not Superperson!”

Harry smirked. “It’s a bit difficult to be a politically correct caped crusader, Tonks, but even Superperson has a weakness.”

“Oh, you know what I mean. I’m going straight home. You’re coming with me. I’ll explain everything to Shacklebolt and frankly, he wouldn’t mind kicking your arse out in the curb. The last thing he wants is an auror who couldn’t stay awake during a Death Eater raid.”

Harry was instantly awake. He couldn’t go home! He had things to do! “I promise, I’m fine, Tonks. I just took a power nap, is all.”

Tonks sighed and pulled up a chair beside Harry’s. “I’m not your mother, and I’m not Molly. I try to keep out of your business because you’re a grown man and Remus told me to leave you alone. But goodness knows… that testosterone infested house of yours will drive you into some idiotic manly limbo and you’ll never be able to get your head out of your arse ever again.”

“That sounds like an awful place, Tonks.”

“I’m serious. I know boys can’t be all touchy-feely and that ‘talking’ means having a bottle of whiskey between you until you’re both too dead pissed to get into the important things, but I’m just going to pretend I don’t know that and just this once—heaven forbid—I’m going to stick my girlie little nose into your business. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Harry. Even a machine can’t keep going without eventually loosening a few screws. Understand?”

Harry always knew having Tonks get maternal on him would give him a headache. He bent over, elbows to knees, and began to massage his temples between his fingers. “I’m afraid it’s a little too late to save my screws, Tonks.”

“Do I have to hex you to get you to bed?”

“You know I love you, Tonks, but don’t. Remus would never forgive us, and you know how testy he is on a full moon.”

Tonks frowned, not the least bit amused by his wisecracking. “You need sleep. And I think you need to take a few days off and not think about things. You’re a disaster waiting to happen!”

“Last time someone told me that, Hermione walked out of divinations…”

Tonks crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine. If you get another auror killed because your faculties are liquefied right now, don’t come crying to me. I won’t be your therapist.”

Harry sighed and closed his eyes, head between his hands. Tonks had a point. He was about as useful as a rookie auror right now and nobody deserved to get killed because he was being an idiot, but he could be up and about with massive doses of caffeine in about an hour or so. He was good at this sort of thing. Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t quite afford. He could just tell Tonks what she wanted to hear and he’d do as he pleased, as usual. “Fine. I’ll take the night off. And please don’t spike my tea later. I can’t have you drugging me to sleep for three days. Are we agreed on this?”

Tonks smirked. “Absolutely. Close shop, Potter. I’ll wait for you in the reception area.”

“Escorting me home, are you?”

“I’m agreeable, Harry, not stupid,” she said as she left.

So maybe he couldn’t con Tonks. Perhaps he did need to get some rest.

Nodding, he began to put away his papers.

The night shift in the auror department was as alive as the department was during the day. Many of the Death Eaters’ most covert operations happened at night anyway and it was Harry’s favorite thing to bust in on them while they blissfully thought they were safe under the cloak of darkness. Of course, it has been common of late that one out of ten Death Eater raids had a vampire with them, five out of ten with werewolves.

The vamps usually got away, if a bit burnt from a cleverly thrown patronus, but half-a-dozen times, Harry had slain a vampire with his bare hands. There was no avada kedavra-ing vampires. Crucio only turned them on and cutting charms sort of gave them something to giggle about. A patronus was most handy, yes, but no matter how many times a wizard has been in battle, it was still difficult to cast a patronus when one was surrounded by death, destruction and dementors. And besides, patronuses couldn’t kill vampires. It only drove them away. To kill a vampire, one had to cut off its head, drive a stake right through its heart, entrap it on holy grounds or expose the creature to sunlight. The sunlight was a tad inaccessible in the dead of night, so in lieu of that, fire could do the job. Harry was very adept at fire spells, and thanks to Hermione’s (legendary) notes, aurors could carry around explosive bluebell fires in tiny vials which they could throw at a vampire to set it on fire, however, when engulfed in flames, vampires didn’t exactly sit their asses down to die. They sort of ran around, flailing, presumably to take everybody else down with them. They could even put out their own flames if they managed to cast a proper extinguishing incantation, or if they happened to have a wizard to douse the magical fire. Because of this, Harry favored heart-staking. He’d driven stakes through fanged buggers—through sheer will of survival, Harry often said—usually while they were awake and fighting. Of course, Harry made it a habit to take off their heads after that just to make sure, but technically, the stakes were enough.

Taking off a live vampire’s head was not easy. Apart from having to learn how to wield a sword with competence, one had to be fast enough to actually take that blade to a vampire’s neck. Harry could use a sword. He had to learn it as part of his auror training, but if one needed a sword to kill a vampire that couldn’t be managed with a stake… well, that was just suicide. A sword-wielding vampire was death on steroids. Harry knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against a vamp that knew how to use a sword, so in such cases, he employed fire and a patronus then ran. Of course, that had only happened once.

There was a vamp who introduced herself as Tanya. She said, “I’ve heard many things about you, Harry Potter. When a human has six dead vampires under his belt, word gets around, so won’t I be popular if I killed you?” She had brought out a sword and her form was quite excellent. The bitch knew how to use it. Harry hadn’t even given it a thought. His exact words were, “Oh, bugger,” just before he threw a bluebell fire and then the patronus. Harry disapparated even before he could hear her agonized screams. He wasn’t a coward, but neither was he stupid.

It was the reason he didn’t often carry a sword. There were certain missions that he would arm himself with his blade, but every time he did, he always prayed he didn’t have to be forced to use it against a vampire, because that would mean he was desperate, and when vampires had something to do with that desperation, that meant he was fucked. Contrary to what Draco thought, getting fucked by a vampire did not always mean one was happily getting laid.

Harry had more grace defending himself against werewolves. He had a lot of silver weapons on him, even his sword was silver alloy, but one could kill a werewolf from a distance. Silver-tipped arrows were excellent for fighting werewolves, and Harry was not ashamed to employ the shoot-now-hand-to-hand-combat-later method. He had a handy cross-bow for that express purpose. It was retractable and could be strapped to his hip. Very portable. Forget guns with silver bullets. Guns went haywire when exposed to and surrounded by too much magic. Mad-Eye Moody shot off his wooden leg when they tried to bring guns in for show-and-tell in one of the major Order meetings. Sometimes, when Harry and a few other Order members had to escort Remus into werewolf haunts, they carried a gun or two, usually spelled to withstand magic messing with it, but that rendered the guns useless after two reloads, so yes, Harry knew how to use a gun, but he carried one even a lot less than he carried a sword. Ron didn’t like them either. He thought muggles were crazy for inventing them.

Harry was just shutting his file cabinets when Seamus Finnigan, his partner, reappeared with two cups of coffee.

Seamus chuckled when he saw Harry putting away his things. His blonde hair, blue eyes and Irish drawl was the delight of many a hapless damsel. Of course, his commitment-phobia had long been exposed to the female populace of the auror department, and perhaps to most of the Ministry, too, but there was always a naïve young thing out there willing to get conned by the roguishly gorgeous Irishman.

“Thought it might only be a matter of time before Tonks found you and sent you home, Potter,” Seamus said, settling himself on the desk connected to Harry’s. Like most auror partners, they had their desks set face to face on the department floor. But where Harry’s desk was relatively immaculate, Seamus’s desk was piled with scrolls, parchment and various other unidentifiable substances.

“She thinks I might get you and a few other aurors killed if I went out on the field like this.”

“Well, you’ve saved my arse enough times out there for me to sit here and say, ‘She’s crazy!’ and mean it, but I’m guessing that wouldn’t help much.”

Harry cocked a grin. Even with Seamus’s ruined reputation with the ladies, Harry always thought Seamus a dependable partner. The years had turned Seamus into an astonishingly responsible man and really, the only thing Harry didn’t trust Seamus with was women. “I reckon not, but thanks. Appreciate it. Think you can manage without me until tomorrow?”

“I’ll try.”

“See you, Finnigan.”

“See you. And get some sleep, for God’s sake.”

Harry chuckled and was just pulling away from his desk when the mail-trolley rolled by their desks with Ivan, the mailroom guy, pushing it along.

“Harry Potter?” Ivan said, his Russian accent as thick as ever. He was a man in his forties, about Harry’s height and of a medium build. His curly brown hair was cut neatly in a crop and he was always immaculately dressed.

The guy had been delivering Harry’s mail for months. Harry had even invited Ivan to drink with him, Seamus and Ron once. The guy had loosened up a bit with good vodka, regaling them with tales of “Elizabetha”. They didn’t even know if the woman existed, but she sounded a little bit too fantastic and Ivan never mentioned her again. Not when he was sober, at least. Harry thought Ivan would warm up to them after that, but Ivan went back to his detached, half-batty self at work. And he still did the roll call.

Exchanging looks with Seamus, Harry gave Ivan a casual wave. “Yes?”

“You have mail. I give.” Ivan held the sealed envelope up in the air like a wand.

“Sure, Ivan. Thanks.” Harry gestured for it.

Ivan narrowed his gaze at Harry and pointed the envelope at him rather fiercely. “You listen, Harry Potter. You read this now. Oolaavlivaats?”

Harry’s eyebrow arched in surprise. “Now? As in right this minute? This second?”

Seamus chuckled.

Ivan was not as amused. “You read! I get attacked by creature this night, after I leave flat. Creature gave me this to give to you. So you read now or I hex you. I promise you, Harry Potter!”

It took another heartbeat for Ivan’s words to register. “Whoa, hey! You got attacked? Ivan, did you report this to the Hit Wizards?”

“No Hit Wizards! It kill me if I go to them!”

Seamus came up behind Ivan, hands up in a calming gesture. “Calm down, Ivan. Have a seat. Take deep breaths—“

Ivan shook him off. “I just give message. That all! I give to Harry Potter and make sure he read now. No report. No nothing. Want nothing more to do with this. What you say… I just work here!”

Only then did it occur to Harry that something had happened to Ivan and that it was because someone had tasked the poor guy to deliver a message to him.

Did Ivan say he was attacked by a CREATURE?

Harry hesitated. “Ivan, did you say it was a crea—“

“Vieszcy!” Ivan shrieked.

“What?”

Ivan made a sound of frustration. “It come with dark. With—“ he seemed to grope for a word “—sharp teeth. Vieszcy!”

Vieszcy… holy hell, that’s Russian for Vampire.

Harry found his senses and grabbed the envelope from Ivan’s hand. He looked at the seal. It was of a naked woman with wings and a sphere floating above her.

The letter was from the Coven.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Thanks to Paula Danziger (who doesn’t know me) for the names Mary Lee and Frank Lee. Now, do you REALLY, REALLY wish Harry would find Hermione? Good. Imagine how Harry feels about it, five years going. Now that I’m sure I’ve deviously gotten you to feel how absent Hermione is and identify with Harry (laughs apologetically), we can get to the Harry and Hermione reunion.

The Café de Paris is supposed to be a really hot nightclub in London. I’d have used Studio 54, but the seventies are over…

See, I told you I do this because I love you.

17. Chapter Sixteenth: Found

Author’s notes: IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT :p I changed Yatyel’s name to Ivan. One of my Russian readers pointed out that Yatyel is not a Russian name; that it sounded like it was Polish. To make up for my idiocy, I have taken a safe Russian name. Ivan is also the name of my husband. He’s delighted that I used his name in one of my stories, mainly because he knows I avoid those insertion thingies like the plague and that I only did it now because it was him. He’s not Russian, though. The only thing Russian about Ivan Alexander is his penchant to bring my father his favorite vodka, which is why daddy loves him.

A surprise awaits us in this chapter and it’s about Ron.

Thanks to Lady Diamond who beta-read this chapter and the next one in record time! (I sent her both chapters in quick succession.)

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter Rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Sixteenth: Found

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tonks simply refused to let him go alone. She was, in fact, standing in the middle of the men’s locker room as he armed himself.

Harry sighed as he strapped his sword to his back and various other weapons to his body. “Look, I could’ve snuck out on you, but I didn’t. I chose to let you know that I’ve got something to do and this is how you repay me?”

Hands to her hips, she was not amused. “Harry Potter, if you don’t tell me where you’re going right now, I’m going to tell Molly Weasley that you lied about trying to get Cho Chang back after she dumped you!”

“What! You wouldn’t!”

“Watch me, Potter!”

No self-respecting adult man wanted to get it from Molly Weasley when she got it into her head to make his love life her business. Tonks wasn’t playing fair.

“Well, you lied to her about making that cake! I know you didn’t make it. You bought it and pretended it was home made!” Harry shot back.

Tonks gave him a smug smile. “Go ahead. Tell her. She didn’t believe me when I said I made it, anyway.”

He stood there, quite undecided. He used the last weapon in his footlocker: He channeled the Boy from the Cupboard Under the Stairs and stood shuffling uncertainly as he pleaded her with his brilliant green eyes. Without his auror robes, he looked like a muggle messenger boy with scruffy jeans and a rumpled buttoned blouse. His trainers were looking a bit worse for wear and the shirt underneath his blouse had a horrified cow on it that said, “Hamburgers are made of WHAT?!?” Honestly, if he weren’t so good at his job, Shacklebolt would get on his case about his hopelessly unprofessional couture.

It was working. “Don’t look at me like that,” Tonks said sternly. “How in hell did you convince Finnigan to let you go by yourself, anyway? I thought the fool was your partner?”

Harry shrugged one shoulder, maintaining the pitiful look on him. Really, he was quite expert at this. “Didn’t tell him. Told him I was going home,” he muttered.

Tonks stared at him another moment before sighing and throwing her hands up. She was broken.

Harry grinned.

“Alright,” said Tonks. “I won’t involve Molly in this, but you must understand why I worry about you. Don’t do this to me, Harry. If something happens to you, Ron and Remus will never forgive me. Please.”

He sighed and ran his hand through his unruly hair. “I’m not even sure what this is. The thing is, if I drag you into this and something happens to you… Tonks, I simply can’t face Remus—“

“Then take someone. Take Seamus. Or take Ron. Just don’t go alone!”

“I have to do this alone. Give me a tracing charm, then. I’ll activate it when I’m in the kind of trouble I can’t handle by myself.”

“Oh, wonderful, Harry. By the time we get there, you might be dead.”

“It’s that or nothing.”

Tonks cursed and dug into her purse for a tracing charm. She brought out a tube of lipstick and presented it to him.

Harry stared at it for a few seconds. “Is it at least my shade?”

“It’s all I have on me right now. Be a man and take it!”

“Fine.” Harry took the lipstick and stuck it into his jean pocket.

“It’s Mystic Plum.”

He ignored her parting shot. He just knew she was punishing him for not telling her. She probably had a comb, or at least a hairpin in her huge purse, that served as tracking charms, but she gave him the lipstick so that when they found his dead body, the examiner would fish the lipstick from his jeans pocket and think Harry Potter led a double life as a big, bad auror by reputation and a man who liked wearing make-up in secret.

Shrugging on his coat, his weapons were instantly concealed. Grabbing his ski hat, he slammed his locker shut and headed out.

“Be careful,” said Tonks.

“How do you cast a patronus, again?”

“Shut up, Potter. Don’t get killed.”

Chuckling, Harry left her in the boys’ locker room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The letter had been signed in Yasmin’s beautiful curving script, though he’d never seen her handwriting before. The note was more… flirty than instructional, but he supposed he’d be more suspicious if the letter wasn’t playful and coquettish.

Dear Mr. Potter,

It has come to my attention that you tasked your funny little elf to deliver a message to me, a message that the owner of Gossips decided to deliver himself when he confiscated it from the poor thing. It’s the most amusing thing I’ve read in ages, and ordinarily, I would have just kept the letter in storage for future use: in case I need something to laugh at on a bad day, but I find you terribly endearing—adorable, really. Your letter made me feel all ticklish and delighted, especially when you said that I’m the only hope you have. You flatter me with your awe. And I do thank you for your sincere condolences. Rashad and Abraham were MINE. That someone dared take them from me breaks my heart still, so yes, breaking THOSE who took them was quite orgasmic. And since you asked so nicely, you precious man, you, I will most certainly explore this proposal of yours. I am most intrigued. And I want to know what you can do for ME, Mr. Potter.

Go ahead. Give it your best shot. I want you to.

Be at 18 Dublin Avenue, London, WC2E 8DY, midnight, 9^th of October. Come alone or the deal is off.

Ciao, baby. I know you won’t disappoint.

Sincerely,

Yasmin ibna Omar al-Khwarizm

Cover Master and Keeper of the Blood

He recalled the first time he ever saw Yasmin ibna Omar; those fabulous legs; the lovely behind and of course, those unbelievably perfect breasts. It was like some angel from hell had come to deliver them from death to the damnation of life. Of course, when Hermione’s voice had cut through his daze with an amazingly vicious, “Took you long enough!” he realized with great astonishment that Hermione knew the woman and expected her to be there.

Harry hadn’t thought to ask questions. All he knew was Hermione had managed to get them out of trouble by summoning her secret vampire friends, and all admiration he had for Yasmin’s curves disappeared at the shock that the woman he loved had managed to meet a bunch of dangerous vampires without him knowing it.

The bitter memory of that fight in the forest gave him a dull ache in his heart. Sometimes, when he was feeling extra miserable, he asked himself whether Hermione would have decided to stay if they hadn’t been fighting previously. Of course, he knew that fight had very little to do with Hermione’s decision to leave, but when one was wallowing in self-pity, it was easy to get carried away with one’s memories. Still, he wished they hadn’t been fighting before she left. He wished he could exchange every angry word he yelled at her with those wonderfully consuming kisses they shared, so then those would have been the last memories of him she would have taken with her, and maybe she wouldn’t have been able to stay away for so long.

He looked at the parchment in his hand then took stock of his current location. He had the address right.

The painful familiarity of the ten-story structure almost made him laugh. Of course this was where Yasmin wanted to meet him. She was notorious for her dramatic flair.

It was Cicero’s office building, or used to be, at least. Five years ago, it was gutted and covered in soot, ruined by fire. It was an unsolved arson and murder case, of course, and the only evidence that Cicero was killed at all was Cicero’s head mounted on the sword of the warrior statue decorating the building’s façade. To say that the evidence of his death was overwhelming was a gross understatement.

The building was now condemned and no one really knew how to get rid of it. Cicero’s living relatives were still fighting over the rest of his money, mainly because they hadn’t even known they were related to someone like Cicero. A mesh fence surrounded it to keep people from wandering into the structure and hurting themselves, but tonight, the gates were swung wide open. He was being welcomed.

The anti-apparition wards were palpable. They were the same ones Cicero had up when he was still using the building. Harry supposed it came with the property.

Dublin Avenue was a busy street during the day, but at night it was eerily quiet.

Great. No witnesses.

Harry was well aware that this may be a trap, which was another reason why he didn’t want to put anyone else at risk. When it came down to it, he could take care of himself, and it was so much easier to survive when he only had himself to worry about.

He looked up and saw that the moon was full. Somehow, that didn’t bode well.

Harry had just crossed the street to the abandoned office building when a figure moved from within the shadows of the gutted lobby. He froze, waiting for who or what would emerge.

He saw the beastly yellow eyes and knew what saw out of it.

The werewolf was one of the biggest he’d ever seen. Broad shouldered and muscled, its spindly hair was thick and luxuriant.

Harry swiped out his crossbow, cocked it and took aim. Threatening as the beast was, he wasn’t about to shoot impulsively. All werewolves were dangerous, but not all of them meant harm.

The werewolf growled as he slowly stalked Harry.

“Down boy…” he said softly, bracing himself.

Another werewolf emerged from Harry’s left, his size and mane just as magnificent as his pack-buddy’s.

Harry pulled out his sword while maintaining his aim with his crossbow. His wand wasn’t going to be of much use to him in this situation. Worse came to worse, he can cast some spells without a wand, anyway. “I’m thinking you pooches aren’t here to welcome me,” he said.

A third and fourth werewolf appeared at Harry’s far right.

Shite. He might have been able to handle three, but four was cutting it.

There were suddenly five werewolves and they were all advancing in on him from all sides. He was getting the distinct feeling that they weren’t there to make friends.

You’re a genius, Potter. Twenty points for Gryffindor.

Harry sighed. “Let me guess, none of you got the memo about playing fair.” It was moments like these when he somewhat understood where Draco found the stomach to be a smart-ass in the worse of circumstances. When one was caught in a bad situation, being snarky was about all a person had left.

Take one down right between the eyes then take care of the other four from there.

Oh, sure, Potter. Because you’re such a hotshot auror, you can handle ‘em.

Shut up. This is no time to be sarcastic.

He was just about to take a shot at one of the wolves and hope he was fast enough to defend himself from the others when a shrill whistle pierced the night air.

It came from above and every single gaze swept up to look. Above them, just slightly within the gaping hole punched through the façade of the fifth floor, stood three indiscernible figures, the darkness cloaking their features.

“What say we even the odds a bit?” cried a voice Harry didn’t recognize in the least.

It belonged to a man who sounded like he was enjoying himself immensely. Harry wished he could share in this enthusiasm.

The werewolves were not pleased. All five of them roared in outrage, turning their backs on Harry as if he wasn’t a threat at all.

Harry frowned. He hadn’t liked the idea of five against one, but there was no need to be disrespectful!

The figures stepped into the light of the pale moon and Harry couldn’t help but gape at the sight.

He couldn’t make out the details of her features from his vantage point on the ground; couldn’t tell if there had been any outward changes, but there was no doubt about it. It was her. It was Hermione, and so many emotions came rushing through him that he couldn’t tell exactly what he was feeling.

Toast was bland without butter but there was very little point in enjoying anything right now. He just needed to eat something, he supposed. People needed to do that to survive.

He could feel all their eyes on him. He wondered which one of them would speak to him first.

“Erm… Harry?”

It was Ron.

Harry lifted his eyes to him but said nothing.

Ron fidgeted and Tonks, who sat beside him, nudged him with her elbow. Remus gave a barely discernible sigh.

“I’m going to Diagon Alley today,” said Ron. “Care to come with?”

Come with?

It was all so very pointless.

Harry didn’t reply and went back to eating his tasteless toast.

Again they nudged elbows.

Remus cleared his throat. “Harry, we’re just worried about you, you understand. You haven’t said a thing in a week. I think in this situation, talking about it would help.”

Talking about it? What’s the point of talking about it? Will it make her come back? Would I be able to see her again?

There was no point.

Harry rose from his seat, taking his plate with him as he tossed the remainder of his toast in the trash. Without a word, he went to the sink, washed his plate and put it on the tray to dry.

He left them in the kitchen and headed to the library. He wasn’t going to speak to anyone ever again. Talking hadn’t kept her from leaving. Talk—in fact—led to fighting and hurt feelings and break ups. It was better when they weren’t talking. When their hands and lips and bodies said things for them. All was perfect then. Now it was all fucked up.

He was done with talking.

Talking was absolutely pointless.

Of course, he eventually did begin to talk again. Two and a half weeks through his vow of silence, Draco decided that Mute!Harry was much more boring than Talking!Harry.

Draco’s strategy was quite simple. He had said, “I spoke to her before she left.”

Nothing—absolutely nothing could have given Harry enough strength to resist. He had paused, gave it a moment’s thought and spoke. “What did she say?”

And that was it. Draco had told him a slew of stupid things, equal parts fact and equal parts Draco-commentary. Harry couldn’t remember ever being less enraged with Draco, and when Harry told him to shut up or else, Draco had called him a cupboard-raised-bitch-whipped-four-eyed-glory-whore. Harry didn’t even know how Draco found out about the cupboard, but the insult was a Draco-original, tailor made to summon whatever monster Harry had residing in his chest. Harry shot back with something along the lines of unloved-little-ferret-who-bought-friends-and-whose-mother-wanked-Voldemort-off.

Naturally, it was Draco who threw the first punch. In retrospect, Harry thought that he should’ve left Draco’s mother out of it. It had been despicable of him to say that. Even Draco had the decency to keep Lily Potter out of the fight, but Draco had—as per usual—brought out the worse in him. So when Draco landed that swing on Harry’s jaw, Harry indeed felt the need to retaliate.

It was an honest-to-goodness fist fight and poor Draco was terribly outclassed in strength, skill and weight, but Draco, when he applied himself, could hit back pretty well, even when he was getting beaten to a pulp. If Ron and Tonks hadn’t caught them at it, Draco might never have gotten the shattered bones on his face put back to normal.

To this day, Harry hated to admit that it was Draco who knocked him out of his downward spiral.

Harry stared up at Hermione with his thoughts and emotions jumbling without rhyme or reason. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t act. She had the power to destroy him, just as much as she had to power to make him come back to life.

Five years and all he could think of right now was that she was standing on the edge of a ledge, and she looked like she was ready to jump.

Oh, God, she’s going to hurt herself. She’s going to—

She stepped off and he didn’t know just how the scream building in his throat hadn’t crawled right out of him.

Hermione plummeted to the ground, feet first, arms lifted as if preparing to fly.

Harry expected her to crumple to the pavement, legs shattered while her screams of pain filled the night, but when she reached the ground, she landed gracefully, on her feet, knees bending a bit to absorb the impact while the dust of five years rose around her in puffs. With her feet planted firmly on the ground, she began to advance towards the werewolves without losing stride in the least.

He could only watch her with hypnotized fascination, barely noticing the two figures flanking her.

The werewolves did not stand around to wait. Throwing their heads back, they howled just before hunching over and seemed to grow bigger.

Harry had never seen that before.

The five werewolves closed in on Hermione and her two companions.

In a blink of an eye, the two men flanking her were gone; the clash of vampires and werewolves on both sides shattering the stillness of the moment a heartbeat later.

Harry had to dodge and throw spells to deflect the debris that flew in his direction. He cursed and was completely aware of the fact that three werewolves were still heading right for Hermione.

She didn’t look like she was going to back down.

Echoes of Ron’s favorite tirade bounced through his head: You’re MENTAL!

And—oh, God—she had to be! She couldn’t possibly take on three of them. Not Hermione. She thought Quidditch was silly, and she had often said that a quill was mightier than a sword, or something like that.

Throwing a shielding spell over himself, he cut through the melee and rushed to get to her.

The werewolves were upon her and the lead pulled back his massive, razor-sharp paw.

The roars that escaped them drowned Harry’s yells of warning.

But in the next heartbeat, Hermione was gone. Claws fell, jaws snapped.

She just wasn’t there.

And then she was.

Harry fell back in surprise as she rematerialized, or maybe reappeared—he wasn’t sure—in front of him and several feet behind the werewolves.

Their gazes met, emotions flaring between them in that split heartbeat just before she turned to face the beasts, pulling out guns from within her coat and aiming at the two werewolves who had double-backed to come at her.

The sound of weapons fire exploded and the quick whimper of werewolf spiked through it. Two werewolves dropped, blood pooling beneath them on the loose dirt. One was instantly dead with two silver bullets in his brain and the other stumbled to the ground with blown kneecaps. He wasn’t getting up to attack anytime soon.

Harry felt like he had stumbled into an alternate universe but knew he had very little time to mull over the details, particularly the one where Hermione had guns and was really good at using them, not to mention the fact that the guns weren’t going haywire with all the magic it was swimming in.

There was no time to think, period, because the third werewolf had gone around and was well on his way into attacking them from behind.

Harry had no time to take aim and fire an arrow. Werewolves, while not as fast as vampires, were still three times as fast as humans. The best way to get them was to first slow them down.

He flipped a vial of liquid silver upward and cast a quick spell that exploded it into the air.

The silver spray caught the werewolf in the eyes and it roared in agony.

Harry pulled his sword, sliding himself behind the werewolf and plunging the sword into the werewolf’s side. He felt the resistance of rib-bone and he heaved harder. It sank right in. He ducked to avoid the werewolf’s claws, rolling into a crouch to get behind it. He fired an arrow from his crossbow and its swift silver tip sank right into the werewolf’s spine.

The werewolf gave a gargled roar just before it flailed at him one last time.

He could hardly believe the thing was still alive as he tried to dodge the blow.

Fucking hell, die already!

Harry felt the glancing blow of the werewolf’s backhand right on his face. Even deflected, a werewolf’s swinging arm had incredible strength and as Harry stumbled to the ground, silver stars burst in his vision.

A body fell right on top of him. It wasn’t moving but it weighed a ton. Breathing would be difficult, but at the moment, he was too dazed to care.

Nice show, Potter. Ready to take on four, you say? Right.

Well, how the hell was I supposed to know they were on steroids?

When they grew right before your eyes, stupid.

Harry sighed, exasperated with himself.

Several heartbeats later, his vision began to clear. His glasses were still on him. Thank Merlin for sticking spells. His ear was still ringing, and there was, indeed, a dead werewolf on top of him. He could see the hilt of his sword sticking out from its side and its blood was already beginning to ooze out of its mouth. The butt of the arrow was a little further down, but Harry knew it was there. He was a good shot.

Now, if only I can get this thing off me… sometime in the next century would be nice.

He pushed, using some of his magic to lighten the burden. It budged.

Moments later, the weight was lifted off him by an unexpected force and he was staring up at the vampiric face of a beautiful man with long, platinum blonde hair. He had a smile that looked like the cat’s that just brought in a very fat, sumptuous mouse.

“Hello,” said the man. It was the same voice that had called down from the fifth floor. “Well, you look a bit peaky. Have you been eating your vegetables?”

Another face appeared. His smooth chocolate colored skin and amber eyes were terribly exotic. His short, dreadlocked hair framed his attractive face. “Oy, you took a bad hit there, mate. Are you alright?”

He really did sound concerned. Harry had to wonder where these vampires came from. Vampires who put others ahead of themselves were definitely not commonplace.

“Get out of my way,” came an urgent voice from beyond them. “Could you please let me through? I have to see if he’s alright. Thank you!”

It was a voice he knew well; had heard it in his sleep so often that it had broken his heart in dreams more times than anyone could imagine.

She was like a beautiful apparition in the night. Her glossy brown hair longer, more luxuriant; he longed to run his fingers through them. Her honey brown eyes and red lips were as mesmerizing as ever and God, she smelled great. Like lilies and sweet pea.

She wore leather. He could see swathes of lace, too… and such lovely cleavage.

I’ve died. And I’ve gone to heaven. It has to be that.

She bent over him, her gentle hands running over the side of his face, mostly where it was going numb.

“H-Hermione?” he said. Oh my God. I’m speaking to her. She’s… she’s touching me… and she’s… oh, Merlin, is she worried about me?

Her gaze met his and for a moment, Harry thought she was going to kiss him. If she didn’t in the next second, he would.

But then she turned his face to the side, her soft touch searching.

He felt the iciness of her fingers. He had forgotten how cold her skin could be.

Her hands traveled to his shoulders and arms, and if she didn’t stop that, he was afraid he was going to have a very embarrassing reaction soon.

That’s me. Harry the Boy Scout. Always prepared.

But then the gentleness in her gaze froze over, as if suddenly, she could care less about him. “His face is going to bruise,” she said. “But there’s no broken skin. The lycan didn’t seem to scratch him anywhere. He’ll be fine.”

Her touch was gone, and through his sheer need to feel her again, he struggled to get up after her. It was more difficult than he thought. One side of his head was throbbing.

“Help him up, Solomon,” she said, walking off.

Solomon was the one with the dreadlocks, and Harry felt the firm grip on his arm. He was brought to his feet quite easily.

Harry took a moment to steady himself, straightening his glasses. His face felt like someone had whacked it with a paddle.

The platinum blonde, tall, svelte and pretty, was chuckling. “Those moves were wicked, for a human. Should’ve expected it, though. How many vampires have you killed? Six, was it? Good numbers for a scrawny guy such as yourself.”

Harry frowned. Scrawny! “Mr. Robust talking, here.”

“Oy!”

“Leave him alone, Lucien,” Solomon said as he looked to Harry. “Seriously, are you alright? Those were morphmagi werewolves. They’re rare and as tough as fuck. If one of them gets a hit in… it’s not the best feeling in the world.”

“Yeah, I figured that,” Harry muttered, his attention gravitating towards Hermione. Blinking away the vertigo, he stared at her. It could have been the five years he hadn’t seen her, but those leather pants really did wonderful things to her figure. Allan wasn’t kidding when he said she looked good.

Sod “good”. She’s abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. Like she bathed in a tub of sexy just before she dabbed on some worship-the-ground-I-walk-on perfume.

She had a sword diagonally strapped to her back. He wondered if she knew how to use it.

No, Harry, she only carries it around as a fashion accessory. Of course she knows how!

So… how well does she handle this sword?

DON’T go there.

Harry shook himself out of the haze.

“What is up with those glasses?” asked the one called Lucien, breaking into his reverie. “I’m sorry, but they are not working for me. There’s retro chic and there’s retro geek. Three guesses where I think those glasses belong.”

Harry wasn’t going to stand around and take it. The thing about being on the Order’s governing board and being an auror was one grew tough, whether or not it was in his nature to do so.

“Fuck off.” He left Lucien gaping. Harry had more important things to talk about than fashion.

“Well, that wasn’t very nice,” Harry heard Lucien muttering.

Hermione was crouched beside the werewolf with the shattered kneecaps. She was—to Harry’s great astonishment—petting it.

The weakened werewolf could only growl softly in protest.

Harry watched the scene with curious fascination.

“Frekki Liam,” she said softly. “The bullets in your knees are silver. I’m afraid your knees will never be the same after this. I leave the choice to you. Do you desire to live? Or do you prefer death?”

Frekki? Harry thought, shocked. They sent a beta male to do me in?

The werewolf growled a bit more before replying with his thick Scottish accent. “Pack kills the weak…”

Hermione ran her finger gently through his grey hair. “Yes, they do. But you don’t have to go back to your pack.”

“Pack is everything. I choose death.”

“Death is the end.”

“I choose death.”

Hermione paused then nodded. “I will give you death if you tell me who the mole is.”

“That is information even Ulfric Tiernin isna privy to.”

“Then who told you to come here?”

“Bellatrix…”

A small, amused smile lifted the corners of her lips. “Good ol’ Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Yeah, thought Harry disdainfully. She’s a real sweetheart.

“Is that all you know?” Hermione asked, staring intently into the werewolf’s eyes.

“That is all I ken.”

“Did you come here to kill Harry Potter?”

The werewolf was quiet for a moment. “No.”

“Were you ordered to kill me?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you for your honesty, frekki.” She straightened to her feet and looked to Lucien. “Kill him.”

Harry’s breath caught. There was no regret in her voice. No compassion. Just the cold, definitive order to have Liam’s life taken.

Lucien frowned. “B-But his blood will get on my shirt—“

Hermione merely stared back at him, her beautiful face a dead calm. She didn’t seem to have to say anything. Lucien understood her completely.

Lucien cursed and pulled out the sword strapped to his hip. With one swift motion, he turned his sword and sliced it through Liam’s neck. The frekki’s head rolled back. Blood spurted and true enough, it got on Lucien’s immaculate white shirt.

“Son of a BITCH!” he wailed. He spewed several other profanities to no one in particular, injecting something about Armani.

Solomon sighed in exasperation. “Now he’ll never shut up.”

“I got this shirt right off the runway from the very model wearing it!” Lucien cried.

“Is he still alive?” Hermione asked with the tiniest hint of a smirk.

Lucien glared at her. “I didn’t kill him, alright?”

Solomon grinned. “Is he still of the male persuasion?”

“I didn’t fuck him, either. And just so we’re clear, I’m mostly heterosexual. I only like men every fifty years or so, when shagging women gets old.”

“Or goes out of style,” added Hermione with affected gravity. “Like platform shoes.”

“There she goes again,” Lucien muttered. “Mocking me. I have feelings, too, you know.”

“What do we do with the bodies, Hermione?” Solomon asked, gesturing to the carnage around them.

The other werewolves were already returning to their human forms. Liam would be a while yet.

“Leave them,” Hermione said. “Yasmin would love the drama of it. Five werewolves dead on Cicero’s property.”

“Sheer poetry,” agreed Solomon.

“Harry, you might want to get your sword back. It’s a good sword.”

It was only then Harry found the sense to speak. Mechanically, he retrieved his sword as he began to speak. “Hermione—“

“Yasmin summoned you here, I know,” she said, nodding to Solomon aside.

It wasn’t what Harry was going to tell her, but Solomon vanished and that distracted Harry enough to miss his place in the conversation.

“I’m sorry if she used you,” Hermione continued. “She does that a lot. It gets annoying, but hey.”

Harry blinked. He was only beginning to wrap his mind around this situation and again Hermione was jumbling his thoughts. He shook the blood off his sword before wiping it clean with a scrap of cloth he had found on the ground. “Umm… used me…?”

Hermione shrugged, walking towards the gates of the property. “She could have just told me to meet you at Grimmauld Place, but she dragged you out here as bait. She wanted to find out if there was a mole in the Coven. She sent you her instructions, and of course you’d show up. If the enemy showed up too, that meant someone from the Coven—someone high up, is spying for the enemy. So… you’ve served your purpose. Now Yasmin just has to find out who this mole is.”

Harry didn’t know what to say.

“I—“ She hesitated.

Harry waited, detecting something powerfully familiar in her cold eyes.

The familiar gleam washed away and she went on. “I was still sent to see you, though, to talk about your proposal. Shall we do it at your place or mine?”

He blinked, the phrasing catching him off guard. “Excuse me?”

She might have smiled, but it was so quick he couldn’t be sure. “Where do you want to talk? About the proposal?”

Oh. He seriously had to get his mind out of the gutter. It was proving immensely difficult, though. With her looking so fine and throwing out suggestive phrases like that… she had to have been teasing, wasn’t she? She had to know what she was doing to him.

The question was: Did it mean anything to her at all? Maybe she was just toying with him. Could she be so cruel?

Damn mind games…

Except for the way she had touched him while his ear buzzed from Frekki Liam’s backhand, he hadn’t felt any warmth from her at all. If he didn’t have so much history with her, she might have been a complete stranger.

“G-Grimmauld Place is fine,” he grumbled, sheathing his blade. “If you don’t mind me asking… where have you been staying?”

A tiny, mischievous smirk turned up the corners of her lips. “My parents’ house.”

Harry stared at her incredulously. Her parents’ house.

Her. Parents’. House.

“I’m an idiot,” he hissed under his breath. “Argh!” He kicked a nearby swathe of aluminum, which made a satisfyingly loud sound, and berated himself with a slew of colorful words.

Lucien cackled. “Clever, isn’t she? Makes you feel stupid, doesn’t it?”

The vampire was really beginning to get on Harry’s nerves. “Shut up! I’m not talking to you,” he spat before going back to his tirade.

“Bugger me, what a grouch!” Lucien cried. “I swear he’s being so mean to me!”

“Hush, Lucien,” she said gently.

Harry couldn’t help but glare at them both. How could she address this vampire with such tenderness and treat him, Harry—the one she supposedly loved so passionately before if not anymore—so coldly? Who were these blokes, anyway? He should’ve heard about them. He should’ve known about them, but he hadn’t expected them in the least.

Were they her Blood Kin?

Harry couldn’t help it. His jealousy spiked. If they were her Blood Kin, they were sharing her blood, and he found that he couldn’t bear the thought.

God. I’m jealous. I’m still jealous. I’m… GODDAMN IT!

He was still in love with her. He was still so in love with her. It mingled with his anger, his hurt, his need to get answers for the millions of questions he had formulated for her over the years, but above all, his longing for all of her—his whispered name from her lips, the touch of her hands, her smile, her body—was almost more than he could stand.

In the course of five years, he had sometimes dared to refer to his feelings for her as love. Sometimes obsession, but no matter how many times he thought of it that way, he was WHOLLY unprepared to feel the full effect of these emotions. To have her standing in front of him and to have him feeling things for her again was almost crippling. His thoughts were scattering already. He could feel the irrational tendencies niggling at his reason.

He stood there, shaking. Was it possible for a man to be so consumed by the mere proximity of the woman he had never stopped loving?

Her gaze caught his. He could almost see the impenetrable wall she had raised. If he could, he would’ve banged his head against it repeatedly.

A car pulled up on the curb. It was a four-door Jaguar and Solomon was in the driver’s seat.

“Let’s go,” said Hermione.

Harry hadn’t ridden a car in years. It was surreal. “You came here in a car?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder at him. “Did you think we turn into bats to get from one place to another?”

When she put it that way it sounded silly. “N-No. Of course not.”

Lucien laughed and got into the left passenger side.

Hermione opened the door to the back. “Well, come on, then. You might as well ride with us. Apparating’s no fun when everyone else can’t manage it.”

He hesitated. Technically, he should be reporting this entire incident to his department, but there were factors to consider, like keeping a low profile about Hermione’s existence. In spite of Hermione’s enigmatic reputation with the vampires, there were very few humans who knew that she was still alive, not to mention the fact that Harry’s role in vampire society was still “classified” Order information.

There was little to gain from having the entire area swarming with aurors. He would report this night’s events to the Order. The ministry could know about it later.

Harry followed after Hermione.

She slid further into the car to give him space. The inside of the Jag was luxuriant with soft black leather seating. It had enough space for both of them to sit and not touch, which was just fine with Harry for the meantime. He was still contending with his burgeoning feelings of desire. Last thing he needed was to make an ass of himself and jump her.

Settling himself on the seat, he closed them in. With everyone settled, Solomon began to drive.

Lucien looked over his shoulder at them and grinned. “I prepared a mixed disc for this occasion.” He waved a shiny compact disc and popped it into the player.

The song Ex-Boyfriend by a group called Three Witches began to play.

Harry was definitely not liking this Lucien character.

Hermione gave a tolerant sigh as she turned her gaze to her window. The uppity beat of music and lyrics blared in the car.

Boy, we really had what it took

But then life was a bitch

Closed the chapter in that book

Of the broken hearted witch

Harry gritted his teeth. “Wonderful.”

“It’s a good song,” said Lucien. “Wait ‘til you hear the next one!”

The “next one” was When You Walked Away by the wizard boy-band Tyrell’s Spell:

Turned your back on me

Had no words to say

It just hurt so much

When you walked away…

And Harry thought life had been cruel before. He didn’t know what made it worse, the adolescent voice singing the chorus or the fact that he was a captive audience.

Solomon sighed but said nothing.

It was pop song after pop song of their tragic past all throughout the trip. Harry didn’t know if it was Hermione’s complete non-reaction that bothered him or whether it was the songs themselves.

One thing was certain, he wanted to whip out his sword and bring it to Lucien’s neck.

It was the longest twenty minutes of Harry’s life.

They pulled up the wrong street and Solomon scratched his head. “I could’ve sworn…”

“It’s not your fault,” Hermione said flatly. “The house probably has a new Fidelius Charm.”

She really was unbelievably clever.

She finally looked at him. “Harry?”

He nodded. Under his direction, they were able to pull up the correct street. He had Solomon park the car up the front curb.

After Solomon cut off the engine, the two vampires up front turned to look at her, as if to await instructions.

“Wait here,” she told them.

They nodded without protest and settled comfortably in their seats, as if they were ready to wait it out the entire night.

Harry expelled a breath softly. So it was true. Hermione was their alpha.

In retrospect, it wasn’t all that surprising that she was. She had always shown an inclination to take charge, even if she used to say that she never stepped up when the need arose.

After they exited the car, he couldn’t resist engaging her in small talk. To Harry, it was ineffably wrong that he was engaging Hermione in such niceties. Once upon a time, they were more than this, but if she wanted to play mind games, then he’d indulge her for the meantime. “So, Hermione, how are you these days?”

She seemed to have been caught off-guard because she looked at him with apparent shock. She didn’t seem to think they were the small-talking types, either.

He pretended not to notice and nonchalantly led them up to the house.

Finally, she replied. “As well as could be expected.”

“Good. I spoke to Allan the other day. He said he saw you in Gossips. It’s an interesting place. You go there often?”

“Not often at all. It was my first time then and it’s likely I won’t go back. Too crowded.”

“I’m not one for the club scene, myself. It’s pointless, I think.”

“Yes, it is. I only went there because Lucien wanted to go, and Solomon only went because I did.”

Harry took full-advantage of this new opening. “So Lucien and Solomon… are they your Blood Kin?”

She stared at him for a heartbeat. “No. They’re willing to be, but I’m not ready for that, and I think they shouldn’t aspire to bind themselves to me like that. I’m only five years old, for God’s sake.”

“You’re the Queen of the Vampires’ first pick. I think they know what they’re doing.”

“Still. Lucien’s more than a hundred fifty years old. Don’t you think it’s silly he’d want to become the Blood Kin of someone as young as I am?”

“Silly? Not at all. I think it would be an honor to be your Blood Kin.”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. He wasn’t surprised. There was something very much packaged about what he said.

He continued. “So if not Blood Kin, they’re your Shadow Kin, then?”

“That’s what they call themselves,” Hermione said cautiously.

“A vampire’s loyalty is no easy thing to come by.” He led both of them into the house and they walked the long hallways.

He said nothing after that, implying that it was her turn to ask him how he was. She bit.

“And how about you, Harry? How are you doing?”

He went right in for the kill. “I’m utterly miserable. Mainly your fault, but I manage.”

She stopped in her tracks to stare at him. He stared back without a hint of a smile.

“Harry—“

“But we can talk about that later,” he interrupted. “I have loads of other questions for you. For instance, where have you been? Why did you abandon me? And what’s the big idea about leaving without so much as a face-to-face goodbye? Your letter was a total cop-out. I didn’t appreciate it in the least.”

A tiny frown tightened her lips into a line. “I apologize, but it was the only way.”

Harry was only mildly surprised by the formality of her delivery. “Well, that explains everything, doesn’t it? I s’pose I should forgive you.” His sarcasm was not lost on her.

The lines disappeared from her face and returned to that dead, unaffected calm. “Huh. You shouldn’t have to do anything for me that you don’t want to do, Harry, even if you think you have to do it. That was the whole point of my leaving, so that you didn’t have to put up with me.”

He could hardly believe his ears. Were they back to that? Well, obviously! But much, much worse off than they ever were before. At least then she loved him. “Haven’t progressed much since last we talked, have we?”

“No, Harry. I never expected we would. What I had wished was that you had progressed to other things. Other people. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

He smirked sardonically. “By other people, you mean other women.”

“Well, what the hell else did you think I meant? You could have progressed to other men, if you so desired. So long as you progressed from me.”

It then occurred to Harry just what she was doing. “I can’t believe it. You haven’t changed a bit! You’re using the same technique!”

“Technique?”

“Misdirection! When you don’t want to answer my questions, you change the subject! Well, that’s just brilliant, innit!”

Color rose in her cheeks. It was the most Harry had gotten out of her all night. Never mind that he had to rile her up to get it. One did what had to be done.

“Look,” she hissed. “I didn’t come back to London to talk about what happened back then—“

“To us?” He could see her jaw tightening with annoyance.

“Yes,” she finally spat out. “As the song says, it’s a closed chapter in our book—“

“Your book. The song was about the girl talking about her ex-boyfriend, remember?”

She turned even redder. Oh, but she did look lovely when she was furious.

“Whatever!” she growled. “If Yasmin hadn’t ordered me, I wouldn’t have come back. I was hoping five years was enough for both of us to get past the history and actually get some important work done. I’m here to discuss the merits of the Coven collaborating with the Order of the Phoenix against the vampire-separatists joining Vol—“

Past the history! I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that! “And do you always do what Yasmin says?”

She stopped speaking, and the vampiric rings forming in her eyes were the only indication of her indignation. Harry thought she was going to spring him. He almost wished she would, but then her shoulders eased, the angry tension disappearing completely. She was back to her impassive self again.

Damn.

“So far, yes,” she replied calmly. “She hasn’t asked me to do anything I didn’t agree with.”

“And how about Bobbin and Leonard? Did you agree that they deserved to get tortured before they were cut to pieces?” He couldn’t help himself. He bluffed, because he had to know. He had to find out if she was so far gone that he wouldn’t be able to reach her.

She met his hard gaze, letting his words sink in before she replied. “I didn’t torture them. Yasmin did that herself. She wanted to do it. Rashad and Abraham were hers, and believe it or not, she loved them. She needed revenge. And just so you know, if she asked me to do it, I would have refused. I know that’s what I would’ve done, because I killed them myself. I brought them to Yasmin, so it was my responsibility to deliver them from her. I couldn’t stand their suffering anymore than they could, and there was mercy only in death.”

Harry trembled from the conviction in her tone. She killed them.

“But be that as it may,” she continued in that same, emotionless tone. “You might see things as black and white, Harry. That’s your nature, but in the last five years, I’ve had to live as a vampire, and in my world, everything’s almost always gray.”

The cold shock of her tone; of her words, struck him. She had misunderstood his intentions. Or had she? Maybe he had been ready to judge her, even as he stood there, six vampire deaths to his name, even more with werewolves and Death Eaters. He had called it self-defense; survival, but his reasons hardly mattered to the ones he’d slain. They were still dead through no desire of their own. If in a situation where it would matter to the other person; if that person asked him—begged him—to perform the ultimate act of mercy, would it be principle that drove him to refuse? It seemed like hypocrisy to say so, since he had already taken lives with split-second decisiveness. He might refuse a man’s wish to die, simply because he didn’t have the strength to do it. It took instinct to kill in battle but it was something else entirely to deal death when it was asked for.

“I didn’t mean to sound judgmental,” he said. “I apologize.”

“I wasn’t fishing for an apology. I suppose I deserve everything you throw at me. I did abandon you, but I had my reasons, and given a time turner, I would do it exactly the same way.” She turned to head further down the hallway but he held her firmly by the arm.

She turned in astonishment, first at his gripping hand then at him.

He let her go. “You can’t just come back here and say that we’re not going to talk about what happened to us. It doesn’t work that way, Hermione. We’ll talk about the proposal, and the Order, and the Coven, but I’m not going to pretend that our personal issues aren’t there. The history we have isn’t going to go away just because you want to ignore it.”

She said nothing for several heartbeats. “Do we even have time for this?”

“We’ll make time. Heck, I’ve been waiting to make time for five years.”

“Fine. If you insist, fine.”

He tried not to think about her tone; how it implied that they had separated in anger. He wanted to tell her that she was the one who left him; that he had every reason to be angry at her, but then, she already said she deserved his anger, and whatever else he dealt her. No, her tone wasn’t of anger, it was of cold annoyance, that he had insisted.

God, what have her feelings for me come to?

He had to take what she was willing to give. “Later, then, when we’re done with Order and Coven business.”

“If we’re done before sunrise.”

“Business shouldn’t take long. It’s the other stuff that’s the trick.”

She frowned at him.

He didn’t bother to explain.

Without a word, he led them through the hallways and straight for the dungeons. Remus and Tonks would undoubtedly be there.

Harry waved his hand towards the mounted torch and fire burst from its tip. He took the torch down.

“You don’t need a wand anymore?” she asked, looking mildly surprised.

“Of course I do,” he replied without batting an eyelash. “For the bigger spells, I need it, but I can manage without the wand for the easier charms.”

“Creating fire isn’t easy.”

“Use it enough times in battle to survive, conjuring fire when you just need a light is easy.”

“Fire can kill vampires.”

“This I know.”

It looked as if she was waiting for him to say more. He didn’t.

As they descended the stairs, Harry began to hear Tonks, Ron and Remus arguing. Ron was saying something about Harry doing the stupid thing and going it alone again.

Harry frowned, and as he reached the bottom of the stairs and headed to Remus’s cavern, he called out. “I heard that, Ron.”

“Harry?” Tonks squeaked. “Oh, thank Merlin! Remus, Harry’s back!”

“I’m going to kill him,” said Ron just when Harry crossed the cavern threshold. Draco was at the corner, sulking, while Tonks sat on a stool a meter away from Remus’s bars.

Tonks saw the bruise on his face and she gasped, horrified. “Oh, goodness, what happened to you?”

Ron whirled to face him, glaring.

Draco scowled. “It amazes me that you still ask him that even when he comes home looking like a prize fighter every so often.”

Harry didn’t feel much like giving them answers. They wouldn’t care in the next second, anyway.

Sure enough, as he felt Hermione stepping into the light, everyone in the dungeon fell silent.

Tonks, Ron and Remus were frozen with shock. Draco’s mouth had simply dropped open. For once, he had nothing clever to say.

Harry let them process. He wasn’t sure if he was over it, himself.

He mounted the torch as he tried to figure out where to begin. He transferred his gaze from his housemates to Hermione. The impenetrable look on her eyes had been replaced by a thoughtful expression, though it was still bereft of her old warmth.

“Well?” Harry said when he thought they’d had enough time to absorb the shock.

That seemed to break the profound silence.

“My, my, my!” Draco began. “Look what the kneazle dragged in!”

Tonks had stood from her seat, fingers to her lips in absolute disbelief.

Ron stepped forward, fists to his side. “You—I can’t believe—“

Amazingly, a blush sprayed on her cheeks. “Hello, Ron.”

Ron stiffened as his name fell from her lips, and to Harry’s utter astonishment, Ron’s eyes blazed. “Nice of you to drop in out of nowhere after five fucking years!”

And with that, Ron stalked out of the cavern and left them.

Harry wasn’t sure where that came from. He had been under the impression that Ron wasn’t angry about it anymore; that Ron had somehow forgiven Hermione after all these years. But then again, Ron never said he wasn’t angry. He just hadn’t talked about it and Harry had just assumed Ron was fine with all of it. Looking back, Harry realized that he should have known. When Ron spoke about Hermione, it was always, “She’s not here, is she?” or “Move on, Harry,” or “Harry, she left.”

Hermione didn’t even watch Ron leave.

Tonks seemed to regain her senses. “Oh, dear! Ron didn’t mean that! He didn’t—“

“It’s alright,” said Hermione. “I probably deserved it. How are you doing, Tonks? Remus, it’s been a long time.”

“It has been,” said Remus, looking somewhat dazed. “To tell you the truth, I don’t quite know what to say right now. Ron’s right. We haven’t heard a word from you in five years!”

That was the thing with Remus on a full moon. He never sounded quite as kind.

“Remus!” gasped Tonks.

“I probably deserved that, too,” said Hermione.

“I have to admit, Sunshine,” said Draco, looking her up and down. “The years have been most accommodating to you.”

Hermione arched her eyebrow at him. “You, I don’t deserve. I was hoping you were dead.”

Harry wondered if she meant it and realized that she actually might.

“Take a number,” said Draco, jerking a superior eyebrow.

“I can’t believe it,” said Tonks, cutting through their conversation. It was Tonks’s way to ignore Draco when he began to get snarky. She approached Hermione and held her gently by the shoulders, as if to test if she were solid. “Blimey, you’re really here!” Tonks looked up at Harry. “How?”

“Well, Pocahontas, when I got to the meeting place…” replied Harry, half sheepish. He explained what happened at Cicero’s abandoned office building.

“Five morphmagi werewolves?” said Remus with a grimace. “Didn’t skimp on the arsenal, did they?”

Hermione shrugged. “We were expecting it. Lucien and Solomon like these scuffles. Keeps them tuned, they said. We would’ve been able to handle all of them, but I suppose Harry was in the mood for a fight. He took one out all by himself.”

Harry scowled. “It had nothing to do with my mood! He came up from behind us!” he cried, just before he realized that she was actually teasing.

He badly wanted to ask her, right there, what game she was playing when Remus jumped in with another question.

“And these Shadow Kin of yours, where are they now?”

Harry was surprised Remus knew they were Shadow Kin, or that he assumed correctly that they weren’t Blood Kin.

“They’re waiting outside in the car…” Hermione replied, looking puzzled. “How did you know they were my Shadow Kin?”

Remus smirked. “I just assumed they weren’t your Blood Kin. You’re only five years old. And your boys are… what?”

“Lucien’s a bit more than a hundred and fifty. Solomon’s my age, though. I mean, in vamp years. He was turned at twenty-five.”

“Interesting. So Lucien decided you were his alpha because…?”

“I saved his life,” she said blandly. “I took him in when no one else wanted to. He was a junkie.”

Everyone’s eyes perked in surprise. There were rumors, of course, of vamp drugs, something that gave vamps a high even more potent than blood drinking, but it seemed impossible. Now here was proof that it was true.

“I got him off the drugs,” she continued. “And I took him into the Coven. Yasmin doesn’t like him, but I made him my responsibility. He’s been with me ever since.”

“And Solomon?” Remus asked. “What compelled him to make you his alpha?”

She shrugged. “Oh… he needed someone to tell him what to do, and you know me, bossy little know-it-all.”

“It’s all very interesting, Sunshine,” Draco said, the evil gleam in his eyes coming alive. “But what I want to know is… what brought you out of hiding? Certainly ain’t Potter.”

Harry shook his head in disgust. Trust Draco to get right to the guts of it so he could rip it out.

“Isn’t this about the time you send him out?” Hermione asked. “Or is he a member of the Order now?”

Remus’s wolverine chuckle bounced through the cavern. “The Death Eaters certainly think so.”

Draco sneered at him. “Why don’t you and Tonks play fetch in the traffic?”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your cousin-in-law?”

“Quiet, you two!” Tonks hissed. “Hermione, pretend Draco isn’t here—“

“No problem,” Hermione interjected with an amused smirk.

Tonks frowned at her, and at everyone else. “Let’s talk about the important Order stuff, shall we? Some time in the next century if it’s all the same to you.”

Miracle of miracles, Draco heeded her.

“Now, Hermione,” said Tonks. “And Harry—“

“Haven’t heard that in a while,” Draco muttered under his breath.

Tonks ignored him. “Where do we go from here?”

Harry could have sworn Tonks asked that heavily pregnant question on purpose. Even Draco was unable to hold back a hefty burst of laughter.

Summoning all his dignity, Harry pretended he didn’t catch the double meaning and replied. “We call a general meeting of the Order. We’ll have Mad-Eye work out the logistics. In the meantime, we keep Hermione’s re-emergence secret, or the fact that she contacted me in the capacity of the Coven. Hermione, is your parents’ house secure?”

Hermione seemed to give it a moments’ thought. “A few warding charms, but nothing particularly reassuring. Solomon and I can only do so much, being vamp-wizards. Lucien none at all. He was muggle.”

Harry nodded. “Then you and your Shadow Kin will have to move here.”

She visibly hesitated.

This irritated Harry. “It’s a tactical arrangement. And as you vamps would say: I don’t bite.”

Color rose in her cheeks, but she nodded afterwards. “If you think it’s best, then alright. We’ll move in.”

Everyone else seemed in agreement with it.

Harry thought Ron was going to have a fit, but Harry already decided Ron wasn’t going to have a say in it.

“Hold on,” said Draco. “Am I the only one uncomfortable about the fact that there’s going to be three vampires in this house?”

“You’ve nothing to worry about with me, Malfoy,” said Hermione. “I wouldn’t touch you to kill you, and Solomon’s just a teddy bear with fangs when he isn’t slicing vampire and werewolf heads off. Lucien might be a problem, but most times I can threaten him into behaving. My only advice to you is not to tee him off.”

Draco glared at Harry. “You’re mental if you invite such things into your home, Potthead.”

If Ron didn’t have a say then Draco was a nonentity. “They’re staying here. It’s not my problem if Lucien takes a fancy to your pure blood.”

Draco looked furious. “Fine, but you might want to ask your she-vamp over there just how much of a teddy bear Solomon is. She says his name so tenderly.” And with that, Draco stalked out of the dungeon.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

Hermione looked terribly annoyed, shooting Draco a glare as he left. When he was gone, she rolled her eyes. “Well, aren’t I just the life of the party? First Ron and then Draco… at least Remus can’t walk out on me. What’s the big idea having Malfoy prancing freely about, anyway? Isn’t he supposed to be in a cell? I know he takes after his father but this is too much…”

Harry almost wanted to laugh at that. Almost. He picked up where they last left off on the original conversation. “We’ll have the governing board meet in advance, just so they’re prepared for the general meeting.”

Remus and Tonks exchanged looks.

“Sound good?” Tonks asked.

Remus nodded. “It works for me. I’ll make the arrangements when the full moon’s passed. One last thing before we get to the interesting part of this meeting… is Yasmin still in London, Hermione?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. In any case, she may or may not have gone or stayed. She does what she wants and just lets me know when she thinks it’s necessary. Right now, my instructions are to gauge how this… collaboration could be undertaken without having to compromise my society’s…”

“Alienation of humans?” suggested Remus.

She smirked, un-offended. “Exclusivity.”

Harry’s gaze lowered to the ground briefly, hoping he didn’t look as sad as he felt. “We’re you’re society too, you know. At least, that’s how I see it.”

He looked up and their gazes met. She didn’t look like she agreed, yet she didn’t seem to want to disagree out loud, either, perhaps to spare his feelings. That was something. Harry was most willing to grasp at straws.

Remus’s feral eyes lit up. “Ah, interesting how you brought that point up, Harry—“

Tonks cleared her throat. “Remus, I believe that’s their business. Harry, you and Hermione should go upstairs and talk… alone.”

Harry shot Hermione an “I told you so,” look.

Sparing him a glance, she made for the cavern door. “Harry and I can talk later. Right now, I have to get myself and the boys settled in Grimmauld Place.”

Tonks frowned. “Can’t that wait?”

Harry had to appreciate Tonks for advocating his side, but considering the general attitude Hermione’s given him in the past hour, he thought maybe he knew Tonks was fighting a lost cause.

“It waited for five years,” Hermione replied. “It can wait two more hours. I’ll see you later, Tonks… Remus. You’ll be walking me up, Harry?”

Harry stifled a sigh and nodded, following her up the stairs as he summoned the torch to him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry couldn’t believe he was just going to let Hermione leave. It was surreal to have such feelings of paranoia; a need to take hold of her and say, “Oh, no, you don’t! I’m not letting you out of my sight, again.” But as Harry told Remus, if she walked away now, then he’d lost her forever. Anyway, it wasn’t as if Hermione would gainsay her “boss” just because she had personal issues. Somehow, Harry couldn’t see anyone gainsaying Yasmin. The woman simply got what she wanted. As Hermione crossed the threshold of Grimmauld Place’s front door, she paused in her step and actually looked over her shoulder. “I’ll come back.”

Harry could’ve chosen to be bitter and say, “Fat lot of good your word does,” but he couldn’t find it in himself. It just wasn’t in his nature. And given that she was telling him this quite possibly because she was being sensitive to his feelings, it was something to be grateful for.

He nodded, accompanying it with a resigned sigh. He couldn’t be bitter, but he could certainly tell her what he thought. “Not like I could do anything if you don’t. At this point, if you decide to disappear again, there’s just no reason for me to try and find you a second time.”

Something in her eyes flickered, and then it was gone. “I’ll come back.” And she left.

After the door closed behind her, he could only roll his eyes in resignation.

They seemed so far gone from their days of If-You-Hide-You-Know-I’ll-Find-You routine that it was truly depressing.

He headed for the rooms, surrendering to the tragic-comedies of his life.

He reached Ron’s room and knocked on the door.

“If it’s Hermione, I don’t want to see you right now.”

Harry sighed. “It’s me.”

Seconds later, Ron opened the door and let him in. “Is she gone?”

Harry had to wonder if Ron meant everything he was saying. Last time he sounded this angry, he had socked Harry in the face. “She is, but she’s coming back in a couple of hours. I told her she and her Shadow Kin can stay here while we’re negotiating with the Coven.”

Ron’s face turned so red, Harry was afraid it would explode. “You what?”

“Look, Ron, I’ve been trying to find her for five years. What did you expect I would do? Flip her off? If you had told me you were this angry with her, I would’ve prepared you for this meeting, but no. You had to harbor all this hate in secret!”

Ron expelled a breath of frustration, turning to collapse on his bed. “I don’t hate her, and honestly, Harry, I didn’t know I was so teed off until I saw her. But when she walked into that dungeon, I just remembered what she had done to you, and then to me. It seemed preposterous to welcome her back with open arms. I didn’t know how I was going to go about it, so I just let my emotions take over and that’s what came out of my mouth. It actually felt… it was bloomin’ cathartic!”

Harry didn’t know what surprised him more: The fact that Ron had been angry for him or the fact that Ron was using big words to explain why. “Ron, we all have our issues with her. It’s best that you let me deal with my issues and concentrate on yours.”

“Don’t give me that! I’ve been hauling your piss-drunk arse out of bars for five years, Harry. Did you think it was easy? Most of the time, I didn’t even know which pub you were in! So yeah, I sure as hell can make your issues with her my issues with her.”

Harry blushed, embarrassed. “Christ, Ron… I believe I never apologized to you for all that. Thanked you, yes, but—“

“Shut-up, Potter. All that was hardly your fault… well, it was, to a great extent, but Hermione’s still to blame for your five years of misery. And it’s not like I couldn’t understand where you were coming from. She left me, too! She might not have loved me like she did, you, but I really, really…” Ron sighed, rubbing his army-cut styled head. “I cared for her, you know? It’s bad enough she didn’t return my feelings, but she thought it would be easier for me than it was for you. Maybe it was. I certainly got on with my life sooner than you did, but… I couldn’t forget. Whenever I dragged you home, half-dead from firewhiskey, I’d remember how I felt that night she walked out of the library, and it—it hurt like hell, you know?”

Harry didn’t know what to say, but he nodded. It was good to know Ron understood to some extent. It beat explaining things. “So are you going to keep treating her this way? I won’t stop you, you know. I just… I need to know how you’ll handle this, just so I could… establish myself in this set-up.”

Ron shrugged grudgingly. “You know me, Harry. I always come around. Besides, how can I stay angry with her when she looks like that?”

Harry had to summon all his powers of poise to give a dignified reply. “Yeah, she does look good.”

Ron scoffed as if it were the understatement of the year.

“Gorgeous.”

“Doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

“Like the entire Holyhead Harpies team doing a synchronized Wrongski Feint and having their uniforms malfunction all at the same time?”

Ron got a wistful look in his eyes and sighed. “Took the words right out of my mouth. There ought to be a law…”

“Ron?”

“What?”

“Now that you’ve seen her, are you still…?”

Ron chuckled. “I care about her a lot, still, but… I think I really am over her. Blimey, Harry, it’s been five years after all!”

“Well, gee, now I feel dumb.”

“Oh, well, it’s different for you. Sure, you’re just sad—“

“Thanks.”

“But she did leave you hanging, mate. At any rate, you still managed to get laid in the last five years. Not as often as you should have, probably, but you got some, so you’re not that pathetic.”

Harry felt a tad uneasy. “About that… I’m not very sure I want Hermione knowing about that particular detail of my life, just yet. I mean, I’ll tell her if… if it even matters, but I suppose for the meantime…“

“Yeah, yeah. I’m certainly not going to get involved in that drama. You tell her, you keep it secret, whatever works for you. What I’m saying is that… I’ve kind of been seeing someone, so you’ve got your love life and I’ve got mine.”

“Love li—Ron! You’ve been seeing someone? How come I don’t know about this?” Sure, Ron has had quite a few liaisons over the past five years, too, but Ron had never actually said he was “seeing someone”. This was serious!

Ron smirked. “What, I gotta ask your permission now?”

“You know what I mean. How long has this been going on?”

“Oh, two months.”

Harry waited for Ron to go on. When he didn’t, Harry frowned. “What, are you going to let me beg for details like a girl?”

“Eh, why not?”

“I’ve half a bottle of whiskey in my closet. If you don’t start talking now, I’ll break it over your head.”

“Jeez, where’s the love?”

“Walked out of the house about ten minutes ago, Ron.” Before Ron could say anything about that, Harry went on. “Now stop acting like a pussy and come clean.”

Ron smirked.

Harry glared at him. “It’s Luna Lovegood, isn’t it? You’ve finally admitted that you fancy her! It’s about bloody time!”

“What? No! I know I said she was cute, and that she was hilarious, but Luna and I are friends. It’s someone else.”

“Well, for God’s sake—“

“It’s Gabrielle. Gabrielle Delacour.”

Harry was at a complete loss for words. But not for long. “Bloody fucking hell, Ron! She’s SIXTEEN YEARS OLD!”

Ron frowned. “Seventeen, alright. And she’s really quite mature for her age. A lot less flighty and flirty than her sister, in fact, so I’d appreciate it if you were a bit happier for me.”

“She’s your sister-in-law!”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Fine. Get out.”

“What?”

“If you’re going to be like that, get out. I knew this is how you’d react. Now that I think about it, this is why I didn’t tell you about her!”

“Gabrielle. Is. A. Kid.”

Ron glared at him. “Hermione. Is. A. Vampire.”

Harry was caught completely off-guard by that one. “Well, that—“

Ron arched an eyebrow.

Harry thought better of it. “Erm—puts things in perspective.”

“I thought it might. Anyway, it’s not like I’m taking advantage of her or anything like that, so you can calm down. I’m well aware that she’s… younger than most women I’ve dated, so I’m taking extra care of this one. Besides, Fleur and Bill will kill me if I do anything to hurt her.”

“Right.” Even if Harry believed everything Ron was saying, he was still a bit weirded out. Sure, Gabrielle was beautiful, and maybe she was mature, but seventeen was seventeen!

On the other hand, he and Hermione were shagging like bunnies at that age.

But we were BOTH seventeen then, whatever difference that makes.

“You’re twenty-two,” said Harry. “I know the age difference won’t matter much when she hits twenty, but in the meantime…”

“Alright, so maybe the age difference is a little wonky right now—“

“Shyeah!”

“But she’s of age. You remember how it was when we were seventeen, Harry. We knew what we were doing.”

Harry scoffed. “That’s what we thought.”

“Don’t be difficult. Think of it this way: Viktor Krum was into Hermione when she was fourteen and he was eighteen. That was a bit screwed up, but did we worry about her? No, because we knew she could take care of herself.”

“Viktor Krum was a cradle snatching son-of-a-bitch who just happened to be a world class jock and he had absolutely no business snogging Hermione. He should’ve been arres—“

“You’re saying that now, but back then, he was alright with you.”

Harry paused and decided he would concede that point. “Fine, but we’re talking about Hermione. She was fourteen going on forty.”

“Fleur trusts Gabrielle, and Ginny said Gabrielle’s fancied me for ages.”

Harry had to grin at that. “Well if it’s been ages…”

“Shut it, Potter.”

“And what does Luna have to say about all this?”

Ron blinked in astonishment. “Why the hell do you keep bringing up Luna? How is this her business?”

“Frankly, Ron, I really thought you and she were hitting it off. She’s weird, yeah, but I thought you liked that about her especially. You’re rather weird yourself.”

Ron looked at Harry with an odd grimace. “I’m weird? I’m not the one who has wet dreams about vampires.”

Harry thought he had a point, but he didn’t have to stand for it. “Oy! Let’s get one thing straight. I do not have wet dreams about Hermione. Sex dreams, yes, but not wet dreams. And stop trying to change the subject. Luna’s special to you. You have to admit that.”

“Special? What the hell gave you that idea?”

“Well, you gave her your autographed Chudley Cannons jersey!”

“I lost it to her on a bet! She bet you wouldn’t get back with Cho. I said you would, that Christmas. It was your fault I lost that jersey, you bastard.”

Harry wasn’t deterred. “And you get her tickets to all the Quidditch games you go to!”

“Well, she’s got that wicked hat that she would let no one else wear…”

“You bring her to the games for her hat?”

“Oh, quit trying to convince me to fancy Luna. I like her company, alright? She makes me laugh, and she makes George laugh, and she’s sweet, in a batty sort of way, but it’s purely platonic.”

Oh, sure. I’ve used that one, before.

“Gabrielle…” Ron continued, smiling. “She’s an angel. Mum adores her when she’s at the Burrow and dad calls her Daisy.”

“Cute.”

Ron ignored him. “And she has this look… it’s almost heartbreaking. It gets me every time, I tell you. You’ll have to see it yourself.”

Can you say VEELA?

Harry was going to stop saying things about that, now. If Ron wanted to complicate his life by falling for seventeen-year-old part-veelas and toying with the emotions of half-insane newspaper editor’s daughters, then Harry was going to leave him to it.

He had problems of his own to deal with, the least of which involved an enchanting vamp woman who wasn’t budging an inch to make their reunion any less difficult than it already was.

“Look, we’ll talk about this again,” said Harry. “I have to go back down to the dungeon and see to the vamps’ accommodations. I wonder if she’ll bring her own coffin…”

“Probably. The one down there was standard issue from Saint Aedan’s.”

“Right… so, how’s this arrangement with Hermione going to work out for you?”

Ron shrugged. “We’ll probably get to talking. I don’t know how that will go, but I’m willing to take it one step at a time. I probably won’t make it easy for her. Get her back for those five years.”

Harry shook his head and turned to go. “Whatever makes you happy, Ron.”

Ron jumped off the bed. “I might as well help you get things in order down there. Can’t be easy to clean up a dungeon.”

Harry just cocked a grateful smile.

Together, they headed back down to start cleaning up the mess of five years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: The address I gave was fictitious. I got a bunch of addresses and threw them together.

Here I am, spreading the love. So they haven’t really talked talked, but I wasn’t planning to make it easy for them. Hermione’s acting really cold…

18. Chapter Seventeenth: Reminisce

Author’s notes: Ron and Gabrielle are actually kinda cute! I’ve aged Gabrielle a year, just because her age in canon hadn’t been established yet. Harry had assessed that she could be no more than eight in his fourth year, but then she could’ve easily been nine. Gabrielle’s going to be a sweetheart, so don’t get any notions that she’ll be a bitch everyone will hate. Haha!

::Does the happy dance for Lady Diamond while singing:: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Seventeenth: Reminisce

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione grinned ever so slightly as she watched Lucien haul in the last of his trunks. The look on Harry’s face was priceless, like he couldn’t believe a man would drag around so many clothes.

Her room in the dungeon looked the same as when she last left it, down to her dressing table and armoire. Whatever she expected, it hadn’t been this. She thought initially that she would be coming back to a barren room, all the furniture that had once been in it thrown away, or at least redistributed throughout the house. Had Harry left it here all these years or had he simply returned the furniture from all over Grimmauld Place back to this room?

She had many, many questions, actually, all of which had to do with how Harry has been living his life these past five years. The problem being she was a bit afraid of the answers. That was unacceptable, since she had managed to convince herself, before this night, that she had completely gotten over him, her relationship with him, and everything else in between.

It was devastating when, seeing that werewolf clock him, she had felt a whine of panic rise from within her. Without even considering how it looked, she had shoved both Lucien and Solomon aside so she could check Harry herself, and oh, how his skin felt under her fingertips was most astonishing. The simple, innocent touch had shot bolts of electricity beneath her skin.

It’s his looks, she had told herself. Seeing Harry for the first time in five years was a somewhat pleasant surprise. She had left a seventeen-year-old boy behind. He had been developing quite well, then. His years in Hogwarts and the tender loving care he had gotten from those like Molly and herself had made up for the eleven years of negligence he had suffered from the Dursleys, but Hermione had always believed that that negligence would forever be marked by a permanently boyish breadth and bone-structure.

Now, at twenty-two, Harry wasn’t the broadest of men, but man he was. His shoulders and body weren’t as wide as Ron’s (who was huge, by the way), and really, he wasn’t going to grow any more than his near-six-foot frame, but the toughness and strength of Harry Potter had been apparent when he fought that werewolf and when she managed to cop a feel of his shoulders and arms.

Harry’s been eating his wheaties, she remembered thinking with feral delight.

She had scrapped that thought hastily from her mind, of course, no matter how difficult it was to focus when those beautiful eyes of his stared at her. It was bad enough when the flash of attraction and desire in his eyes sent pleasant tingles down her back, but when those same eyes took on sheer desperation, she felt like she was falling into that void again; that agony she felt when she first left him five years before.

And how was it that in spite of those awful looking glasses, she still thought he was the handsomest man she’d ever had the pleasure of seeing? She had seen many good-looking men. In the vampire world, the only thing someone had to worry about when it came to looks was being a ten in a room full of elevens. Vampire men were just divine. If they didn’t exactly have Greek God faces, they were elegant, or sophisticated, or sexy, or beautiful, or powerfully interesting. Harry was not elegant or sophisticated or even beautiful. His good looks were not, by any means, Wizard Quarterly cover material, but he was so unaffected by it, so unbothered by his easy-fit, rumpled clothing and battered trainers, that it just made him so damn attractive, especially after seeing him fight that werewolf. She didn’t know whether to mother him or demand that he make a woman out of her.

She had decided on neither, of course. It just wouldn’t do to let on that she was still feeling things for him that should have withered away in the last five years of their separation. The purpose, after all, of staying away from him, was to get both of them to move on with their lives; realize in no small way that it was possible to go on without each other. He was supposed to have moved on to better things; found a beautiful girlfriend he had plans of marrying so he could have a bunch of beautiful kids with her. It was as much Hermione’s dream to see him happy as it should have been his.

But those eyes…

She had wished he would stop switching between anger and longing. It was confusing her, and it wasn’t supposed to be that way. And because he was being uncooperative, she was finding difficulty in sticking to her supposed resolve. So naturally, she did everything she could to start pushing him away. She tried to be cold and unfeeling. She believed she managed it quite well, but she felt that there were times she had slipped, and that he had seen. It didn’t help that Lucien was being a sadistic son of a bitch. Lucien thought her whole history with Harry was hilarious.

That mixed CD was vicious.

Well, har-de-har-har, Lucien.

If she didn’t adore Lucien so much, she’d have kicked him out of the Coven years ago.

Solomon was much more understanding about it. He always was nicer and he was, as she described him, a teddy bear. He was comforting and so very dependable. Lucien was great fun, but Solomon was a shoulder to lean on when the more important things like heartache cropped up.

Solomon had his work cut out for him this night.

“Hang on,” said Solomon, frowning at Lucien. He kicked the trunk’s lock with his reinforced-toe boot and it sprung open like a jack-in-the-box. Inside was a pile of beauty and bathroom products. Solomon picked up a bottle of astringent. “Oy, we talked about this! You weren’t going to buy anymore of this junk because you’re a vampire. You don’t get acne!”

Lucien grabbed the bottle out of Solomon’s hand. “Do I tell you what not to buy? Do I tell you that you shouldn’t buy boxer briefs because you should be buying a thong?”

“Let’s get something straight,” said Solomon. “I never have, and never will wear a thong—“

She sighed, rolling her eyes. Her gaze caught Harry’s.

His eyes conveyed a kind of alien caution, like he hadn’t yet decided whether to kiss her or slam the door on her face. She hadn’t decided herself what she wanted, even if her mind was telling her that his anger was preferred.

Willing herself to address him in spite of her mixed feelings, she walked up to him and said, “They get this way whenever we move. Lucien brings too many things and Solomon nitpicks. They’ll settle down in a few hours.”

Harry’s gaze roved briefly to Lucien and Solomon. “Solomon seems nice.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow, keeping her expression even. “Lucien grows on you, I swear.”

Harry was unresponsive for a few seconds. “Oh?”

Overhearing them, Lucien broke from his argument with Solomon. “What’d I ever do to your ex-boyfriend that he hates me so much?”

Solomon grinned. “Oh, shut it with the complaining. You love it when they hate you.”

“Well, I do admit it’s a dreadful turn-on…”

“Lucien,” she warned, glaring at him. “Heel.”

Lucien scowled. “Me? Solomon started it!”

Solomon gave a smug smile. “Well, it’s not your fault I’m her favorite.”

“Puleez. You’re delusional. I’ve never seen her ask you to take her shopping. So it’s me who’s her favorite, not you.”

“That’s only because you’ve got a queer eye, straight guy. It’s all about the moves, baby. Who does she prefer to dance with? Answer the question, White Boy. That’s right, she likes dancing with me, because you’re an embarrassment.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, she lets me arrange her underwear draw.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in shock and she momentarily forgot about Harry. “Lucien! I have never let you arrange my underwear drawer! Solomon, did you know about this?”

Solomon shot Lucien an evil grin.

“Bugger,” Lucien hissed. “I reckon I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I’ll let you finish up here,” muttered Harry, ignoring Lucien. “I’m going to wait upstairs. Let me know when you’re done.”

She watched him go, wondering if it meant he’d decided he hated her. Harry was so difficult to read.

Well, that’s what happens when you lose touch over five years.

Touche.

When his footsteps waned, Solomon snorted softly.

“If I didn’t know you any better, Hermione, I’d think you desperately wanted to suck his blood.”

Lucien grinned. “I don’t think it’s his blood she wants to suck, Solomon.”

Hermione glared at him. “Why did I see that coming a mile away?”

Solomon sat himself on one of the many scattered trunks. “Are you going to talk to him?”

She gave a haughty sniff. “Of course I will. Sometime soon. Before the next century. Before I die… or get slain… a second time. We’re undead, aren’t we? So technically we have to re-die…” At that point, she was unable to hold the tiny little squeak that escaped her. She was feeling that feeling again: the one that made her unleash canaries at Ron and say awful things about Hagrid. And here she thought she’d outgrown it.

Solomon saw right through her turmoil. “Are you going to be alright?”

She cleared her throat, struggling to get a hold of herself. “Why won’t I be?”

“Well… you seem to be…”

“What, Solomon? I seem to be what?”

“A bit… out of sorts when you’re around him.”

It annoyed her when Solomon read her so accurately. “It’s awkward, yes. We were very passionate then and we were each other’s world. It’s no surprise that this new, unfamiliar situation requires… adjusting. I’ll be fine, in a while.”

Solomon’s eyebrow arched. “And him? Is he going to be alright? He seems awfully aware of you.”

“Aware? What does that mean?”

Lucien smirked. “I think it’s cute. And really, Hermione, I think he’s actually quite good looking… in a swotty sort of way.”

“You sound like one of my dorm mates in Hogwarts.”

“I also think he desperately wants to fuck you.”

“Now you sound like a complete jackass.”

Solomon looked thoughtful. “Well he wants to do something with you. I’m just not sure what. Fuck you, slap you, both… it’s a jumble.”

Lucien doubled over and laughed.

She stared at Solomon, shocked. “Solomon! How can you—? You’re usually on my side!”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, dismissing her protests with a wave of his hand. “Oh, shut it. I am so on your side, so don’t ‘Solomon!’ me. We’re not virginal teenagers anymore. We can talk about these things openly.”

“Well, sure! Because my personal life and the sex in it is always open for discussion.”

“Or the lack of sex thereof,” Lucien chimed in. “When was the last time you got laid?”

“Nine months, one week and four days. Give or take a few hours. What’s your point?”

Lucien threw back his head and laughed.

Hermione felt he had lured her into that trap. “My conscious decision to abstain is completely irrelevant to this discussion!” she cried, her face flaming.

“She calls it a conscious decision!”

“It is conscious! I’ve decided that sex and the desire for it impairs one’s judgment, messes with one’s mind and turns friends into nosy little twats! So I’m swearing off sex!”

“Yeah, let’s see how long that idear’s going to last.”

“Forever!” Hermione cried, pausing momentarily afterwards. “Okay, maybe not forever. Maybe until I become dreadfully randy and if I really, really love him.”

“Love him?”

“The bloke I’ll have sex with.”

“Oh, just call him Harry, won’t you?”

“There’s the question of whether he still finds sex with me appealing, Luce. I did a bunch of unforgivable things to him, remember? And even all that’s beside the point. It doesn’t necessarily have to be Harry!”

“Ugh! Please don’t call me Luce. How lazy can you be, shortening my name? How would you like it if I called you Her? Or Harry, Har? Or Ron, Ro?”

“Solomon lets me call him Sol.”

“Well, it fits with him.”

She shot Lucien a playful sneer in spite of herself.

Solomon spared Lucien a slanted look. “Hermione, luv, don’t pay any attention to Lucien. Whatever it is you want to do, don’t even factor anyone else’s opinion into it. What’s important is what you think.”

“Thank you, Solomon,” she said, pointedly ignoring Lucien. “And I do appreciate your support, but nothing’s changed from what I told you before. It’s imperative that Harry and I go our separate ways and it’s out of the question that I pick up where we left off.”

“Where he probably thinks you left him hanging, you mean?” Lucien supplemented.

She stiffened momentarily before accepting it with what dignity she could muster under the circumstances, even if she was painfully aware that Solomon hadn’t said anything to contradict Lucien. “Yes, that’s what I meant. So sex for the sake of sex is a no-go!” She directed her last words to Lucien, who had started laughing again.

“Like I said.” Solomon held his hands up. “Whatever it is you want to do.”

“That’s right,” she said haughtily. “Now, are we done discussing my personal life? Because I’d really like it if you two got a move on and brought in the coffins.”

Solomon and Lucien exchanged looks.

“I’m staying down here to unpack,” she continued, turning to her trunks.

“Sure,” said Solomon and Lucien together as they left.

She rolled her eyes. I hate it when they get that way… acting like they know me.

But they did know her. She had known Solomon for five years now and Lucien for four. At four years, Harry and Ron meant everything to her, perhaps one meaning a bit more than the other. At five years, Harry was her life. And while she had stubbornly resisted the first few years losing her heart to Lucien and Solomon simply because she refused to have Harry and Ron sharing that place with anyone else, she gave in eventually, and she found that it wasn’t a matter of Harry and Ron having to lose some of what she gave them to accommodate Lucien and Solomon, it was a matter of realizing that having deep friendships with one friend didn’t mean that her feelings for other dear friends would diminish.

Her thoughts fell to Ron. No matter how cold she seemed a while ago, it hurt to have Ron sounding so angry. She couldn’t blame him, of course, but she wasn’t so far gone as Yasmin ibna Omar al-Khwarizm’s protégé that she could actually feel nothing when she looked it. Yasmin has had five hundred years to perfect not-caring. Hermione, at five years, could only pretend she didn’t care.

She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. He was the one who watched her walk out on them. He was the one who had appealed for her to stay, and he was the one she had denied. Ronald Bilius Weasley had a lot of things to be angry about with her, but wretchedly, it didn’t make his harsh rejection of her hurt any less. She would have to talk to him, too. Hopefully, he’d be more receptive to her when she was ready to try.

She sat on her dressing table stool and noticed how clean the dressing table was. It was freshly polished and her heart pinched at the thought that Harry had prepared the entire room for her.

He hadn’t changed. At least not so much that it would affect his true nature. He was still basically the boy she had left behind; the boy she had loved. Nothing—not war, nor heartache, had ruined him. He was amazing.

He was—

“Merlin,” she muttered, shutting that thread of thought down. She turned to her trunk and popped it open, digging into it so she could start to unpack. She yanked one of the drawers open and stuffed her toiletries in it.

What am I even doing here? Why the hell did I agree to stay here? My parents’ house was perfectly serviceable, give or take the risks we ran getting staked through the heart by our enemies while we slept in the day… sometimes I wonder if getting staked through the heart by some ghoul isn’t better than punishing myself like this…

“Bullocks,” she grumbled. “Tactical my pretty little behind…”

She tried not to think about the implications of her agreeing to stay by focusing on her work.

She saw her face on the mirror of her dresser and frowned.

Stop stalling. Speak to Harry first. Mark the boundaries. If you truly care about him, then make him think… that you don’t.

The very thought of it was enough to suck her soul, but she wasn’t going to let five years of her sacrifice go to waste.

Several minutes later, she heard Lucien and Solomon returning. They were arguing again, this time about how ugly the other one was.

“You’re so ugly that when you got into the sandbox as a kid, cats tried to bury you,” said Solomon.

“You’re so ugly,” Lucien countered. “That when you were born, the term Shit Happens was invented.”

“You’re so ugly, that when you were born, the doctor took one look at you and slapped your parents.”

“You’re so ugly that when your parents saw you, they promised never to have sex with each other, ever again.”

“You’re so ugly that when you were kidnapped for ransom as a child, your parents paid the kidnappers to keep you.”

“You’re so ugly that when your parents brought you to see a freak show, the show manager gave you an application.”

“You’re so ugly that when you wank off, your hand complains it has a headache.”

“You’re so ugly…”

They were hopeless.

They lumbered into the cavern with three shrunken coffins. They were dripping wet where they stood.

Hermione took out her wand and flicked a drying spell in their direction. “Goodness, when did it start raining?”

“Was raining when we got up there,” Lucien said. “Hermione, you’re so ugly—“

“Tell me how ugly I am, Lucien,” she said sweetly. “I want you to.” If there was one good thing about her vampirism, it was her gaining a true appreciation of her looks. She might not have been much to look at as a human, but as a vampire, she was most assuredly stunning. While vampires retained their basic looks from their human selves, vampirism brought out one’s best assets while slowly scraping off the worse. The porcelain quality of one’s skin, the intensity in one’s eyes, the grace of movement was just part of it. Hermione had realized that through the years, the bush of her brown hair had become glossy, flattering locks of waves and curls, that she was aware of her good looks and that her vampiric vanity compelled her to pick the right clothes, the right shoes—heck, even the right accessories.

Modesty aside, there was simply nothing ugly about her anymore. She had even—on occasion—managed to force herself to use her feminine wiles to get certain Coven missions accomplished. She had found it surprisingly easy to befuddle the senses of men using her looks; it was the principle of the thing that made the Delilah-shtick hard to swallow. “Well, Lucien? I’m waiting.”

“Erm… I would be lying, of course…”

Solomon sneered. “Kiss ass. Hermione, your boy out there looks terribly forlorn. This seems like a good time to talk to him.”

She frowned. “My what?”

“You heard me. Get up there and see if it doesn’t thaw that cold little heart of yours.”

“My heart is not cold. It’s warm and filled with rainbows and butterflies.”

Lucien gagged.

Solomon just arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Well, if you say so.”

Rising from her seat, she turned her nose up at him. “Humph. This is so typical of you, Solomon,” she grumbled as she walked past him. “You tell me it’s my decision then you come to me with little gems like, ‘He’s so forlorn!’, ‘Have a heart!’, ‘Don’t be mean!’ Blah, blah, blah! That makes you worse than Lucien. At least he puts it out there. You resort to deceptive, malicious, underhanded, cheap devices.”

“Oy!”

“What?” She snapped. “What, Solomon?”

“I am NOT cheap!”

She dealt him a potent glare before she left them in the cavern. She’d show them.

She walked briskly through the dungeon hallways and up the stairs. Reaching the ground floor, she went in search of Harry.

It was easy to find him. She still remembered Grimmauld Place; still remembered where Harry went to brood. He liked brooding on the window seat of the living room.

She watched him for a moment as he stared out of the window.

As much as she hated to admit it, Solomon was right. Harry did look terribly forlorn.

She felt an aching need to ask him what was wrong and comfort him; tell him everything was going to be okay, but that would make the boundaries come crashing down. It wouldn’t do to show him she cared. It wouldn’t do to tell him that seeing him again made her distracted and… attracted.

Stifling a sigh, she made a sound so as not to startle him.

He didn’t turn to look. For what it was worth, at least he hadn’t developed a fear of her. She had wanted Harry to move on, but she had hoped that he would never think she’d ever hurt him. It seemed that at least in that, she had gotten what she wanted.

“Cold night,” she said, walking up beside him on the seat.

At first, he didn’t pull his gaze from the window, then his eyes were upon her, and they were taking her in, as if noting every detail: the red highlights in her hair, the flawless pale skin, her own eyes…

He shifted in his seat and she saw him tuck his wand deeper into his house robes. He had changed into more comfortable clothing. She could see nylon gym pants peeking at the bottom. His rubber shoes were worn out, but they looked comfortable. She wondered what he was going to do. He looked like he was going for a workout.

Maybe he goes to bed in gym pants. Kinda hot. Athletic Harry.

If she could scold herself, she would have. “You should be asleep at this hour,” she said, setting her own gaze to the window. She watched the droplets of rain sliding down the glass. “The boys and I will guard the house.”

Surely, that was the only reason he was awake.

“I don’t sleep at night anymore.”

She remembered back then, how he had reversed his hours so he could be with her. It was terribly sweet of him, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him to do otherwise. She had wanted to be with him, too. She had wanted to be with him always.

When she first left, missing him had been agony. She kept wishing that everything, from the time of Bill and Fleur’s wedding onward, was a bad dream she just hadn’t woken up from. And when she realized it was real, the hollow feeling in her heart thrummed with pain. It was uncanny how the littlest sound, the faintest scent, would remind her of him. How, when she heard someone climbing the stairs of the strange new house she was living in, she always fantasized it was Harry, come to rescue her from herself. Every knock on the door, every bespectacled human that crossed the threshold of the Coven mansion, every dark-haired, medium built man whose back was to her, was potentially Harry, finally finding her again. It was like that for several months, and by that time, she had formed some kind of friendship with the young man named Solomon who was, as of yet, completely oblivious to her suffering.

The months had turned to years, and many, many things happened to her between then and now, but Harry persisted in her thoughts; in her heart. She found herself constantly wishing that the next corner she turned would have her face to face with him, yet she dreaded it, too. Of course, it was never Harry, not even when they got to London.

Good Lord, she still missed him. Even standing right next to him, the urge to hold him; to touch him; was so strong that she wouldn’t, because if she did, she would completely lose it.

She forced a smile to her lips. “Try a coffin. Makes sleeping in the day much better.”

He stared at her, obviously a bit shocked, if not wondering if she was serious. Maybe she was half.

The soft chuckle that escaped him felt like a feather down her back.

“And I thought Lucien and Solomon had a twisted sense of humor,” he said.

He must have heard them telling each other how ugly they were. How embarrassing. “Oh, they’re consistently better at it than I am, but you always brought out the best in me, Harry.”

The moment she said it, she wished she could take it back.

Way to go with those boundaries, Hermione.

Her Freudian slips were going to be her undoing.

“Did I?” he asked. “Do I still?”

Tell him no. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t stop the surge of despair, especially seeing that wonderfully hopeful look in his eyes. How she wished she could give in to it. Throw her reservations to the wind; take what she wanted; be with him forever. She didn’t think she would ever feel a pain more potent than that day she left him, but now she realized that there was worse pain in loving someone and denying one’s self from showing it.

His eyes filled with desire. She could see it; remember it from those years when they would fall into each other’s passionate embrace, touch in the most intimate way and then finally come together to completion.

The ache in her heart traveled way down below where she could feel her yearning for him coalesce. The instinctive burst of pheromones threatened to overcome them both and she stopped it just before it perfumed the air around them.

Set the boundaries. Do it, before you lose it completely.

She began to speak in a whispered tone. “There is raging violence inside me. I’m not afraid of blood. I’m not afraid of death. And sometimes… I’m not even afraid to kill. That changes a person forever, Harry. I’m Hermione on the outside. I might even be Hermione on the inside. But my core… my soul… it’s not Hermione anymore. I’m a vampire; a monster. Some might say I’m condemned to hell.”

He shook his head. “You’re not a monster.”

Frighten him. Do what you have to do. Listen to his heart; his blood. You’re a vampire, aren’t you? So lust for his blood, already!

She listened for his pulse; followed the flow of his life. She heard it; felt it; and she wanted it.

“Harry… right now, I can hear your heartbeat. I hear your blood coursing through your veins. And I want to taste it so badly…” She was unable to stop that plaintive little plea from tainting her tone. She gave a sigh of such desperate longing that the pheromones escaped.

He saw him suck in a breath. He had felt it, and her own breath caught. It was overwhelming to see him needing her.

It’s not real. It’s just the pheromones. It’s just sex. Dammit!

She swallowed, berating herself for her moment of weakness.

His fascination for her was palpable. Was it just because it was her? Or was it also because she was a vampire?

She had heard the rumors about Harry immersing himself in London’s vamp-circle. By all accounts, there were no reports of his being a blood flunky, but London vamps seemed to have a grudging sort of respect for him, like he was some kind of dangerous human enigma.

He knew things about them, said the vamps. He played their game, said others. He’s not afraid of us, said many.

She wondered just how much Harry knew. She was certainly surprised when she heard about Henry’s association with Harry. Henry was Yasmin’s Guy Friday, and while Hermione never really bothered to get to know him more closely over the years, he was a constant presence. Now, knowing that Harry frequented Henry’s club, she had to wonder just how long the two had known each other.

Hermione was a bit afraid to know the answer. There were too many implications that she wasn’t sure she was ready to face.

She met his gaze and resisted its pull. She smiled to mask the panic in her heart. “It’s just vampire pheromones, Harry. You don’t want me. You just think you do. Lucien and Solomon can make you feel the same way if they wanted to, fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, they don’t swing that way.”

“You don’t need to use pheromones on me.”

She took his hand and he laced his fingers through hers, pulling her to him. “Feel that? My skin is cold. It does that when I need to feed. I warm up when I’ve drank.”

He knew this, of course, but he had to be reminded.

“Hermione, I—“

Oh, God. Don’t say it! She acted fast, her fingers hovering lightly over his lips. “Don’t say anything. Just don’t.”

She had said those words before; long ago, at number 4 Privet Drive. He was going to make love to her, and she was afraid that what he was going to say would shatter the intimacy they had let themselves share. Now, she was afraid his words would pull her back in, where she couldn’t turn back.

She slid her hand from his grasp. “I’m sorry, Harry, but it can’t ever be the way it used to be.”

And she had said it. It tore her up inside, but she had said it.

The look in his eyes did not make things the least bit easier. He looked so… devastated.

Oh, Harry, no…

How could he? After all these years? How could he love her still? After everything she’d done. After the abandonment… what was wrong with him?

Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s Harry. You fell in love with him because he was solid, and true, and he kept his promises…

She couldn’t deal with this right now. There was more to say; more to talk about, but that would have to wait for later, when she had a firmer grasp of her emotions; when she wasn’t in danger of crumbling inside and giving in to him.

Turning, she fled, leaving him in the cold and darkness of the living room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione only realized she was headed for the library when she got to the fourth floor landing. It amazed her that five years away from Grimmauld Place hadn’t diminished her old habits in the least.

Well, that’s just another habit you haven’t gotten rid of.

Stifling a sigh, she made for the library anyway. She was feeling terribly depressed and she needed comfort.

I could probably try to meditate… that would help.

She used to date a vamp; his name was Adrian, and he was into new age therapy: Meditation, Zen gardens and Tantric sex. She really thought she fancied him. She thought he was sensitive and selfless. Lucien thought he was gay. Solomon thought she was using him.

It turned out Solomon was right (Lucien was wrong) and that she was only into Adrian because she needed the meditation, Zen gardens and the sex (which was only Tantric up to a certain point, after which even Adrian would say, “Oh, sod it, let’s just screw.”)

It had never been like that for her when it came to the men she dated. She never used them like that. When she chose to have a relationship with these men, it was because she fancied them; could see herself having a relationship with them. She never was quite into casual sex. She’d had one of those and promised herself she would never do it again. She had felt terrible after she woke from it, and she had come home crying her heart out to dependable ol’ Solomon.

“I can’t believe I did this, Sol,” she had said through her tears. “It had no MEANING, and the first thing I thought when I woke up was that if I did it, then surely Harry would have A HOARD of witches in his bed… and it hurts to think that he would do that when making love used to mean so much to US.” It was the first time she ever spoke to Solomon about Harry, and since then, Solomon knew just how hung up Hermione was on the Boy Who Lived.

And so that was it as far as one-night-stands for her went, and the men she dated had come and gone. She’d broken up with them or she’d gotten dumped, and for the same reasons, too: She was holding back; she was distant; she wasn’t giving everything of herself. Poor Adrian was the only one who got dumped because she was using him. It was after Adrian that she supposedly made that “conscious decision” to abstain.

So far, she still believed the decision was “conscious”. But she had to wonder if she hadn’t lost her mind and unconsciously resolved to punish herself for what she had done to Adrian and her other ex-boyfriends.

Harry falls in that category, doesn’t he?

“Oh, God,” she muttered. If she wanted to punish herself for something, it would be her trespasses with Harry that would be at the top of the list.

She reached the library and went straight to her favorite table. Smiling fondly, she sat on one of the huge carved chairs as she ran her palms reverently over the glossy surface. There were a few books stacked on one side and she trailed her fingers down the spines.

It then occurred to her that the books were ones she’d never seen before.

Artifact Magic: The Correlation of Magic With Objects, The Meaning of Magic, Chronicles of Godric Gryffindor, and The Dark, the Light and the Gray: Magic In All Its Shades.

It had to belong to Remus. There was no other explanation.

Yet, she couldn’t help but wonder otherwise. Remus had always done his work in his study, so any books that he might have acquired would be stacked there, not in the library…

“They’re Harry’s,” said a voice from the door.

She turned, astonished that Ron had managed to let himself in without her knowing.

“He’s some kind of big reader, now,” Ron continued, walking further into the library. He rounded the table and stood across her, leaning his elbows on the high backrest of the chairs. “A lot of things about Harry have changed since you left.”

Hermione wondered if she should just sit there and let Ron talk. If he started calling her nasty names, she would take it. But her curiosity was piqued, and she was just glad Ron was speaking to her again, even if the topic was potentially explosive. “He’s read all of these?”

“I don’t think he’s done with all of them yet. Chronicles of Godric Gryffindor, I know he’s done with. See? It’s all flagged and marked. The other books he got because he had to crosscheck many things from Chronicles. I’m sure he’ll read through all of them, anyway. When Harry’s not working and doing… his other stuff, he stays here and reads.”

She hesitated and thought that if she was going to let Harry think she didn’t care about him, shouldn’t she be consistent and let Ron believe that same thing? But then Ron… she had no feelings of romantic love to hide from him.

“I’m sorry,” was what she said next. “I’m sorry I left, but I’d do it again if I have to.”

He glared at her and his eyes sparkled with such anger that she thought perhaps she should duck and hide beneath the table, but then the anger from his gaze waned, and he gave a weary sigh. Miserably, he sat himself down on one of the chairs and leaned back, frowning at her. “I know you’re sorry. You said that to me when you left, right here in the library, and you said it to me in your letter. Now you’re saying it again. I get it, alright? But I’m still angry with you. When I think about what you did, and what it did to Harry… and to me, it just makes me so mad. I want to keep telling you off, cutting you down, giving you shit for everything, but I’ve got a hoard of ladies I care about that would object to my behavior. There’s mum, and Tonks, and Ginny, and Fleur, and Gabrielle and Luna… blimey, the thought that they’d all lecture me for it is enough to make Voldemort stand in the corner and think about what he’s done!”

Hermione was astonished on so many levels. Fleur, Gabrielle and Luna? When did these women start to matter to Ron? Then again, it has been five years. And he called Voldemort by name!

Things have changed.

“I can’t even begin to describe to you what you should be sorry for, Hermione,” he continued. “But believe it or not, I understood why you did it, even if I think you could’ve decided otherwise, which is the root of my anger, of course.”

“Ron, that’s the difference between you and me, isn’t it? You thought I had an option. I didn’t see it that way.”

“Obviously.”

She was about to apologize again, but she bit her lip. “These five years haven’t been easy for me either.”

“Oh, really?”

Take it. You said you would. She nodded. “At least you and Harry had each other, and you had your family and everyone else… I was alone. I had no one.”

And that was true. That reality had driven her to very dark thoughts more times than anyone thought possible of her. To be alone and be aware of it so acutely was powerfully destructive. She had befriended Solomon, yes, and eventually Lucien, but the fact was they were apart from all of it, because they came after, and they couldn’t have possibly understood the depth of her pain. Solomon sympathized, and Lucien had experiences of his own, but they didn’t know who Harry was, or what he meant to her. They didn’t know Ron, or Remus, or McGonagall, or her parents…

Ron was quiet for a while. “You didn’t have to be alone. You could’ve gone back to us. We would have happily taken you back in.”

“Of course I knew that,” she replied softly. “So many times, I was tempted, but having promised my complete devotion to the Coven was the least of it. I told you why I had to go, in my letter. I told you why I had to stay away. My reasons haven’t changed.”

Ron sighed and shook his head. “They were just words to us, Hermione. It might have been a bit different if you told us to our face—“

“I couldn’t Ron. I didn’t have the strength to sit and explain everything to you and Harry, then take up my trunk to walk out the door as if it were all so easy. Leaving was essential; it had to be done, but if I was going to go, I had to go without the heart-to-heart talks, or else I never would have been able to leave. You tell me if you can walk out on Harry when he—when he has that look on his face. You know that look, don’t you? That thing in his eyes that tells you he loves you, and that he would never hurt you, so why would you hurt him?”

Ron rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “Yeah. I know that look. He’d used it on me once before, when I told him—when I told him to move on and forget about you.”

She felt a stab of pain from that, but it was something she would’ve wanted said to Harry. She nodded. “I loved him so much, so you explain to me how I was supposed to walk out on that without losing my resolve.”

“And so it was easier to walk out on me,” he said softly.

She gave him an apologetic look. “I wasn’t supposed to see you, either. But then you showed up. It wasn’t easy, but I had to admit, having you hex me distracted me enough to walk out of that door.”

“That’s just great.”

“I didn’t love you any less, Ron, just differently. You understand that, don’t you?”

He scoffed softly, but he didn’t say anything contrary.

“And now I’m back,” she said. “And if it had been up to me, I wouldn’t be here, but Yasmin is a bitch with a sick sense of humor, so here I am.”

“Why do you follow her, then? If she’s so terrible?”

“Because a lot of the time, she stands for what I believe in. She may be cold, and conniving and twisted, but she keeps things in order. I’ve been ordered to execute rogue vampires, save human lives and keep the human-vamp balance.”

“A prefect with fangs.”

She chuckled. “You can say that. I get things done because she gets things done. She’s brilliant, and while I admit, I have no idea what drives her, exactly, she’s got solid principles. It makes her both reassuring and frightening.”

“You admire her.”

“To a certain extent. I have to believe in what she does so that I can believe in what I’m doing, Ron. If I didn’t believe in all this, I wouldn’t be in this career.”

Ron laughed. “Career. That’s one way to call it.”

She could appreciate the humor of it. “And you… what’s your career?”

He raised an eyebrow, instantly letting her know that he knew she was trying to steer the subject to safer waters. “I keep dragons.”

That surprised her. “Like Charlie?”

“Like Charlie. It’s an interesting job. It pays reasonably. And it’s flexible enough that I could be on-call with the Order. One second I’m rounding up Chinese Fireballs and the next minute I’m in Diagon Alley hexing Death Eaters and werewolves.”

“I always thought you would join a Quidditch team.”

“Oh, did you? You never thought much of my Quidditch skills.”

She blushed. That was true, but it didn’t mean she wouldn’t have supported him if he wanted to try to get into a team. “Well, you don’t have to be a player… a manager, maybe. You’d make a brilliant coach.”

It was his turn to blush. “Yes, well… it seems silly to have a Quidditch career in the middle of all this…”

“Other people have gone on with Quidditch careers anyway.”

“I’m in too deep in this war, Hermione. My… my whole family’s involved in it. Percy’s dead and Fred’s been in a coma for a year…”

She never knew that. Oh, my God. “Oh, Ron… oh, Ron… dear, I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t call me dear. You never showed you cared in the last five years, so no, you don’t get to use endearments.”

Hermione pursed her lips. Boy. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was still mad at me.

“But thanks,” Ron grudgingly added. “Percy was a prat, but he was still my brother. Didn’t realize it until he died, yeah, but oh well…” The sadness in his voice was evident. “And Fred… George swears he’s improving, but… honestly, Hermione, I haven’t noticed the difference. The healer told us that if Fred ever wakes up, his mind might be irreparable anyway. George is… I listen to him sometimes, talking as if Fred were still with us. George celebrates their birthday in the hospital… it’s—it’s rather heartbreaking, to tell you the truth. None of us want to admit it, but we’ve all accepted Fred’s condition, that he might never wake up. George is the only one who really believes anymore. I’m just afraid how George will take it if—if the worse happens, you know? I’ve been spending a lot of time with him, just to make sure he doesn’t get pushed off the deep end—“ He suddenly stopped, and he stared at Hermione in amazement.

Her brows knotted, jolted by the sudden silence. She had been listening so intently; feeling sympathy and compassion for Ron’s and George’s plight. “Is there something the matter?”

For a moment, Ron sat still, saying nothing. Then he sighed, shaking his head as he slumped in his seat. “I’m telling you these things and I just realized… it feels good to talk to someone—to you. Merlin, I missed you, Hermione. I missed you.”

It warmed her so much to hear him say it. “I missed you, too, Ron.”

“I’m still mad at you, though.”

That was fine. She was just grateful that he still felt friendship for her. “Yes, yes. You’re completely entitled to that.”

“Just so we’re clear.”

“Crystal clear.”

“Around here… well, we’re all men, and Tonks’ feminine attributes are all directed at Remus, not to mention the fact that there’s a constant danger of getting mocked by Malfoy… talking seems emaciating.”

“Don’t you mean emasculating?”

“That, too.”

Hermione stifled a roll of her eyes. Nice to know some things have stayed the same. “Well, you could always talk to Ginny, right?”

“I talk to her about a lot of things, but she’s coping with the whole George and Fred thing, too.”

“Ah, yes. Co-dependence can be a bitch.”

“What did you call it?”

“Co-dependence, but that’s not important right now. I understand what you mean.”

Ron nodded, satisfied. “Luna listens, but sometimes, she’s so yampy I’m not sure if she’s seeing the entire picture, you know? Still, I have to admit, she’s really been there.”

There it was again: Luna Lovegood. Sure, she went with them to the Department of Mysteries, but since when has Ron—

Five years, Granger. Remember?

Right.

“Then there’s Gabrielle.”

Hermione was again confused about where Gabrielle fit into all this, but she continued to listen. She was just glad Ron was opening up to her again so soon.

“She’s very compassionate of the entire situation. She always sends George homemade French pastries. She’s so sweet. But I don’t feel like I ought to be saddling her with these things. She insists that I can talk to her about it, but I’d rather not. I don’t want her carrying the burden with me. You understand why you’re different, don’t you, Hermione? You understand why it was so difficult to have you gone. It’s not just because we needed you, but because you were part of us. The three of us, remember? We were going to stick to each other until the end…”

It pained her to listen, but she wouldn’t hurt him again for the world and tell him she didn’t want to talk about it. “Things changed when I died, Ron. Things changed when I became a vampire.”

“They sure did,” he said quietly.

They fell silent, and Hermione was most pleased to note that it wasn’t as uncomfortable as one would expect.

“Aren’t you going to ask me about Harry?” he suddenly said.

No, because I’m rather afraid of the answers. Yes, because I want to hear you tell me he’s fine, and that he was able to do important things because I wasn’t there to hold him back.

“What’s he been doing?” she asked softly.

“He’s an auror. Did you know that?”

She smiled slightly. “Just recently, actually. It’s what he always wanted, isn’t it?”

Ron shrugged. “He’s really good at it. I think he would’ve wanted to pursue a Quidditch career, but being an auror works out for him in many ways. He’s amazing. He does things ten times better than everyone else and he’s not afraid of anything… well, he did admit he ran away from a vampire with a sword, once, but only because a vamp with a sword—“

“It’s suicide. He’s using his head. That’s good.”

“Yeah. I think that’s what sets him apart the most. He’s really intelligent when the situation calls for it. He doesn’t act so much on impulse as he once used to, but he’s got the sharpest wits I’ve ever seen in the direst of circumstances. There was this one instance where a werewolf caught Charlie. I swear I thought I was going to lose another brother, Hermione. But Harry just—I’m not sure how he did it, but he used magic to levitate a motorcycle. Whacked it right at the wolf. I mean, I’ve never really seen anyone levitate anything to hit someone with. Sure, some have tried, but there’s this accuracy problem, usually. Harry just had it under control… moving his hand about as if—you know how those puppeteers hold the strings? It was like that, the way Harry moved that thing around. He beat the werewolf with it, just before Harry finished him off with a sword.”

Hermione stifled a shiver at the thought of Harry in full-battle, sword and magic moving with him. “I’ve seen him use that sword. He knows how.”

“He doesn’t like it much, though. He prefers using a crossbow, but then crossbows have a tendency to run out of arrows.”

She chuckled. “Crossbows… how archaic. Why not use guns?”

“The magic makes them do crazy things. Even when we spell them to resist magic, it only works for one or two rounds. After that, the gun goes berserk and actually breaks down from within. It can’t take the magic.”

She nodded. “That’s true, which is why vamps fashion their own guns. None of those muggle-made manufactured ones. It’s expensive, but it’s necessary. Besides, Yasmin could afford it.”

From the start of production to its completion, the guns were designed to resist magic. The materials used to make the guns repelled the destructive effects of magic. After the parts were assembled, the guns were ‘cured’ just before they were enchanted and prepped for use. The guns last for about a year to a year and a half, but that was still a lot better than one or two rounds.

Ron shrugged. “We don’t like guns, anyway. We all feel we can’t trust them.”

“Oh, well. Whatever works. So, Harry’s some kind of a Super-Auror.”

“Well, not super. Brilliant, yeah, but a lot of times, the most amazing things he does doesn’t even involve magic. So, he gets hurt a lot. He’s gotten hurt more times than any of us because he takes these insane risks. One time, he had to pretend to be a Death Eater hostage. This junior D.E. wanted out but we needed him to lead us to a key Death Eater, and Harry would be his bargaining chip. You know what Harry did? He stabbed himself just to make it seem believable. I mean—Harry’s crazy. Not the first time I wondered if Harry didn’t want to get done in for real…”

Hermione wasn’t sure if she knew what to say about that.

“But he gets the job done. It’s like—It’s like he thinks outside of the box. He’s unorthodox and… and he’s just mental.”

She couldn’t help but smile with a certain amount of pride. “That’s Harry…”

Ron grinned. “Ask me who his partner is.”

She chuckled. “I thought you were.”

“Oh, that’s a given, but I mean officially. In the auror department.”

“Who?”

“Seamus Finnigan.”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. I’ll tell you, he’s a lucky bastard. If it weren’t for Harry, bloke would’ve been dead a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t sound as if Seamus is very competent.”

“Now, that’s just mean, Granger.”

“What! But you said—“

“Well, perhaps I was being unfair to Seamus. Seamus wouldn’t be stumbling in the path of danger so much if his partner wasn’t so bloomin’ insane.”

Hermione paused to give it a thought. It was interesting how Harry looked nothing like this daredevil, super-skilled, fearless evil-fighter.

He walks around in worn trainers, for goodness’ sake! And baggy pants!

But then back in their Hogwarts days, he had been all those things, hadn’t he? Just that it seemed, or perhaps he made it seem, like he was just terribly lucky to get out of it alive. Perhaps now that he was properly trained, he just looked so much more put together about it. She certainly saw how willing he had been to take on five werewolves. He had shown no signs of backing down. He was going to take them on. She couldn’t fathom how he was going to do it without having at least one limb torn off, but Harry had apparently believed he could manage it. He probably could, anyway, whether she believed it or not. Too bad she was unable to stand by and watch.

“Surely,” she began nonchalantly. “He gets his just rewards for all that, doesn’t he?”

Ron peered at her questioningly, his eyebrow raising. “Just rewards?”

“Well… commendation…”

“Are you kidding? He’s got half-a-drawer-full of Ministry-issued plaques in his room!”

“He keeps them in a drawer?”

“Inside his armoire. Third one from the top.”

“That’s hilarious.”

“Oh, you know Harry. If he could, he’d stay under his invisibility cloak all day, everyday.”

“That’s true. But I didn’t mean medals and recognition and such.”

“What did you mean, then?”

“Well… surely he has… admirers for being all that…”

Oh, dear God, Granger. You DID NOT just fish for information… oh, well.

Ron’s eyebrow arched again before he cleared his throat. “I reckon you have to ask him about that.”

“You don’t know?”

“It’s not that I don’t know. It’s just that I’d rather it didn’t come from me, is all.”

Hermione’s breath hitched. She tried not to associate this new piece of information to that time she broke down about her one-night-stand. She had asked the question, therefore she should accept the answer, whatever it was. “That many, huh?”

“Many? I wouldn’t call it that. I’d really rather not go into detail. You should really ask him. I’m sure he’d be most willing to tell you… if you care, that is…”

Hermione glared at him. Oh, no, you don’t. “It’s not important, really. I was just curious.”

“Curious is fine, I guess. Just make sure he understands that your curiosity doesn’t mean anything. Are you getting me, Hermione?”

She stared at him, realizing there was an undertone, now.

He glared at her. “I won’t let you hurt him again.”

“I’m not going to.”

“You’re not hearing me. I had to tell him you’d left him. I had to make him realize that you didn’t want to come back. I had to watch him struggle with the insecurity of everyone he loved getting hurt, or dying, or leaving. Do you understand?”

She’d never seen Ron with so much controlled conviction. In the past, Ron would come out with bursts of righteous indignation, but this was different. He had given this a lot of thought, and now he was laying it out like terms on a negotiating table. She nodded gravely. “I understand, Ron. So you don’t have to worry about me.”

“We’ll see if you understand. I’ll be keeping a close eye on you, and if I see that you don’t understand, I’m going to make Harry understand that you are being a bitch and that you don’t care about him at all.”

She trembled with rage at Ron’s harsh assessment of her, and she wanted to yell at him, tell him he had no right to say such things to her, but then she had called this upon herself, hadn’t she? Ron was being Harry’s best friend, because she had relinquished that privilege of being Ron’s best friend five years ago.

She took hold of her anger and stamped it down, calming herself. “Fine. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Ron.”

He nodded, rising from his seat. “I’ve to go. I’ve an early day tomorrow.”

“Good night, then.”

Ron left, and when Hermione heard the door to the library close, she leaned over the table and buried her face in her arms. When had Ron learned to tell her off? This was the sort of thing she hadn’t been looking forward to when Yasmin told her this mission was hers.

It happened two days ago.

Yasmin simply stated that she wanted Hermione to meet up with Harry in Cicero’s old office building. Hermione had, up until that point, employed every means necessary to be careful that she and Harry didn’t accidentally run into each other while she was in London. She had been successful all three and a half weeks, and she thought that the only thing that could possibly change that winning streak was ill-humored fate. Well, fate wasn’t just ill-humored, it was a goddamn fucking bitch in fishnet stockings and silver-plated stilettos.

The fury Hermione felt when Yasmin told her was so potent that she actually let loose a string of explosive magic; mostly accidental, but certainly driven by an intent to inflict pain. Hermione thought she might have destroyed seven hundred years worth of history as she exploded Ming vases all around; she was that angry. In response, Yasmin had, quite calmly, knocked her back to her senses with a right hook that would have broken a human’s neck. Hermione, being a vampire, had merely staggered at the blow, silver spots dancing in her line of vision.

Shortly after she regained her senses, Yasmin took her by the collar of her shirt and slammed her up against the wall while she held a scroll in front of Hermione’s face. They were the details of the mission and Hermione was expected to follow it to the letter. “You will undertake this mission. Believe it or not, I’m making you do this because you’re the best one for the job. Your sappy, ill-fated romance and the emotional chaos it will create is just a perk—for me, at least. Now quit throwing a tantrum and do as you’re told.”

Hermione hadn’t said anything to counter her, of course. It was a tad difficult to raise an argument when Yasmin was tossing her around like that, but a million thoughts, particularly concerning Harry and Ron, raced through her head. She wanted to yell at Yasmin and say, “How the hell am I the best one for this job? Do you know how much emotional baggage will need to be unloaded just so this whole mission doesn’t get fucked up from the get go?”

The operative word at the time was “wanted”, and as the saying went, “We don’t always get what we want.”

She said nothing, and she took the mission (as if she had a choice), raging and ranting at Lucien and Solomon when she got back to their flat. She wasn’t sure if they even listened to her. They were watching a recording of their favorite Soap Opera Women of Manchester. Apparently, Hermione’s drama was nothing to Woodrow Longshank’s affair with his secretary who was the former girlfriend of his daughter (secretly a lesbian and using Heathe Mansfield, their next door neighbor’s son, as a cover for her sexual orientation) and was deviously conspiring with his wife to catch him in the act of infidelity, thus turning him into Dead Meat when the divorce settlement came around. Lucien had cardboard signs rallying for H.L.A. (Hot Lesbian Action) as if they were in some football game and Solomon was renouncing the sordid manipulations women inflicted on their men.

In retrospect, perhaps both Lucien and Solomon had heard enough about what Yasmin called her “sappy, ill-fated romance” with Harry.

This is only the beginning, she told herself as she rose from the solace of her arms.

Wearily, she left the library, cursing Yasmin’s good name as she went.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione sighed to express her exasperation and stopped in the middle of the dark hallway. She had been walking around the house for a little bit more than hour now just trying to clear her head. It had helped a little, and now she was ready to be her domineering self again.

She cocked her hip and mounted her hand on it in her irritation. “For God’s sake, Lucien, what’s with the cloak and dagger, shite? It’s not like I couldn’t sense you, you know?”

No reply came.

“Lucien, I don’t have time for this.”

There was silence for another heartbeat before a distant voice finally broke through. “Oh, sure. Don’t want to interrupt your spectacularly busy schedule. It’s such a job strutting aimlessly down hallways.”

Hermione waited for him to finish and emerge. He did.

“How did you know it was me?” he asked, pouting. “I so turned off my aura.”

She rolled her eyes. “For the last time, turning off your presence is not your vampire power.”

“I swear, I have it! I used to, at least.”

“Whatever. Why are you stalking me?”

“For practice.”

She kept her temper in check. “Okay… did you want to talk to me, besides?”

“As a matter of fact, I did! You’re so smart. No wonder you’re our leader.”

“I swear, Lucien, if you don’t start telling me what it is—“

He laughed, pleased with himself. “I saw your boy on the fifth floor.”

“You and Solomon have got to stop calling him that. He’s not my ‘boy’. He’s Harry, and he’s not my anything. Not anymore, at least.”

“Yes, yes. Whatever. He’s got a gym up there, did you know?”

Her eyebrow arched. The gym was new. “No. And how is this my business?”

“Don’t you want to see him all hot and sweaty?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “I’ve seen him hot and sweaty. We used to have sex, remember? He was beautiful. What’s your point?” If Lucien was going to be an ass, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

Lucien chuckled, probably seeing right though her, but as was his wont, it didn’t seem to bother him in the least. “You’re right. He is beautiful, so I watched him, like the voyeur that I am.”

“Lord… I swear, Lucien, no one can creep me out like you can. I’d hit you, but that’ll only turn you on.”

“For what it’s worth, it’s scary that you know me so well. Shall I go on?”

“God forbid… but sure. Go on.”

“I caught him warming up. When he was done with that, he animated a dummy. Used it to spar with.”

She nodded. It was impressive, to say the least. Spelling a dummy for sparring was no common skill. It required combinations of algorithmic arithmancy, transfiguration and charms that would enable an inanimate wooden replica of a person to move, strike and block. The spell was designed to have the dummy respond to the caster and no one else. This was the reason why dummies couldn’t be used in battle to make armies, but they were handy for practice. Hermione could understand why Harry would find the spell useful.

“That’s nice,” she said nonchalantly. “Was he any good?”

Lucien chuckled. “Quite. You should go see for yourself… it would be useful for what you were sent here to do, wouldn’t it?”

She frowned. She hadn’t told Lucien about that part of the mission. How the hell did he know? Then again, he may just be fishing for information. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Quit wasting my time and go back to the dungeon.”

“It’s boring down there.”

“Not my problem.”

“There are more humans in this house… I’m thinking I’d like to scare a few of them…”

“Absolutely not.” Then she remembered Draco. “Though it would be nice if you find the pretty platinum blonde one and scare him shitless… you know what? Never mind. Leave them all alone.”

“Oooh! Back story! Did he used to be yours?”

“Ugh. Not nearly.”

“So can I—“

“No. Behave yourself, Lucien. And I do mean behave in the real sense, not the naughty sense. Be good.”

He grinned, fangs and all. There was no escaping the blasted sexual innuendos. “Oh, I am, chica. I’m very good.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes… now off you go. I’ve things to do.”

Lucien was gone.

When she couldn’t feel his presence any longer, she paused and gave what he told her some thought.

There were many reasons for her to watch Harry in training, the least of which was because he was dead hot when engrossed in such exertions.

She had to see how he moved; gauge his skill; see what he could do. She had to be prepared for him, after all. And when she had assessed him thoroughly, understood the extent of his capabilities, she would take him on, one on one.

He wouldn’t stand a chance in hell.

Aside from all that, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to try this talking thing again, preferably without her losing control and unraveling at the seams.

You can do this, Granger.

Try this ONE MORE TIME.

And… here we go.

She hastened to the fifth floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Okay, so I started with the “talk” in this one, but it didn’t pan out exactly the way Hermione planned (what, you thought it would happen in one nice talk? Absolutely not! Hehe). So the next chapter will have her trying again. The talks that will follow after this will be mostly unplanned. And we finally get to the horcrux-war-Voldie stuff in the chapters after this one.

19. Chapter Eighteenth: Spar

Author’s note: To the reader who said that Harry was bumbling. The comment’s duly noted! There’s still a bit of that here, but after Harry’s heartbreaking talk with her, I’d expect Harry is beginning to realize that he had cut her enough slack.

I’ve made a compilation of the questions you’ve all been asking me, with the proper answers, of course. You can check it out in my LJ here: Quill-Pushing Geek. You might catch something in there. You never know!

Lady Diamond had excellent timing sending this. ^_^ Thank you Lady Diamond!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

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Chapter Fifth: Spar

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry ducked from his doppelganger’s swing and threw a punch that connected with the dummy’s side. Harry followed it up by throwing an elbow to his face. His elbow landed on the dummy’s nose with a crunch and if Harry had configured the simulation-spell to react to pain, the dummy would’ve been on its knees right now, clutching at its injury, but Harry figured he didn’t need a sparring partner that complained or got defeated by pain. He had a lot of pent up frustrations to let out and the longer his opponent could keep going, the better.

The dummy did a three hundred sixty degree turn in an attempt to catch Harry from behind, but Harry grabbed his wrist just in time, twisted his arm and subsequently snapped it, complete with the sickening sound of breaking bone. There was no pain etched on the dummy’s face, but the rest of him reacted realistically enough for Harry to make his follow through. He knocked the dummy’s feet from beneath it and sent it crashing to the floor. Harry planted his knee on the dummy’s back and grabbed the other arm, forcing the dummy’s wrists together behind him while Harry cast a binding spell to incapacitate him.

Harry moved back to the edge of the practice-mat as the life-like visage of the dummy faded into its true self: screwed together round and cylindrical pieces of wood.

Panting from his last exertion, Harry took a few seconds to recover his breath as he unceremoniously wiped the sweat from his brow with the collar of his shirt. He had already worked up a sweat from his rather intense warm up, but sparring was what really pushed him.

He looked briefly at the leather punching bag hanging towards the back of the large room. It hung still with no evidence of the beating Harry gave it only twenty minutes ago. The names of the worse Death Eaters were scribbled by permanent “magic” marker on the bag’s surface: Antonin Dolohov, Lucius Malfoy, Agustus Rookwood, Rodolphus Lestrange, Fenrir Greyback, Rabastan Lestrange, Walden Macnair and even Bellatrix Lestrange. Especially Bellatrix Lestrange.

“Psycho spell-damaged bitch…” Ron had muttered as he scribbled: Bellatrix sucks You-Know-Who’s You-Know-What.

She was, by all accounts, Voldemort’s right-hand, surpassing even Lucius. Lucius was useful, but Bellatrix was trustworthy, from Voldemort’s point of view, at least. Harry just thought she was psychotic.

So the punching bag had suffered abuse from everyone who happened to use the home gym. Even Tonks liked giving the bag a piece of her mind.

But as satisfying as it was to “let the Old Bag have it” (a rather off-color joke that Remus told during the full-moon, after which Tonks blatantly ignored him for the better part of a whole week… full-moon or not, she didn’t have to stand for it), the split second decision-making practiced in a good spar was ultimately more life saving, and given that Harry’s dummy was patterned after himself, it couldn’t get any better.

Harry reset the dummy and it was up again, trading punches, arm locks, and take downs, knees and elbows, and the occasional kick. Harry had once set the dummy to employ every means necessary to incapacitate him. He learned quickly enough that setting no parameters had the dummy aiming and landing kicks to his family jewels. There was—Harry said—no need to go that far. He limited the use of ball-busting kicks instead of disabling it completely because, after all, someone was bound to use it on him one of these days and he had to know how to deflect, dodge, and, if the kick connected, go on fighting in spite of the pain.

Twice a week, Harry opted to spar with swords, turning up the speed. He limited the fatality option, though. He didn’t want his head sliced off in training, not to mention the headlines on the Daily Prophet: Harry Potter Slain: Dummy Decapitates Dummy!

Exclamation point. Because Lord knows they’d forget the exclamation point.

And so Harry lost himself to the dance, welcoming the distraction it gave him from his hurt (shattered, really) feelings of Hermione’s cold treatment of him. He didn’t have to think of her now, and he didn’t have to think about what would or had become of them. He could get to all the important Order concerns later, after he’d trained.

He didn’t know how long he’d been at it when he heard a sound at the door. He wasn’t going to break his concentration, but he saw her at the corner of his eye and his focus went poof.

The dummy socked him on the jaw, kneed him in the gut and elbowed him on the back.

Harry fell gasping on the floor, shocked by the brutality of his doppelganger. The dummy was already preparing to kick him while he was down when Harry managed to rasp out, “Finite incantatem!”

The dummy re-transfigured itself, back to its original form. It crumpled to the ground in a heap.

Harry caught his breath, the heat rising in his cheeks not necessarily induced by pain and exhaustion.

It was while he struggled to recover that he heard her voice from the sidelines. “Alright there, Harry?”

She didn’t sound as concerned at he would have liked.

Pushing himself off the floor and panting for breath, Harry nodded, ignoring the tingling on his face, gut and spine as he tried to get up with reasonable dignity. “Never better,” he managed to say.

He looked up at her and saw that she had an amused smirk on her lips as her eyes roved over him.

He was too embarrassed by his faux pas to relish the fact that she was checking him out. He frowned. “Enjoying yourself, are you?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, arching an eyebrow. The smirk persisted. “You were doing quite well. What happened?”

“D’you have to ask me that?”

“Yes. I’m a vampire. I thrive on constant affirmation.”

Harry sighed, walking gingerly to one of the benches and picking up his towel as he sat. He ran the towel over his face and head just before draping it over his shoulder and drinking from his water bottle. He didn’t feel much like answering her question. “So… came to finish what you started? Grind my heart to finer bits, maybe? Think you missed a spot?”

He found it surprisingly easy and—as Ron so aptly put—cathartic.

She had the grace to look ashamed of herself before accepting it with a resigned nod. “Feel better?”

“Hell, no. I’m just getting warmed up for another fight. I’m training, you see.”

“Right,” she said with a barely discernible sigh. “Speaking of fight training… I shouldn’t have been able to distract you so easily, even if I had walked in here wearing nothing but my boots.”

He gave her a pointed eyebrow arch. Smooth, Hermione. Nice distraction. He decided to bite, for the meantime. “Tall order, but if you’re willing to run that by me for real and see if I could manage, I’m all for it. You know me: Always up for the challenge.”

She stared at him, blinking rapidly. It was the only indication that she was surprised at all. “My, my… didn’t even blush when you said that.”

Harry decided he would let her try to figure that out. He changed the subject. “It’s almost sunrise. Shouldn’t you be getting ready to sleep?”

If she was aware of the change, she didn’t make a show of it. “It’s an hour, yet, and if I have to endure one more second of Lucien and Solomon’s idiotic banter about—“

“Who’s uglier?”

“Heard that, did you?”

He shrugged. “It was entertaining.”

“Ugh. You should hear their Your Mother Is So Fat routine. It’s disgusting.”

At this point, Harry wondered if he could lull her into a false sense of security before springing her with the heavy, angst-ridden stuff.

“So… how did you meet them?” he asked, taking this time to recover from the beating his body and pride had just taken. “Rampaging troll?”

She cast him a dry look. “Nothing like that. Solomon and I were training partners. I was training for the Coven and he was training for the Brotherhood of Ramses. He was my first vamp friend.”

“I thought Cicero was.”

She shook her head. “Cicero was important to me, but he wasn’t my friend. He was my therapist.”

Harry nodded. “And so Solomon was your first vamp friend. Go on.”

“We worked well together, and just before we finished training, he had decided he was going to go where I went. The Coven and the Brotherhood are affiliated, so it wasn’t really much of a problem making the transfer official. Solomon’s the nicest vampire I know. Relative to our kind, of course. He could still be a pretty vicious killer…”

Harry conceded it with a slight tilt of his head. “Sure. And Lucien? Where’d you pick him up?”

“You sound like my dad when I brought home ugly stray cats from school.”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully. “Cats, I like. It’s those pesky vampires that get to me.”

“Right. Lucien was sort of a stray cat. He showed up at the front door of our flat all shivering and horrifying. He really did look like a decaying corpse.”

“Whose flat?”

“Mine and Solomon’s.”

And just like that, she had sprung the angst-ridden stuff on him.

He took a deep breath to steady that flash of jealousy and resentment that had been building on imaginary images for years. “You lived together,” he managed to say in a controlled voice.

Her expression didn’t change. “Not romantically. We tried that. It didn’t work.”

That’s just wonderful. Malfoy, you sick son-of-a-bitch, you knew, or you did whatever the hell you did when you want to sow mistrust and intrigue and heartbreak. “When you say tried—“

“We’d been friends for a year and a half at the time and he—well, he just asked me out. So we went out, and as the rule goes, third date is for sex—“

There’s a rule? thought Harry incredulously.

“—but it… we couldn’t do it.”

Harry was definitely in the mood to be spiteful. “What’s the matter? He couldn’t get it up?”

She shot him a scowl. “There’s nothing wrong with his equipment.”

It was said with such certainty—with every connotation of having proven this to be true beyond a sliver of doubt—that Harry instantly knew that he had brought this particular scourge upon himself. He didn’t need details like that. Hearing her talk about another ex-boyfriend was painful enough.

“In fact,” she continued, glaring at him malevolently. “It was working quite well when we were snog—“

“Well, that’s all very interesting,” he said hastily, his voice a tad pitched. “But you can move along, if it’s all the same to you.”

She sniffed haughtily before continuing. “We waited too long, perhaps. It felt wrong. Kind of like how it probably would have been for me and Ron. Besides, Lucien was already around to make it… very unromantic. The stupid love songs really killed it.”

Harry realized that all of a sudden, Lucien wasn’t as bad as he thought. “Lucien had been with you for how long already then?”

“Six months. When I first took him in, I just—well, I don’t know. He was alone, and sick. I felt sorry for him. I said I would only let him stay until he was better and could go back out there on his own, but… well, obviously, he didn’t leave and I suppose he’d grown on me.”

He couldn’t help it. What she said pleased him. “Always helping the needy and oppressed.”

She turned away from him slightly. “Yes, well… I seem to have a thing for strays…”

He saw a flicker in her eyes, like a very painful memory struggling to break the surface. And then it was gone, her eyes gone cold again. He wanted that flicker of emotion back; evidence that she hadn’t completely encased their past in thick ice.

What is it, Hermione? What had brought you such pain? Was that pain for me? Or was it for somebody else?

Before he could think more on it, she spoke. “I haven’t really fought for any particular cause in the last five years. I’ve spent it ridding Europe of rogue vampires, werewolves and the humans who help them.”

“Sounds like my job.”

“It does, doesn’t it? But I do it for the survival of my kind, so that nobody gets the bright idea of launching a worldwide campaign to exterminate us.”

He looked at her thoughtfully. “Is that why Yasmin is considering joining this war? Because she doesn’t want the separatists giving humans a reason to kill you all?”

“That’s part of it,” she replied, nodding gravely. “But mostly, I think Yasmin still believes in keeping things balanced. There’s a reason why vampire forefathers didn’t just take over the world by turning everyone they could. Humans are essential to vampire prosperity; our quality of life means everything to us. We’re vain and materialistic. We can’t help it, but aside from humans supplying us with blood, having too many vampires dilutes the mystique, and we don’t want that. The mystique makes it possible for us to strike fear; to fascinate; to mesmerize… there is great power in all that, and power is the only thing that vampires crave just as much as blood. Power gives us a great many things that make our immortal lives worth living. Humans need not be conquered and enslaved to give us what we need, and ultimately, making it an issue complicates matters. Letting humans live their lives as usual makes them better for it. We are better for it. Living in harmony with humans gives us more power in the long run. Taking over humanity is a poor utilization of valuable resources, if not a short-lived power high.”

“Sounds like you have a cause.”

“Not exactly the same as freeing elves. You didn’t see me killing wizards because they kept elves in their homes.”

Harry conceded the point, letting his resentment share space with his sheer need to reconnect with her on some level. He watched her for a moment, gauging how she felt about her so-called job. He needed to know if he could still read her in spite of the impassive mask she put on. He could barely make it out, but he still knew some of her, even if a lot of her might have changed. He brought up something that had been nagging him for years. “You didn’t want this job before, did you? When you first got back from the hospital after you were turned, you told me that a woman had offered you a job you might consider. It was Yasmin, wasn’t it? And you talked to Yasmin soon after that. It was why you knew her and her Blood Kin in the forest.”

She seemed slightly astonished. “You remember all that?”

“I keep a pensieve.”

“Clever of you. And to answer your question about Yasmin, yes, I did talk to her before I met her in the forest. I spoke to her that night I got back from St. Mungo’s. You and Ron were asleep at the time.”

He gave a bitter snort. “As my luck would have it, of course.”

“And yes,” she continued, ignoring his comment. “I didn’t want this job before, but perhaps not for the things you’d expect of me. I did tell Yasmin at first that I didn’t want to be in the business of killing anyone, even vampires, but my main reason at the time was that accepting the job would take me away from you and Ron. Not in the physical sense, of course. When I was speaking to her, I assumed that the training would be somewhere in London, where I could go home to Grimmauld Place every morning after training. So it wasn’t about moving somewhere and leaving you. It was about my humanity; about clinging to it. Affiliating myself with the Coven meant I was embracing my vampirism and alienating you and Ron from my world. I wasn’t ready to do that. I wasn’t ready to give up my humanity completely. Besides that, I didn’t like it that Yasmin was implying how, sooner or later, I would have to give up on you, as if it was some logical outcome. As it turned out she was right about you, my life, my vampirism… and I don’t have that many qualms about taking lives, either. I am what I am. The after-death was a lot less complicated when I accepted that.”

“Well, you’ve succeeded in alienating us, quite well.”

She furnished a bitter smile of her own. “You know me. I couldn’t allow myself to fail at anything.”

“Oh? Our relationship wasn’t exactly Nobel Prize worthy, if you ask me.”

Her eye twitched ever so slightly. “Our relationship didn’t fail. It ended. As far as I was concerned, I did the right thing for you breaking it off.”

“The right thing for me? The right THING? Let me explain something to you, Hermione. Before you decided to do the right thing, I’d lost my parents, my godfather, my mentor and a whole chunk of what was supposed to be a happy childhood, not to mention the fact that whether I wanted it or not, the weight of the entire wizarding world was—and still is, mind you—on my shoulders, so excuse me if I’m a bit insistent that you make me understand how you, the woman I love and the proverbial light of my dark, dreary life, decided the right thing for me was to fucking leave me while I was in a fucking coma and saddling someone else—RON—with the burden of telling me you’d gone. I don’t think I have to fucking tell you that I’m still rather fucking sore about it, because you fucking understand, don’t you? You’re the brightest fucking witch of our age!”

Well, that had felt good. The profanity, in particular, made it extremely satisfying.

She frowned, which was—Harry thought—an incredibly put together reaction. He had expected that she would slap him for that last bit, but she didn’t. She just stood there and took it. “I thought the letter explained it all.”

Unbelievable! She’s bringing up the letter! “Ahaha!” His mechanical laugh morphed into a sneer. “You have got to be kidding me.”

She shifted, her expression unchanging though she turned away for a brief moment, as if she wanted nothing more than to yell at him but had decided she wouldn’t. “My life before I left for the Coven was all about you, Harry. Everything I did from the moment I woke up, was about you. Would you like what I was wearing? Was my hair pretty enough for you? Would I make a breakthrough from the books so I could help you better? Would I come up with a brilliant plan to save your life? How did you like your eggs? What potion would be most useful in a fight against a Dark Wizard? It was all about you, and it was so intense that I was willing to put everything off about my life just so I could be assured that I would be able to save yours.”

If she wanted him to feel better, it wasn’t happening. In fact, it made him feel worse, because he had been on the receiving end of her devotion, and he knew how wonderful and precious it was. To know what he was missing was almost more than he could bear. “So is that why you left? You wanted to find yourself?”

She snorted. “Of course not. I chose that obsession. It’s what made me tick, actually, and I never resented you for it. Never. I loved loving you that way. I didn’t leave to find myself. It’s not that simple. I left because I was becoming like that, for you. I was becoming your obsession, and knowing how intense my feelings for you were, I couldn’t begin to fathom the intensity of your feelings for me, because that’s just it, Harry. You do things ten times more than everyone else when you put your mind to it, and your intensity is a force in itself. I couldn’t begin to measure it; understand its extent, not until I realized you were willing to sacrifice your life and Ron’s just so I don’t come to any harm. I know you just wanted to protect me Harry, but I knew then I was twisting you. I was already turning you into something that could destroy you and everybody else. I was your weakness, and a very dangerous one at that. I tried to make you see it, but you just insisted on being blind to it all. I wasn’t good for you anymore.”

Harry stubbornly shook his head. “You could’ve spoken to me about it!”

“I tried, but you didn’t want to hear it!”

“Are you talking about that time you were medium-rare in the dungeon? Or maybe you forgot that Remus and Ron were there to hear all of it? It wasn’t exactly good timing to bring it up and talk about it, Hermione.”

“That may be true, but every time we got close enough to talking about the more unpleasant issues of our relationship, we’d both be unbelievably tense because one or both of us would blow up if we said the wrong thing. Someone almost always ended up walking out or yelling if we weren’t shagging each other into oblivion. And when we came to some kind of decision, like your supposed resolve to ‘give me space’, you just went on ahead and conveniently abandoned it when I didn’t give you what you wanted.”

He made an annoyed sound. “You mean in the forest? Oh, come on. I just said it at the time. And for your information, it was not the time to invoke the Giving You Space card. It really wasn’t.”

She gave him a snooty frown, cocking her hip as she place a hand on it. “Whatever, Harry. The fact remains I left for everyone’s good.”

For everyone’s good. He ruffled his already messy hair irritably. “Somehow, I didn’t feel the benefits of this supposed heroic act of abandonment.”

“What have you been doing in the last five years, Harry?” she asked.

The question felt a tad non sequitur. “What do you mean what have I been doing? Trying to find you, is what I’ve been doing!”

“When you weren’t trying to find me.”

What’s all this got to do with our relationship? “Stuff!”

“What STUFF? Did you lounge around in your alans, scratching yourself? Hung out in the local pub everyday? Collected stamps? Bummed on a beach? Took joy rides on your broom?”

“What are you—of course not! I—well, I got a job. I had to get a job even with this stupid war—“

“You’re an auror. I was wondering about that. How did you qualify if you skipped seventh year?”

“I’m not completely stupid, you know.”

“I never thought you were stupid, but tell me how you managed the academic requirements of the job, Harry.”

He snorted derisively but answered. “Doing research for the horcruxes, I picked up a lot of things in two years. When you check cross-references, you sometimes have to read this book and that book for the short passages to make the slightest bit of sense…”

She nodded. “So you were forced to learn, and in two years, you had enough knowledge, theoretical and practical, to manage N.E.W.T.s.”

He shrugged.

“And so you made auror. I’m not surprised at all. And the horcruxes—you found some of them?”

He paused, now really wondering what she was getting at. “All but one. Your research was phenomenal.”

“Well, I’m glad it helped.” She looked a bit surprised, herself. Perhaps she was even proud, of him, or herself.

“Helped? It was the very foundation of the entire search. You were right about the patterns, about how the horcruxes corresponded to Voldemort’s values, and how the Founder objects represented those values. The cup we knew about, but Ravenclaw’s…”

“Compass Rose?”

“Yeah.”

She grinned, pleased. “That was a wild guess, just now. So my research was handy, but it was incomplete. You picked up where I left off, and that’s really impressive.”

“I had help. I put in a lot of work, but McGonagall was there, and Remus. Even Arthur pitched in with his Ministry connections. It took all of us to do in two years what you alone might have done in a much shorter time.”

“Purely assumption. So you’ve found all but one.”

“Gryffindor’s has eluded us.”

“D’you have an idea on what it is?”

“I have reason to believe it’s not a suit of armor, or a shield, or anything like that. Those are muggle symbols of defense.”

She smirked. “Excellent deduction, Harry.”

“It’s a wand. Or a magical staff. I would almost swear on it.”

She seemed to give it some thought. “Highly possible. And the horcruxes you’ve found; you’ve destroyed them?”

“Yes. It was a bit complicated… we used a potion for the locket. Lord, but the explosion it caused… McGonagall would’ve docked a thousand points apiece from Ron, Remus and I if we were students. She was so mad.”

“Where did you—“

“Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch. If we didn’t have our brooms, we would’ve been very dead… in a million pieces. Or badly burned. The little bugger took out half the pitch…”

“Well, I did suppose the horcrux always demanded a price…”

“There—“ Harry coughed. “—was no Quidditch cup that year.”

“Must’ve been horrible,” she said dryly.

She never did care much for Quidditch.

“So the potion was a poor solution,” she continued. “How did you destroy the cup and compass?”

“It was in your research notes.”

“Was it? I don’t remember that.”

“Well, you mentioned soul suckers, actually. You made a note. A funny one.”

Her brows knotted, trying to remember. “I’m not following you—“

“The note said that if only Draco was as good at sucking souls as he was wont to seem, maybe we ought to shove Slytherin’s locket down his throat and see if he could extract Voldemort’s soul while he was gagging on it.”

She seemed to remember and she laughed melodiously, her eyes dreamy as if to reminisce. “Ah, yes. I was daydreaming as I wrote that… good times.”

“Yes, well, it gave us the idea about Dementors—“

“Sucking the soul out of the horcruxes,” she finished for him. “That’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, in theory, but we had to get a Dementor first, and we had to contain it, and—“

“You had to get it hungry enough to settle for scraps, in which case it wasn’t even certain it would suck from something inanimate; lifeless. How’d that go?”

He stifled a smirk, stopping himself from pointing out that she was finishing his sentences, like she used to. “It didn’t. We couldn’t catch us a Dementor, but we did manage to find a creature that’s even better for the job. We could thank Charlie for trapping one.”

“Charlie… was he in Romania when he trapped it?”

Harry smiled slightly. Well, of course she’d figure it out. “Yes.”

“It was a Strigoi, wasn’t it? They’re native to Romania, and Strigoi feed on life essences, from human and inanimate things.”

He nodded. Strigoi was a life-sucking creature, kin to dementors and vampires, only they tended to settle in one area, usually near a farm where there were people, animals, and crops. They would stay there for weeks, slowly draining life from everything around it. Usually, human and animal epidemics, or failed harvests, could be attributed to them. There weren’t many strigoi, but once it was determined that they were present, they were easy enough to find. They acted on instinct more than intelligence, survival more than malice. “Charlie caught it while it was in its animal form. He brought the thing here and we put the cup in with it. It didn’t even need any stimuli or anything like that. It just went ahead and drained the cup of what little vitality the soul contained. We still had to use the potion to destroy the object completely, but at least it didn’t explode like it first did. It just fizzled and caught on fire, but that was as bad as it got. It worked for the compass, too.”

“Where is the Strigoi, now?”

“It’s in a lead holding cell in the Ministry. It’s on a plant diet. It doesn’t look very happy, but the only reason we’re keeping it alive is for when we find the last horcrux. And then when its use is done…”

“You’ll kill it. You have to. It’s a menace.”

“It’s rather cold-blooded to do that, but releasing it back out in the wild is out of the question, and it’s not exactly an ideal pet.”

She nodded. “Seems to me, Harry, that you’ve done quite a lot in five years without me.”

His easy mood soured again and he scowled. “That’s a moot point. I could’ve done all that while you were here, anyway. We could have found the horcruxes sooner.”

She shrugged. “Maybe, but what difference does that make? Voldemort’s been hiding; postponing your face-off for when he has his vicious little army completed. In the meantime, while he’s sending his foot soldiers to wreak havoc all over Europe, you’ve become an auror and consequently a more powerful and skilled wizard.”

“I still could’ve been an auror with you around.”

“I disagree. You wouldn’t have bothered so much with the books and theories if I had been around to do it for you and Ron. You would have been taught and trained to improve your skill, yes, but admit it… the training you’ve received to become an auror and the self-taught theories you’ve amassed in your head was ten-times more effective at increasing your magical powers and skills than any spoon-feeding they may have done for you.”

Harry stood, glaring at her. “I would’ve been a hundred times better than this if you had been around. My mum made me more powerful that night Voldemort tried to kill me.”

“The power of love… she did it for love. So did I, Harry. And guess what, she couldn’t stay, either.”

He couldn’t move; couldn’t speak. He knew, in the back of his head, that it was all just semantics, but he had to admit that her delivery had him stumped. “She didn’t have a choice,” he said softly.

“Neither did I.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go. It’s almost sunrise. But we’ll talk again, Harry. I still have many questions for you, after all. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

With that, she left.

He wanted to go after and tell her that she did have a choice but he had heard it in her tone—had seen it in her eyes—that she most certainly hadn’t thought so.

None of the night’s discussion had made him feel better about her leaving, but he did realize that arguing about what could have, or should have been done, was useless.

Time to let that issue rest, Potter. Move forward. Things have changed, now. Reevaluate your objectives. She’s here. You still love her, and even if it seems she has stopped caring, there are moments when you think she still does…

So, what about it, Potter? You’ve set your sights on that golden snitch. Now, what are you going to do?

Do you have to ask? Go after it.

And then?

And then catch it.

Easy, right?

Well… I don’t know about that…

So it’s not easy. That going to stop you?

Has it ever?

Hell, no.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry woke the following afternoon with a cold nose nudging his cheek.

Peeling his eyes open, he pushed Crookshank’s face away.

Crookshanks gave a miserable wail, hissing and spitting as Harry pushed himself out of bed.

Harry had to wonder what he’d done this time. “It’s the vamps, isn’t it?”

This time, Crookshanks yowled definitively.

Harry didn’t speak cat, nor did he speak kneazle, but having listened to Crookshanks whinge and beg and demand, he knew a thing or two about what the beast was trying to say. It didn’t mean Harry was at the little bugger’s beck and call, though.

“The vamps stay,” he said, plodding about his room to prepare his things for the day. “And besides, you ungrateful little beast, one of them is Hermione. You remember her, don’t you? The human who plucked you from abandonment and took care of you for almost five years of your sorry arse life?”

Crookshanks sat there looking up at him, tail whipping and perhaps not caring a whit about what Harry was saying.

“I’m talking to a cat,” Harry said to him. “I’m going nutters. I ought to kill you and plead insanity.”

The feline said nothing, letting Harry’s own words condemn him.

Sighing, Harry left him on the bed so he could prepare for the day.

He showered, dressed and made a stop at the kitchen.

There were two stickies on the chill-box door and both were for him. The first note said, “Had a talk with Hermione. Didn’t exactly kiss and make up, but I reckon it’ll be fine for now. Ron. P.S. I told her I don’t trust her.”

Harry didn’t even want to think about what that meant.

The second note was from Remus: “Arranged THE meeting for tomorrow. Details on where, to follow.”

Harry incinerated the note midair after he’d read it.

There were several hours left yet before he had to leave for work, so he ran his errands. It was when he got home and was getting ready to write his reports when he heard the incessant tapping of something on the kitchen windowpane.

It was Henry’s raven, and the note it carried was signed in the name of Henry’s werewolf, Dorcas. After having read the note, Harry cursed and frantically lit the floo.

“Finnigan!” Harry called, not caring in the least what kind of racket he caused. He called again, louder this time, and soon enough, his partner’s face came into view, looking like he’d just crawled out of bed.

“It’s barely four in the afternoon, Potter. It’s too early!” he complained.

“We have to go to Winchester, now. I got a tip from a reliable source that something’s going to go down—“

Seamus groaned. “Well, then, I’d be a wanker if I didn’t go with you, now, wouldn’t I?”

“It’s Order business, Finnigan. So get a move on. We haven’t got much time.”

“Floo on over here, then. Give me ten minutes to get ready.”

“Five!”

“Fine! Feckin slave driver… “

“Be ready when I get there.”

Harry sent a messenger spell to Tonks, telling her to bring Order reinforcements to Winchester. He classified the operation as covert. With the message sent, he armed himself before he flooed to Seamus’s flat, which was neater than one would expect of a bachelor. Ron’s theory was that Seamus kept it clean so that the many women he brought home with him wouldn’t be incensed by the mess. “As the bishop said to the prostitute: She’ll stick around for ‘tea’.” Ron had said.

Ultimately, Harry couldn’t care less why Seamus kept his pad spic and span.

Seamus got ready in record time, especially with Harry tapping his foot in the living room. And thus armed, they apparated to Winchester where Harry led them to the place that changed the course of his and Hermione’s life as they knew it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Where are we going?” Seamus asked, matching Harry’s brisk pace as they hurried up the street of the upper middle-class neighborhood. At that time of the day, a few muggle folks were already headed back from work. There were children, too, their school bags strapped to their backs as they walked home in groups.

“The Granger house,” Harry replied, casting a disillusionment charm on them both. The strange sensation of the spell trickled coldly down his skin and he noted that Seamus shuddered unhappily.

“Granger? As in Hermione Granger?”

“Yes.”

“Ho boy… this is going to be bad, isn’t it?”

“Probably… I expect it won’t be pleasant.”

As they approached the house, Harry pulled Seamus through the backyard hedges, occasionally casting more spells to hide their presence or let them easily through the fences. Seamus had to struggle to keep up since he didn’t possess the same fluid ease Harry had casting so many charms in such quick succession.

One house away from the Granger home, Harry stopped in his tracks and gingerly peered through the thick wall of leaves, pushing a hole through the tangle with his wand. There was no one in the backyard.

Harry cast deterring charms all around, hoping he wasn’t unduly inconveniencing anybody with it, particularly the owners of the house.

He and Seamus stumbled through the hedge and quietly settled themselves against the hedge closest to the Granger backyard.

“Nice digs,” Seamus remarked, after having seen the house over the leaves.

“Both her parents were dentists,” Harry whispered while he surveyed the Granger backyard. “That’s a lucrative profession if you’re a muggle, and she was an only child.”

“Not surprised, really. Lavender said Granger always had piles of new books by her bed at the dorms. And she had the best stuff, even if they were probably turtle necks and those conservatively long skirts…”

Harry frowned. He couldn’t help himself. “What’s that supposed to mean, Finnigan?”

Seamus shrugged. “Well, you have to admit… she was rather uptight and frigid.”

It wasn’t the time, but Harry did feel the need to defend Hermione on this matter. She was not uptight, and she was definitely not frigid. “Shut it, you! You don’t know a thing about her. And if she seemed uptight or frigid to you, it’s only because she reserves all her warmth and affection for me and Ron.”

“You mean reserved, right?”

“That’s what I said. Past tense. Now be quiet!” Harry directed his wand to the house. “Amplificare.”

Seamus frowned but settled down, casting his own spell to listen in.

At first they heard nothing, and then Harry could hear a splashing noise, like someone was spilling bottles of water on the floor.

“That ought to do it,” said one whose voice Harry didn’t recognize. “Did you douse the basement?”

“Yeah,” said another.

“All the way down?”

There was a pause. “I doused the stairs and threw down the can.”

“Look, here, our instructions were—“

“I’m not going down there in the dark at this time of the day. It’s growing too late.”

“The sun’s still up! They’re not going to wake up!”

“Oh, you’re sure about that? You’ve seen them rise even when the sun’s still out. So long as the sun don’t get ‘em, they could very well wake up and murder you. You go down there if you’re so sure about their schedule.”

“You’re an idiot! The stairs stink of petrol! If I go down there, it’ll get on me and—oh, forget it. Hand me your lighter.”

“Use your own bloody lighter.”

Harry cursed.

“They’re going to torch the place,” Seamus said. “Should we stop them?”

As much as Harry wanted to save Hermione’s childhood home, he had to let the house go. If he wanted the enemy to think all had gone according to plan, even for just a short time, the house had to burn.

“No,” Harry said. “We have to let them do it, and when they come out, I’ll spring them.”

“Don’t you mean we’ll spring them?”

“No, I will. You are going to call the fire department. We don’t need a whole street of houses burning down. Go!”

Seamus didn’t argue, as Harry knew he wouldn’t. There were only two perpetrators, and Seamus knew Harry could handle them. Rather than argue pointlessly about who was going to do what, Seamus preferred affirmative action, even if it meant Harry got all the action while he did the boring, affirmative stuff, like calling the fire department to avert the danger of lost homes.

As Seamus left to break into the house and use the phone, Harry reinforced his disillusionment spell and pushed through to the other side of the hedge. Crouching low, he waited for his quarry.

True enough, as soon as Harry smelled fire, the two arsonists spilled out of the back door.

Harry knew they weren’t wizards from the onset, or else they would be using their wands to set the fire, not petrol and lighters, but they were hairier than the average bloke, which possibly meant they were werewolves. They weren’t as strong in their human forms, but they were still stronger than average.

He already decided he was going to take them alive, but he couldn’t allow either of them to get away.

Assessing the situation, Harry noted their size and girth. They were both broad shouldered. The taller one wore a turtleneck jumper underneath his black leather jacket while the other was clad in a blazer and jeans ensemble. They both looked tough and rugged; definitely not your average pansy-arsed punks.

The shorter one was about Harry’s height, but stockier. That was the one Harry had to engage first. He had the element of surprise at his side and he should be able to incapacitate them both.

Moving furtively, Harry slipped the fingers of one hand through silver knuckles and secured his fist. The other hand gripped his crossbow, cocking it at the ready.

This is going to hurt them more than it’s going to hurt me.

Harry emerged from the disillusionment charm, slamming his armed fist right into the stockier man’s face. There was a crunch as bone broke, followed by the sizzling sound of burnt flesh. It confirmed that the man was a lycan, and Harry almost felt sorry for him.

The man howled in pain, stumbling back in the grass as he clutched at his nose. Harry let loose an arrow, aiming for the man’s thigh. The arrow sank into the man’s pants leg, smoking as the silver tip seared his blood.

Screaming, the man pulled the projectile out with a frantic tug, inflicting more pain on himself. He fell back on the grass, probably half-faint. His wounds weren’t going to heal anytime soon. Silver wounded them as if they were ordinary human beings.

The taller one came at Harry after his initial surprise, taking out a gun.

A simple wingardium leviosa had the gun misfiring, sending the tall man in a panic. Harry grabbed the man by the wrist, and using the crossbow to reinforce his arm, Harry rammed the spine of it across the back of the man’s elbow.

The snapping of bone had the man screaming in pain.

If he was a werewolf, the bone would reset in a minute or two.

Harry swept the man’s knees from under him and the guy fell, face down on the patchy, unkempt lawn.

Pressing his knee on the man’s spine, Harry twisted his captive’s hands to his back, cuffed his wrists together with sturdy manacles and lifted him off the ground by the scruff of his neck. The other werewolf hadn’t moved from his place, but he was breathing, blinking up at the sky.

Harry pushed the manacled werewolf to sit beside his partner as he quickly reloaded his crossbow and aimed it at his face.

By that time, the Granger house was blazing, black smoke rising through the air.

Harry cast a bubble charm around them, keeping the smoke away.

The crackling of breaking wood mingled with the sound of distant fire engines coming to douse the flames.

Seamus appeared with a pop, cursing and hissing as he helped Harry take the captives away from the inferno that once was Hermione’s home.

Harry had his crossbow trained to the spine of the taller of the two while Seamus dragged the other with a crossbow trained to the neck.

The sound of sirens was overwhelming now, and if Harry wanted to keep his perpetrators, they had to get their captives away.

There were muggles all over the place now, and Harry cast a broad disillusionment charm for them to get away without notice. It was no struggle to hold the spell, but it was difficult to dodge bodies that were coming at them from all sides, especially because their supposed prisoners were uncooperative.

Harry braced himself to apparate the werewolf with him, hoping the muggle in the wolf wouldn’t have the bright idea of going into a panic when the sensations of apparating hit him. If that happened, Harry could splinch the wolf, or splinch them both. Harry liked his limbs intact.

He was just about to tell Seamus to risk apparating when he felt the warmth of a misdirection charm.

Within seconds, they were surrounded by familiar faces, amongst them Tonks, Neville, Remus and Dean. Hannah Abbot and Ron held the charm steady.

Remus tossed Harry and Seamus vials containing sleeping draughts. “Ought to keep them docile for the trip.”

Seamus popped the cork with his thumb and made easy work of shoving its contents down his prisoner’s throat. He was out in a second.

Harry had a bit more trouble. As Dean and Neville held the struggling man by the arms, Harry grabbed him by the nose and pinched his nostrils closed. Sure enough, the werewolf had to open his mouth for air, and when he did, Harry tossed the potion in and pushed the man’s jaws shut. Inevitably, the man swallowed and fell asleep.

From the corner of his eye, Harry could already see Ron getting ready to demand answers.

“I need a place to interrogate these blokes, Tonks,” Harry hastily said.

She nodded, turning to discuss it with Remus.

“Bloody hell, Harry. What’ve you done this time?” Neville asked as he watched the house burning in the distance.

“That’s what I’d like to know!” Ron cried, turning and leaving Hannah to maintain the charm by herself.

“Umm, some help, please?” Hannah said.

“Dean, give ‘er a hand,” said Ron without blinking.

Dean frowned. “Just because I’m dating your baby sister—“

“That’s right, she’s my baby sister, so if you know what’s good for you—“

Seamus sighed, shooting his best friend and Ron an exasperated look. “Oh, for feck’s sake, calm down you two! I’ll do it if it’s going to be a big bloomin deal.”

Dean and Ron exchanged one last glare before they both transferred it to Harry.

Neville winced, casting Harry an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

Harry sighed. “Not your fault. Look Ron, I’ll explain everything later—“

“You better. And I’m thinking I’m not the one you’ll have to explain your arse off to. Hermione’s going to freak when she finds out you got her parents’ house torched!”

Of all the idiotic—!

Sure enough, Tonks’s and Remus’s eyes swerved to him disapprovingly.

The others just looked a tad confused.

“It’s—er—a spiritual thing,” Harry explained desperately. “She’ll—umm—freak from the beyond, you know? Next great adventure… and all that…”

Realizing his mistake, Ron’s irritability dissipated and he muttered his agreement.

Seamus transferred his questioning gaze between Harry and Ron, forgetting that he was helping Hannah. “You two… need help.”

“Seamus!” Neville hissed. “Don’t be mean! We all deal with grief in different ways! Remember her memorial? You cried like a girl!”

Seamus looked horrified and Dean looked a bit embarrassed.

“He’s right, you know,” Dean muttered.

Seamus frowned. “Yes, well, it’s been five years since!”

“Everyone!” Hannah squeaked. “D’you expect me to hold this charm alone?”

Neville sighed and helped her.

Harry shot Ron a glare.

Ron was just about to say something when Tonks and Remus finally turned to them.

Tonks produced a tattered old trainer and turned it into a portkey. “Everyone grab hold. Harry, Seamus, grab hold of the prisoners. Hannah, Neville, hands to the shoe!”

Touching the portkey, they got swept into the magical portal. In a second, they were transported to a dimly lit basement filled with what looked to be muggle junk.

The silence after all the chaos was deafening.

Harry found himself stuck between a painting and a very strange stone sculpture.

Heads rose from beyond the piles of strange objects as Harry’s companions recovered from the disorientation of portkeying.

“Thanks for the pick-up,” Harry said as he caught sight of Tonks. “Had things under control, but it was really chaotic out there. We couldn’t have gotten away without problems with the muggle authorities.”

Hannah picked cobwebs out of her hair as she made a face. “Where are we?”

“A forgotten storage room in the basement of the British Museum,” Remus replied, dusting himself off.

Dean pushed a statue of a naked man off him. “The things I do for you, mate,” he told Seamus.

Seamus sighed, nudging his chin in Harry’s direction. “You can blame Sir Lancelot over there. This is not my fault.”

“Yeah, well, that I can believe,” Ron muttered, emerging from behind a covered mirror. “What the hell’s going on, Harry?”

He bustled about, dragging the prisoners to one cleared out corner. “As much as I’d love to explain, I’m afraid Neville, Dean and Hannah couldn’t be allowed to hear what I have to say.”

Neville and Hannah just sighed helplessly, but Dean scowled.

“I didn’t drag my arse over here to be your back-up just to let you nutcases kick me out the first chance you get!”

“Sorry, Dean,” said Harry without batting an eyelash. “I’d kick Seamus out too, to tell you the truth, but he was the first person I called when I first caught the tip. It’s only right he finds out exactly what’s going on.”

Dean rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Fine,” he muttered. “Whatever.” He stalked off, grumbling.

Neville watched him go, distressed. He never liked it when his friends got upset.

Nudging him, Hannah had them both walking away. Before she left, she looked over her shoulder at them. “It would be nice to know, eventually,” she said with a sweet, plaintive smile.

Harry sincerely wished he could let her in on the secret now but knew it was best to contain the information for the mean time. “Eventually, Hannah. I promise.”

Satisfied, she nodded and led Neville further. Dean was waiting for them and after exchanging a few words, the three of them disappeared with distinct pops.

With the others gone, all attention was back on Harry.

“Well?” Ron said.

Harry surveyed the faces around him. Ron looked annoyed, Tonks looked anxious and Remus had his eyebrow raised questioningly. Seamus waited with a weary slump to his shoulders.

“Finnigan,” Harry began. “There’s something you need to know…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry reappeared with Tonks, Remus and Ron in the living room of Grimmauld Place.

Sighing exhaustedly, Remus spoke first. “Well, Seamus took the news quite well, I think.”

“You can thank Harry for that,” muttered Ron. “Berk’s gone numb from all the shite Harry’s put him through.”

“Well, Seamus has always been rather odd…” Tonks surmised out loud.

When Harry told Seamus the truth about Hermione, as a prerequisite to the interrogation of their perps of course, Seamus’s first words were, “You mean, I cried at her memorial… for NOTHING? Fucken A! I made a complete pussy of myself in front of everyone for someone who wasn’t even dead!” And so on and so forth.

Harry figured that with priorities like that, Seamus would either live longer than the rest of them or he’d be dead before he hit forty.

With the explanations more or less properly done, they woke their prisoners from their potion-induced slumber and conducted the interrogation.

As expected, they didn’t know very much. They were merely told to go to the Granger home where it was determined that Hermione Granger and her Shadow Kin had sought sanctuary. They were to burn the house, effectively killing the vampires sleeping within it. All this, Harry had already determined even without having to ask them. He needed more information; something he didn’t already know.

After the appropriate memory was extracted from their heads to study in a pensieve, Harry had to resort to what little legilimency he could manage.

He remembered thinking that he was so lacking in this skill that he was afraid he would drive one or both of their prisoners mad. And worse still, if he managed to destroy their minds and not get valuable information, he would have destroyed two lives for hardly any reason at all.

But they had little choice in the matter. The memories for the pensieve would be worth close examination, but it would only be valuable if they managed to extract the correct ones. There was the matter of memories they didn’t want to share.

So Harry sat the smaller man down first. His name was Paul, and carefully parting the membrane of thoughts and emotions, he gently flipped through the pages of Paul’s mind. There was little to be found there, at least to Harry’s knowledge. He hoped that careful study in the pensieve would yield better conclusions.

The taller man, named David, came next, and while his head was a mess, he had more images of faces Harry knew. David, Harry found, was obsessed with Bellatrix Lestrange. This was disturbing, as Harry could never envision being attracted to such a psychotic bitch, no matter how hot she looked. David hung on to every word Bellatrix said. David got jealous when Bellatrix spoke to other men, other werewolves, other vamps. David desired to kill Bellatrix’s husband. David believed the Dark Lord was fucking Bellatrix Lestrange.

Overall, Harry found it nauseating. And just when Harry decided there was nothing, there came something. Bellatrix and Voldemort were talking carelessly with one another while David stood around awaiting his final instructions. Voldemort’s words were muddled, since David’s focus was all on Bellatrix, but what words were clear struck Harry as significant. “Destroy the turner of time…”

It was most baffling. Harry had been under the impression that all the Time Turners had been destroyed, and that if Voldemort had one, he’d sooner keep it than have it destroyed.

The memory faded after that, and Harry could see no more. He pulled out of David’s mind.

The legilimency hadn’t done any damage to Paul. Harry had barely touched his thoughts mainly because there was hardly any potentially useful information there. David however, passed out the moment Harry pulled back. The man convulsed for about five seconds before he settled back down.

David was sent straight to St. Mungo’s where the doctors determined that his mind was still intact, and that he would wake up with a bitch of a headache.

It was long past nightfall when they arrived in Grimmauld Place, and with the events of the evening, they all separated to make their respective reports. Tonks handed Harry the memories so he could study them further.

Before he headed to his study, he wondered whether he should make a stop at the dungeon, but thinking better of it, he headed to the library.

Sure enough, Hermione was there, seated on the large sofa chair with a huge book propped up on her lap. She looked immensely comfortable in her pleated miniskirt, even as it threatened to ride up her legs. She had set her boots aside in favor of curling up in the chair in her socks.

It was sad how those legs confounded him for a few seconds.

Solomon and Lucien lounged around her on the floor, engrossed in serious discussion about the finer points of a BMW.

Lucien grinned up at him, fangs glinting. “Back from work so soon? Couldn’t stand to be away from her for so—ow!”

Solomon had, at that point, slapped him upside the head.

Hermione shot Lucien a glare before transferring her neutral gaze to Harry. “What’s up?”

Harry took stock of his options and decided to tell them. “I had to run to Winchester this afternoon. I got a tip from Henry’s werewolf that something was going to happen there. Two werewolves were sent to burn your parents’ house down, preferably with you and your boys in it.”

They stared up at him, processing his words.

It was Lucien who spoke first, snorting. “Good thing we moved here, then.”

Solomon nodded. “Yeah, good thing. Listen, I think this is a good time to see if we can make our laptops work in this magic-infested house, don’t you think?”

Lucien’s eyebrow arched for a moment before he gave half a shrug. “Huh. Excellent idea.”

With that, Lucien and Solomon left. Harry was a bit surprised they did this without Hermione’s prompting. But, oh, weren’t they sensitive to their alpha’s needs?

Hermione hadn’t moved from her seat. She hadn’t removed her eyes from Harry, either.

Fidgeting a moment, he sat on the coffee table to face her. Back then, he would have taken her into his arms and offered her comfort, but now he wasn’t so sure she would accept the gesture. Hesitantly, he put his hand on the armrest nearest to her shoulder.

“I’m sorry about your parents’ house,” he said softly. “I could have stopped them, but I wanted the enemy to think they’d succeeded. At least for the meantime.”

She just nodded, her face impassive. “It was the right thing to do. Lucien’s right, after all. Good thing we moved here.”

No one was gladder than he was. “Was this an attack directed at Yasmin?”

She paused. “Possibly.” She turned her attention back to her book, idly flipping the page over.

Harry took note of that hesitation and the averting of her eyes. Gently, he took the book away from her. He stalled her soft protest with the raising of his finger. He set the book behind him. “Rather redundant, don’t you think? They already got her pissed off by offing Rashad and Abraham.”

She was about to reply when he took her hand in his. He could see the momentary confusion in her gaze suddenly turn to ice.

“It does seem unnecessary, doesn’t it?” she replied.

He studied her response briefly as he made circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. “I’d have been devastated. I’ve only just found you again. We’ve quite a bit of catching up to do, yet.”

She seemed unfazed, but he could feel her subtly trying to get her hand out of his grasp. “Yes, well, don’t hold your breath.”

The hesitation, coupled with the cool reply… it was all making sense now. He was surprised to note that he knew her more than he realized. Yet, it was doubly astounding how he felt so much for her yet he managed to push through that hypnotic bog, studying her words and expression to draw conclusions—turn it into an interrogation.

“You know something,” he said softly, staring intently into her honey-gold eyes even as he held her cold hand firmly in his grip.

She stopped struggling, but her jaw was set. She was growing furious if the rings in her eyes were any indication. “I know many things.”

“You know something about this assassination. Tell me.”

She frowned. “Well, you seem sure enough—“

“Stop playing games with me, Hermione. This is me. You trusted me once. Has that changed, too?”

“I wasn’t the one playing games just now, Harry. Let go of my hand.”

He wanted to sneer and ask her why. Did it make her feel uncomfortable? Or better yet, did it make her feel good? But he was never that vicious, so he released her and she tucked her hands back, so that he couldn’t get to them.

“The question being,” she continued as if they hadn’t just engaged in a battle of wills. “Do you trust me?”

“Absolutely,” he replied without hesitation.

Her eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise. Whatever response she had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. “Well, you shouldn’t. We work on different sides, now.”

“Not different sides; different realities, but do you really expect me to believe that you would ever betray me? Hurt me, yes. You earned that power when I fell in love with you. But betrayal? You can’t. I earned that power when you fell in love with me.”

Red rose in her cheeks. Her fury hadn’t waned in the least, but she seemed quite properly stumped. The fact that she wasn’t contradicting him made Harry feel giddy.

“When will we meet with the governing board?” she asked briskly.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Good. We’ll talk then. This hardly concerns them, but I’d rather get the ceremony done before we get to the important things.”

“I see. In the meantime?”

“You do what you have to do. You have reports to make, don’t you? And if I’m not mistaken, your little side-trip to Winchester wasn’t Ministry sanctioned, so officially, you’re late for work. Seamus must be worried. Or else Shacklebolt’s teed off by your tardiness.”

“Seamus was with us, today, and Shacklebolt’s used to my tardiness. He knows that when I’m not at work, I’m doing something for the Order.”

“Convenient. But what’s he going to think when he finds out I’ve popped up again and am now living with you in Grimmauld Place?”

“He can think what he likes. There are worse things than being suspected of spending too much time with my ex-girlfriend.”

“Indeed.” She shrugged. She held her hand out. “May I get my book back now? I was reading that.”

“Get it yourself.” He didn’t budge from his seat.

She glared at him. If she didn’t leave her chair, she would have to reach around him, but leaving her chair meant she wasn’t as blasé about their supposed non-relationship as she seemed to want to appear.

Just as he thought, she did the stubborn thing and kept herself firmly planted on her seat while she reached around him for her book.

He grinned, relishing the close proximity of her body. Her sweet scent blanketed his senses.

Her skirt hitched and he caught a glimpse of a thigh holster. Oh, what he would give to be that leather strap against that wonderful skin. He prayed to Merlin that the skirt would fall back just a bit more.

She caught her book and pulled away from him instantly, shooting him a frown. She shifted to conceal what bit of the holster had shown. “Force of habit,” she said. “Arming ourselves all of our waking hours has saved our lives many times.”

He gave a half-shrug. “Fascinating, but I wasn’t looking at your gun.”

She shot him a ferocious frown before reopening her book and pointedly making it seem like she was officially ignoring him so she could start reading again.

He couldn’t resist. “Nice skirt,” he said.

She tensed, replying a second too late. “Thank you. It’s a Felise original.”

He stifled a triumphant smirk. He didn’t know who the hell Felise was, but that was hardly important. “Oh, Felise, is it? I’m a BIG fan.”

Her eyes threw daggers at him. He secretly relished it.

Rising from his seat, he thought maybe he’d leave her alone. He did have to get quite a few things done, but perhaps some alone time would do both of them good.

He left, letting loose his smirk as he closed her into the library.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When the door of the library clicked shut, Hermione hastily checked to see if he had really left. He was gone and she finally let go of the tension building on her shoulders.

She was so furious!

He totally wasn’t playing fair! Oooh, he knew what he was doing! That infuriating… FLIRT!

Who did he think he was, coming in here, doing and saying things…!

Bad enough he came to interrogate me, but was all that stuff in the end necessary?

Nice skirt, indeed.

Since when was Harry Potter so—so self-assured? Smug, arrogant…!

She growled, slamming her book shut and tossing it on the coffee table. It landed with a dull thud.

Reading was useless now. She couldn’t possibly concentrate.

And where the hell are Lucien and Solomon when you need them?

She sulked, crossing her arms over her chest as she sat in her chair, grumbling to herself.

“Stupid mind games,” she muttered, staring at the fire in the hearth.

She steered her thoughts to her parents’ house, wondering if she should be sad.

It surprised her to note that she wasn’t. Whatever happy memories she had of her childhood home had been shattered by that horrible night she found her parents murdered there. It was also where she died and became this. Having the house burned down was a fitting end to it.

About time it was destroyed, she thought.

She curled tighter on her chair and found herself recalling how Harry had, only a few minutes ago, looked into her brown eyes with his green ones and cared about her. It was one of her favorite things about him; how he could say so much with a single look, but she had resisted the urge to accept the comfort he offered, trying to freeze him into submission. It didn’t work. He had his own game going, and then he had control of the entire discussion. When had Harry learned to do that without using the weight of his presence?

In the past, he always overpowered her by sheer force of will. When they fought about going to the Department of Mysteries for Sirius, or when they fought about the Half-Blood Prince’s book, or even about everything else after that, she had given in because he was Harry, and because having him angry at her made her feel incomplete; empty. Using subtle means to control a discussion wasn’t a skill Harry knew then, but it seemed five years had taught him more than spells and potions.

He had her right where he wanted her, and it annoyed her because it was either she was lacking or else he wasn’t playing fair.

She decided it was the latter, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. It forced her to come slightly undone, and she had had to struggle to regain her poise, which didn’t work out as well as she’d hoped. He was teasing her the next minute, and then his gaze had later traveled to her legs. That gave her a different thrill altogether.

It had stirred an urgent need in her for him to touch her. She could almost tell that he wanted her skirt to hitch just a bit higher, and she might have obliged him if it wasn’t so dangerous to do so.

She had pretended to be oblivious to his wanton gaze, referring to her holster to give them both a chance to pretend that they weren’t so aware of one another.

The big surprise was when he didn’t take the bait, plainly admitting that he was more interested in other things.

What was she supposed to say to that?

Nothing, apparently. She wasn’t able to find the words.

Hermione simmered, kicking the table in frustration, right where he was seated earlier.

She needed to hit someone.

Again, where was Lucien and Solomon when you needed them?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I feel like I should put up a score board, just to tally who wins this or that round. At least up until they both realize that this isn’t all just a game…

20. Chapter Nineteenth: Journey

Author’s notes: A bit more of those pesky revelations here.

Alright, here’s the thing: It’s about time I said something about this, but the reviews… OH my God! There’s so many of them! Good, bad, happy, sad… it’s just amazing. ^_^ I’ve never gotten 600+ reviews, ever. I mean I usually get around 10 to 15 reviews per chapter on average for any of my stories which are totally good numbers, but 630+ for 19 chapters? This is crazy! Good crazy! I’m just overwhelmed. I really am. I was never the type to write stories based on reviews and all that, but it’s definitely a different, tingly feeling when you just know readers like a story enough to drop a note, and the really long, meaty reviews… forget it! Takes me to cloud nine, those. It’s like literary hashish. Like, I’m so down with it, man. So I’m just saying… thank you, all of you. The response has been incredible for me. Insane. Mental! Thank you. I’m very grateful to you all.

And thank you, Lady Diamond. You rock the casbah.

Because the site is playing with my formatting, I have converted all italics to underline. Thoughts and emphasized words shall now be underlined.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Nineteenth: Journey

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione thought it was strange to be on the Hogwarts Express. When she left Grimmauld Place five years ago, she thought she would never have the pleasure of riding it again. Some of her happiest, and if not the happiest—most unforgettable—, memories were from within the cars of the bright-red locomotive. But mostly, the Hogwarts Express had—to her—always been a bearer of possibilities. She had envisioned many a bright school days and exciting evenings as the train chugged over its rails, bringing them to the school nestled in the highlands of Scotland; a school of fantasy, with ghosts, dragons, giants, three-headed dogs, centaurs, merpeople, basilisks, secret chambers and giant spiders, but most amazing of all, she had friends; true ones who showed her their loyalty as fiercely as she showed them hers. In the end, the points and prefect badge and being Head Girl had mattered the least. Harry had meant more to her than perfect N.E.W.T.s and her friendship with Harry and Ron had always taken precedence over school rules.

When Harry told her that evening that the meeting of the governing board would be held in Hogwarts, she felt equal parts dread and delight. She missed the old haunts, the reassuring sanctuary of knowledge, the excitement of feasts in the Great Hall, the warmth and comfort of their common rooms. She would visit the images of these memories, and that was something to look forward to, but she also knew that Hogwarts had ceased to be the bastion of childhood and dreams when it was invaded in their sixth year through the ingenious efforts of a member of their peer, when the great wizard and Headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, was flung from the Astronomy Tower, and when—most earth-shattering of all—a professor had done the murdering. Professor Snape, though not inconceivably traitorous, was a far cry from the fanatical and possessed Professor Quirrel. Professor Snape had had a choice. He had, through no merit of his own, gained the trust of one of the most revered and beloved wizards of the century, and Snape had flung that trust right back at Dumbledore’s face.

Still, she recalled wishing they could go back for their seventh year. She had wished they could all forget there were horcruxes, and Voldemort and all the other things attached to it. She had daydreamed about being Head Girl and Harry Head Boy, holding hands as they patrolled the hallways, maybe catch a snog in the dark corners themselves, and if indeed, if there was any truth to the rumors about Head Suites… well, they would most certainly make use of that convenience. She even daydreamed about Quidditch, much as she disliked the sport. She only watched it to support her boys (and to make sure neither of them got killed), but she wasn’t above admiring Harry’s broom handling, especially when he was in uniform.

So Hogwarts was something of a family reunion to her. Some members you want to see again, some you don’t, but you’re always optimistic about having things go better than the cynic in you is apt to think.

The thought of seeing McGonagall again filled her with angst and anticipation. Out of everyone she left behind, it was McGonagall’s reaction she couldn’t envision. She and the Headmistress had always thought on parallel lines, but McGonagall’s wisdom had inspired many of Hermione’s most brilliant breakthroughs.

Would McGonagall understand what compelled Hermione to leave those five years ago? Or would the Headmistress’s wisdom prove that Hermione’s sacrifice was all for naught?

Hermione didn’t know what to hope for.

Tearing her eyes from the dark landscape of outside, she looked to Solomon and Lucien who were sitting right across her in the compartment, the steady rocking of the train the only thing moving them at all.

Earlier that evening, Lucien and Solomon had the pleasure of meeting the rest of the household and it had been a rather revealing evening for her.

The Grimmauld Place residents were having dinner in the large dining room at the time, all of them situated in what Hermione recalled to be their usual seats, at least as far as Harry, Ron and Remus went. There were two new additions to the household.

Remus sat at the head, purely out of respect for his age. To his left was Harry, and beside Harry, Ron. Tonks sat to Remus’s right, and Draco, one chair apart from his second-cousin, once-removed, sat with them on the communal supper table. Tonks, Remus and Draco looked like they had just come from work. Tonks with her corporate-auror clothes, Remus with his old-fashioned suit and Draco with his poet’s shirt, the office vest accompanying it draped over the back of his chair. Ron and Harry looked to be in casual clothing. It looked so domestic that when Hermione walked into the dining hall with Lucien and Solomon, she didn’t know who was more shocked, her—who had never in her wildest dreams conceived of having Draco on the same table as Ron and Harry—or the household, who was seeing Solomon and Lucien for the first time.

As usual, Draco had something to say. “Oh, look. She brought her groupies.”

Either Draco had grown braver over the last five years or he had developed a bad case of Stupid.

Hermione always thought there was a fine line dividing the two, especially having been best friends with the likes of Harry and Ron.

Needless to say, it didn’t sit well with either Lucien or Solomon, so Lucien—as per usual—did the mature thing and stooped to Malfoy’s level.

“Oh, look,” Lucien countered right back. “A Jean Paul Laroche throwback.”

Draco had looked furious at that and he actually stood from his seat.

“Draco?” Tonks squeaked. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

At that point, everyone else was too mesmerized by the phenomenon that was Draco having the balls to stand up to a strange vampire. He usually ran and hid from danger. There were—apparently—darker forces at work here.

Even Hermione couldn’t believe it.

“This,” Draco began snootily as he clutched at the collar of his blouse. “Is Jean Paul Laroche vintage, you ignorant, Ozz Mercury wannabe.”

In retrospect, if there was anything that would get Draco to fight back, it had to be because someone had criticized his sense of style. And if he wanted to piss off Lucien, he couldn’t have chosen better words to provoke it.

Lucien, who had, in his one hundred and fifty plus-plus years, probably invented the concept of androgynous rock stars, wasn’t going to let anybody call him an Ozz Mercury Wannabe. Ozz Mercury was a Lucien D’Godenot Wannabe.

Lucien advanced a few steps, murder in his eyes. “I was fucking Ozz Mercury’s mum while he was still teething and while his hippie father was high on heroin in their basement, boy, so I’m not the wannabe standing in this room. Incidentally, you’ve gotten some gravy on your throwback.”

Draco’s eyes flashed just before he checked for stains.

The stains weren’t there and Lucien laughed. Someone else laughed with him, a muffled, almost untraceable sound. It might have been Ron.

Draco glared at him. “Why, you—“

“Draco, shut-up and sit down!” Tonks ordered him as she forced him back to his seat.

“Erm—“ Harry began, rising frantically to his feet to introduce them to Tonks, Remus and Ron.

Ron stared up at them a few seconds and fidgeted a bit before transferring his gaze to Hermione. “Are they—um… er…”

“Housetrained?” Solomon suggested somewhat teasingly. “Yes. Hermione taught us how to hide the bodies.”

Hermione shot him a look.

Ron reddened painfully. “That’s not—never mind.” He skulked down in his seat. “Nice to meet you by the way. Just don’t—you know—suck my blood.”

Hermione saw Harry shoot Ron a scowl.

Ron gave a helpless shrug and fiercely whispered, “Well, I might as well put it out there!”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

Lucien’s blue-black pupils expanded, almost eclipsing the whites of it completely, as he gave Remus a curious stare. “You’re a werewolf.”

Remus cleared his throat. “Yes. I am that.”

“No pack?”

“Er, no.”

“Master?”

At this, Remus hesitated.

Hermione thought she would die all over again. “Remus doesn’t have a master.”

And that settled the issue for the meantime, though Hermione thought Remus and Tonks both looked troubled, likely for entirely different reasons.

“I came to tell you that we have to step out for a while,” Hermione said. She tossed Harry a meaningful look.

He didn’t catch on as quickly, or else he would rather not assume. “Where are you going and how long will you be gone?”

“Unless you want us to order take-away…” Lucien began, muttering loud enough for everyone to hear.

Hermione daintily stepped on his foot. Lucien winced. She noticed that realization dawned on everyone’s faces and she decided she didn’t need to go into any more detail. “We won’t be long, and I promise we’ll be careful.”

There was tense moment, as if everyone was anxiously awaiting Harry’s response.

Finally, Harry nodded. “Alright, but no longer than an hour and a half. We’ll be leaving then, for the meeting I told you about last night.”

She remembered. “We’ll be here. Where will the meeting be?”

Harry’s gaze darted to Draco and Hermione could’ve sworn Harry’s eyes flashed.

Draco’s nostrils flared in outrage in the next moment. “How dare you, Potter? I’m Malfoy!” Furious, he walked out of the dining room, bringing his plate of food with him so he could finish it in solace.

“It’s hilarious when he walks out like that: as if we’d care, or something,” Ron told Harry.

Harry smirked turning his attention back to Hermione. “We’re going to Hogwarts. Remus and I thought it an auspicious venue. Aside from Hogwarts being quite secure, many of the Order captains are already stationed nearby. Also, it would be best to get you reacquainted with those… closest to you before you come out to the rest of the Order. Best thing about Hogwarts, we don’t have to make plans ahead of time for transit. The train runs regularly and this time of year, it’s mostly empty, so we don’t have to reserve tickets and have someone find out we’re planning to make the trip.”

And amidst Hermione’s turmoil from that bit of information, she looked briefly at the door Draco exited to. “What was he so angry about?”

“Muffliato.”

“Oh.”

Lucien jerked a thumb at the door. “You know, there’s something incredibly annoying about that twat.”

Hermione stared at him in astonishment, taking a moment to exchange questioning looks with Solomon.

Solomon mugged a stupid grimace and shrugged, utterly baffled. She cocked a hip as she tilted her gaze at Lucien in mild surprise. “You know, I actually thought you and he would get along. It surprises me you find him annoying since you seem to be so in love with yourself.”

Lucien scowled. “What the hell is that supp—excuse me, he and I are not alike!” he cried. “I’m D’Godenot. My bloodline is one of a kind.”

Insert “I rest my case,” one-liner right about HERE.

From the looks on everyone’s faces, she didn’t have to say it out loud.

“Right. My mistake,” she said dryly. She turned to Harry. “We’ll be back.”

She was about to grab Solomon by the hand as she turned to leave, but at the last second, she changed her mind and grabbed his arm instead. Last thing she needed was to provoke Harry into anything. Merlin forbid, she had enough emotional baggage to deal with.

It only now occurred to Hermione that she was fully acknowledging the fact that she could still make Harry jealous. It wasn’t so much the jealousy as it was the fact that she was so… aware of him.

Solomon had called it exactly that before: Aware. It was only now she fully understood what he meant.

“Tell me something,” said Hermione, breaking the silence. “Am I still acting out of sorts?”

“Umm-hmm,” they said in unison, without pause, warning or hesitation.

She frowned but accepted it.

“Hermione, can I tell you something?” Lucien said.

“Can I stop you?”

“No. But promise you won’t get mad.”

“Me? Mad? I’m as sweet as treacle tart.”

“Oh, sure. We know that.”

“What is it, then? I promise not to get mad.”

Lucien hesitated before expelling a sympathetic sigh. “Darling, I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think Ron likes you.”

It was absolute silence before Solomon broke it with a laugh.

Hermione scowled. “Rub it in, why don’t you?”

“Seriously!” Lucien cried. “I’ve spent the last few years listening to you tell us that ‘he’s such a dear’ or ‘Ron was such a sport’, but on the way to King’s Cross, he wasn’t nice to you at all! What did he mean when he whispered that he was keeping his eye on you? It sounded like a threat!”

“Well, he’s right pissed at me, that’s for sure, but even like that, I believe he cares for me. Just that right now he’d rather sock me one.”

“Then why doesn’t he just have at you and get it over with?”

“Because, Ike Turner,” Hermione began patiently. “Ron doesn’t hit women.”

“You’re not a woman.”

“Oh, thanks for reminding me! It’s been so hard to remember since I lost my dick to the accident.”

Solomon kept laughing. He was finding this immensely entertaining.

Lucien nudged him disapprovingly. “You know what I mean. You’re a vampire. You can get run over by a Mack Truck and it wouldn’t kill you.”

“I’d be terribly sore, though,” she said with gravity.

“I’d imagine so,” added Solomon, graver still.

Lucien was not pleased. “Look, I’m trying to be a friend, here. I’d appreciate it if you two were more cooperative. It’s not everyday that I think of someone other than myself!”

Hermione grinned and kicked Solomon gently on the foot to make him stop laughing. “Fine. You’re right. Thank you for your concern, Lucien, but I think Ron and I will weather this little storm in our relationship. I promise you, he likes me. It’s just… not showing right now.”

Lucien pouted. “It’s just annoying, you know? You tell me I should be more sensitive to you and Solomon and when I do it, I get laughed at.”

Hermione bit back any comments about how Lucien had gone back to thinking of himself again right quick. She touched his shoulder. “Yes. I know. Solomon and I are sorry for being mean. Aren’t we, Sol?”

Solomon just nodded, visibly biting his bottom lip, probably to stamp down his laughter.

Lucien was appeased. “Alright, then. Now that I’ve addressed your issues, I’ve something important that I want to consult with you. Should I get a haircut? Because I think I have split ends. I think that last batch of hair products I got was no good.”

Solomon sighed. “Lucien, do you know how I know you’re gay?”

Lucien was just about to answer that when the compartment door slid open.

Harry stood there with Ron behind him.

Earlier, Hermione, Lucien and Solomon hid themselves in cloaks while Harry, Ron, Seamus and Remus brought them to King’s Cross. Upon alighting the train, Harry had deposited her in a compartment with Lucien and Solomon while he went off with Ron and Seamus. Remus had gone to the back to speak to Shacklebolt and Arthur.

In the last few years, Hermione hadn’t been told by anyone to “stay put” while they went off to discuss important matters without her. And she was definitely never left out before when it came to Ron and Harry, but that had obviously changed.

There was a scuffle, and Ron appeared to be scowling at someone. Seconds later, Seamus walked by, waving to them as if he had just happened to be passing through, which Hermione knew wasn’t true at all.

Ron, Harry and Seamus, now. Surprised Dean and Neville aren’t here to complete the set.

“Solomon, Lucien, would it trouble you so much if you gave us some time to talk?” she asked. They would go without question if she ordered them to, but she didn’t like treating them too much like underlings during relaxation time.

They nodded and stood, throwing on their cloaks and filing out of the compartment.

Lucien shot Ron a deadly glare and said, “I have my eye on you,” before he pulled his cowl over his head to hide his face.

Ron looked only a bit disturbed, probably unsure about whether he had done something or whether Lucien was coming on to him.

Hermione only sighed as the two hooded figures left.

Ron and Harry watched them go for a moment before Harry closed all three of them back into the compartment.

Sitting across her, she had a bittersweet sense of déjà vu.

“You’re not going to gang up on me, are you?” she asked, arching her eyebrow at them.

“Not really,” Harry said. “But I’m getting the impression that you want us to be angry with you. Does that make all this easier for you?”

Ron waited for a reply, his jaw set.

She frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. Ron might be able to pull off the cold, angry friend, but she already knew Harry could only hold out on her for so long. She wondered how long before he crumbled. She looked at him frigidly. “Sure, Harry. Whatever you say. Now, what do you want?”

His expression didn’t change, but he hesitated a moment too long. “Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye are concerned about Lucien and Solomon in Hogwarts.”

“Shocking.”

“I tried to tell them Lucien and Solomon would listen to you but they said they refused to risk it.”

Hermione tried not to get too incensed. Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye were being reasonably cautious. They had a school full of children to think about. “What do they want to happen?”

“They’ll only let you into Hogwarts.”

She sniffed disdainfully. “Fine. But where my Shadow Kin stay, I stay. I think the Hog’s Head boasts of a dark enough dungeon to accommodate three vamps.”

Ron frowned. “You can stay in Hogwarts.”

“Ron, how would you feel if all your brothers and Ginny were forbidden from entering the Burrow but you were allowed to go in and sleep in it?”

His only response was the knotting of his brows.

“I thought so,” she said haughtily. “I’ll stay with Solomon and Lucien at the Hog’s Head.”

Harry looked like he was struggling within himself for something and Ron was eyeing him purposefully. Hermione began to wonder what this was all about.

“Look,” said Harry, clearing his throat. “It’s not really safe for you to be out there without protection wards. You know what they did to your parents’ house and what’s to stop them from trying again?”

“So I’ll let Lucien and Solomon get staked during the day while I’m all safe and tucked in my coffin at Hogwarts?” Hermione hissed. “The reason why they’re with me is because they trust that I won’t ever let harm come to them if I could help it, and if I can’t help it, the least I could do is come to harm with them.”

“I’m not saying you should leave them,” Harry said. “I’ll try to convince Mad-Eye and Shacklebolt that Solomon and Lucien are harmless—“

“Like puppies,” Ron interjected with an arch of his eyebrow.

Harry paused. “Alright, maybe not harmless but Hermione seems to have them pretty much whipped—“

Hermione scowled. “They are not whipped. Don’t call them that!”

Ron scoffed. “As much as it pains me to admit it, Hermione, we know when you have a couple of blokes whipped.”

“What’s that suppose to mean?” she hissed back.

“The point being,” Harry said, raising his voice slightly to get both of them to shut up. “If I can get Shacklebolt and Mad-Eye to see that Lucien and Solomon aren’t a couple of wild, undisciplined vampires, then I’ll rest better knowing Hermione’s safe in Hogwarts.”

“Harry!” Ron hissed, scowling at him as if Harry was backing out on something they’d talked about.

Harry reddened considerably but didn’t look like he was going to let Ron pressure him into doing anything. Hermione began to wonder just what these boys were up to. “If they’re absolutely forbidden to stay in Hogwarts, then I’ll just have to set up a detail that would guard their resting place. I’ll head it myself.”

Ron crossed his arms over his chest and sulked in the corner. “Why don’t you just transfigure yourself into a doormat and prostrate yourself at her feet while you’re at it?”

It then occurred to Hermione that Ron, and possibly Seamus, had given Harry the boneheaded advice of treating her colder than he was ever wont, the primary objective of such an act being—of course—that she would be unbearably regretful of her sins and likely grovel at his feet for a morsel of his affection.

Hermione would have smacked Ron and Seamus’s heads together if Seamus was there. She wanted to tell them that they should know Harry wasn’t like that. If Harry played mind games at all, that wasn’t the way he did it. Harry was too caring and considerate to pull off anything like that, not to mention the fact that they didn’t realize how Harry had powers over her that transcended these petty schemes.

Harry, for his part, didn’t like Ron’s side comments at all. He first reddened then his eyes sparked angrily. “Why don’t you just have Lavender come over here so I snog her senseless? How about that? Maybe it’ll get Hermione to sic canaries on me and then I’ll know I’m getting somewhere. Think that’ll work?”

Ron sat up on his seat. “Look here, you sorry-arse berk, don’t come crying to me when somebody rips your heart out again and throws it to the ground. Don’t think it won’t happen again, because it seems to me she’s only sticking around because she has to.”

Harry looked like Ron had sucker-punched him, but he recovered quickly enough, jaw hardening. “Oh, well then tell me what to do, Mr. I’m In A Meaningful Relationship With A Seventeen Year Old.”

This was awful. “Stop it!” Hermione hissed, not the least bit amused. “Both of you, just stop it. You know it hurts me when you fight!” The words were out of her before she could bite her tongue.

Ron rounded on her. “Oh, does it? ‘Bout time you felt something in all this, eh?”

Double ouch. I WON’T CRY.

Hermione felt like she had brought a plague amongst them. Oh, she knew this mission would be a complete disaster. She wanted to stand up and—well, probably stomp her foot and weep, or something, when the train came to a grinding, jerking halt.

The lights went out and the dim glow of the crescent moon barely illuminated the dark sky outside.

They fell silent, and Hermione’s sick sense of déjà vu returned.

Hesitantly, she began to speak. “Was there a scheduled stop—“

“No,” Harry replied. “There wasn’t. Stay—“

A shadow fell across the glass of the compartment door. The shadow was hooded; reaching to slide their door open.

Ron squeaked.

The soft rumble of ball bearings broke the silence and slowly, the cloaked figure advanced.

Hermione’s mind became flooded with images of dark, demonic creatures that sucked hope and happiness from everything around it. She was in third year again, watching as a dementor attacked Harry and she could do absolutely nothing to stop it.

So it was an utter shock to Hermione when the figure poked its head through the opening and said, “Hermione, d’you happen to have some sickles on you? I found a cart full of those delightful chocolate frogs and I didn’t have any money on me.”

There was a collective sigh of relief and Ron began to utter curses beneath his breath.

“Lucien!” she shrieked, clenching her fist.

Lucien frowned. “What? Was it something I said?”

Right now, she was just embarrassed that the visual stimuli and her memories had somehow made her forget that it wasn’t cold enough for a real dementor to have been there.

She looked at Harry and Ron and their gazes caught. She knew they had all been transported back to the third year, and that they had—for a few seconds—felt a familiar sense of solidarity.

Harry stood. “I’m going to see what’s wrong. Must’ve been a power outage of some sort…”

Hermione froze. Her vampire senses kicked and she knew then that this wasn’t a power outage.

Solomon came up behind Lucien, looking worried. “Hermione, something’s very wrong. Don’t you feel it?”

Hermione nodded. There was a presence that hadn’t been on the train when they first got on. Definitely increasing in number.

She grabbed the gun nestled in the hollow of her back and cocked it. “We’re under attack. Lucien, Solomon, get to the roof.” They were gone in an instant.

She looked to Harry and Ron and was momentarily startled by what she saw. They seemed… different right now. Tense, but self-assured. Even their clothing didn’t look as randomly thrown on like it first was. The sleeves of their coats and jumpers had been slightly pushed back revealing wrist holsters for their wands and tiny vials, probably filled with defensive potions. Harry had his crossbow out. Ron was nervously, but skillfully, flipping a tiny silver knife in his hand. There were several more strapped to his arm and Hermione was almost certain the boots he wore had a hefty supply of them. She saw that their coats were weighed down and that beneath those coats, they had weapons strapped to their bodies.

All this had escaped her earlier, and she only now realized that Ron and Harry had been fighting a war for five years now.

“How many?” Harry asked her.

Of course he’d know that she would be able to tell. “Five vamps. I sensed three werewolves, but there could be more. One could’ve been on the train since King’s Cross, and if that’s true, then there could just as easily be five. Or ten.”

Harry’s cheek twitched. She knew what he was thinking. How did the enemy know they were on the train at all? But that was a question for later. “Werewolves on a crescent moon night… I hate those. Difficult to kill.”

She nodded, understanding exactly what Harry meant. Werewolves who left their lycanthropy untreated for a certain number of years transformed whether or not the moon was full, so long as the moon was up. The degree of their transformation corresponded to the phase of the moon, so on a crescent moon night, they had more traces of human on them than wolf, but while they weren’t fully were, they were still strong, dangerous and infectious.* They were more difficult to kill, not because they were faster or stronger but because they were more human. Hexing a human was one thing, but slicing, shooting and skewering them was an entirely different thing.

There was a loud crash from somewhere else and Hermione didn’t wait. She rushed out of the compartment, Harry and Ron right behind her.

Hermione could see clearly in the dark, and in the distance, she saw Solomon crashing and striking against one of their own, breaking glass and wood in the process. Solomon was already in full vamp, fangs elongated and eyes ringed ferocious as he tried to rip into his opponent’s throat.

She was just about to rush to his aid when she felt the presence of a second vamp coming at her. There was no time, or space, to draw her sword. Plucking a second gun from within her coat, she cocked it and opened fire. The deafening pop of her semi-automatics bounced through the small space.

She could hear more crashing and breaking to the other side of her, nearer Harry and Ron, but her opponent had already ripped through the train compartment directly across her.

Hermione’s silver bullets had landed, but the huge vamp had taken the shells as if they were nothing. He crashed into her, slamming her through the wooden and glass door of the opposite compartment.

The vamp was upon her, fangs drawing back to bite. The bullets she had lodged in him began to get expelled from his body.

Activating her wrist holster, a knife shot out of her sleeve and she swiped it cleanly at his throat.

The vamp gagged, his hand automatically going to his throat to stop the blood. It poured anyway and Hermione summoned her strength as his blood spilled on her. She kneed him in the gut and sent him flying off her. He got bucked right off; well clear enough for her to get to her feet in a low crouch.

The wound on his throat wasn’t going to bother him for long. It would at least stop bleeding, if not heal as quickly.

Sure enough, the vamp was upon her again, but she was better prepared this time. She threw a punch that sent him careening to the side, but his leg rose to catch her in the middle. She braced herself for it and as it connected, she heard a couple of ribs give way as pain shot through her body.

Bloody hell, that SMARTS!

She caught the same leg as it sank into her side and bit down her pain. She heaved and swung him to another wall, effectively incapacitating him long enough for her to rip a large enough pointed stake from the broken wood around them and plunge it through his heart.

Hermione pushed it down hard enough and fast enough to nail him to the floor.

She was just about to go find Harry and Ron when she sensed the werewolf behind her. She turned just when the half-human wolf jumped for her neck. She caught it by its hairy arm and dug her nails into his flesh, her grip snapping muscle and bone. He made a sound, the mingling of a beastly whimper and a human groan, just before she threw the wolf over her head, slamming him to the floor.

Her fingers came away bloodied and she fought the urge the lick the blood off.

The wolf righted himself, his broken arm knitting back into place right before her very eyes. She whipped out a third gun and cocked it, saving the fourth for when she really needed it. They were her last semi-automatics, after which, she would only have the tiny colt pistol strapped to her inner thigh and her close-contact weapons.

She fired two shots and the werewolf avoided them with lightning quick reflexes.

Alright… so he has some skill.

There was a familiar presence behind her. She’d met this vampire before.

Hermione kept her gun aimed at the were, glancing cautiously behind her. She groaned when she saw who it was.

Silvia. Lovely. Where does the drama end?

Images of horrors long buried began to leak out of Hermione’s suppressed memories and she quickly stamped them, focusing on the situation at hand. Hermione pulled out her katana, the Japanese etchings on the base of the blade glinting with the kanji for “Let justice guide thy hand”. She could manage a one on one swordfight, even with the closed quarters, but with the werewolf there cramping her style, things were going to be a bit tricky.

Silvia’s long blonde hair was braided and draped over her shoulder. Her sword was drawn for a closed quarter attack. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

“I get that a lot,” Hermione said, dividing her attention between Silvia and the werewolf.

“Tell me where Potter is and I’ll leave you alive.”

“Even I don’t know where Potter is. At any rate, you better back off, Silvia. I’m better than you at this. You know this, don’t you?”

“You’re outnumbered.”

“No. You’re outnumbered. Get a couple more vampires here and maybe we’re all even.”

Silvia’s eyes momentarily traveled to the dead vampire at Hermione’s feet.

“Yes, I killed him,” Hermione said. “And if you’re going to try and kill me, we better get a move-on. I have friends to find.”

Silvia frowned and raised her sword over her head in samurai defensive form. “Fine. Hans!”

Hans, who was probably the werewolf, jumped with claws extended from his over-jointed human hands.

Hermione only had a split second to move. She fired a shot, and the bullet popped out of her gun to head straight for the were’s right shoulder. True to form, Hans avoided it with uncanny skill. There Hermione got her chance.

She dropped her gun, swung her sword in a narrow arc and cut right through Hans’s wrist. Hans’s high-pitch shriek rang out just as Hermione met Silvia’s sword with her own.

The sound of clashing steel permeated throughout the train car just when Hans fell awkwardly to his side, wracked in wolf-human cries as he cradled the stump that used to be his hand.

Silvia hissed, calling Hans names.

“Better than you,” Hermione grunted, as if to remind her.

Silvia swung for another strike and Hermione swiped an aikuchi*, from her belt, flipping it to slash Silvia’s side. Silvia cried out, losing her momentum and her grip on her sword. The sword tumbled out of her hands and Hermione caught it, plunging it right through Hans’s heart just as she brought her own sword precariously close to Silvia’s throat.

Silvia froze, blood still pouring from her wound.

Hermione grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and turned her, pressing her face into the wall. She twisted Silvia’s arm behind her as she removed all of Silvia’s weapons. Hermione figured there would be a few more on Silvia that she missed, but that wasn’t something Hermione was overly concerned about. Silvia wouldn’t try to kill her again. They had trained together, once upon a time, for the Coven, and Silvia’s skill was up to par, only Hermione had always been better. Silvia had defected from the Coven some two and a half years ago and Hermione always hoped that if anyone was going to teach Silvia the evil of her ways, it would be her.

Now was her chance.

She jerked Silvia to walk further up the aisle. “Move!” she said, sword held to Silvia’s thoat.

Silvia walked, wincing as Hermione nicked her with the edge of the blade. Blood came and went, the shallow wound disappearing almost immediately. The wound at her side had almost stopped bleeding. Silver tended to slow down a vampire’s healing process, though not by much.

Hermione followed the sound of fighting. There was a dead werewolf, an arrow in his throat and a knife in his eye.

Harry and Ron.

Where the hell are they?

They were almost to the back of the car and Hermione had no idea where Harry and Ron were.

And just when Hermione was beginning to get annoyed, the sound of ripping wood broke above her. She shoved Silvia forward, getting them out of the way as a werewolf fell right through the ceiling. Harry dropped right beside him, sword at hand. The blade flashed and cut right across the werewolf’s throat. The werewolf swung with his claws in his dying throes and Harry flipped his blade to catch it in mid-swing. The sword sent three fingers flying before the were dropped totally limp on the floor, eyes wide open.

Hermione found that her heart was pounding very, very fast. That split second where that claw was coming at Harry had frightened her. She couldn’t bear the thought of Harry infected as a werewolf. He had enough problems. He didn’t need to turn furry every full moon.

He had avoided the danger with flawless ease. Stifling a sigh of relief, she hid her tiny smile, filing the memory of his skill in her mind.

Harry exhaled and gathered his bearings. The front of his jumper was torn to shreds, but there seemed to be no blood.

Hermione stared at him, surprised. “Harry? Are you alright? Your jumper…”

Harry checked himself and Hermione saw a scaly, shimmering swath of dark-blue through the tatters of his clothes. “I’m fine. It’s going to bruise, though.”

“B-Bruise—“

“Dragon hide,” said Harry, picking wood splinters off himself. “Better than armor. It’s flexible like skin but near impenetrable.”

Hermione felt so relieved.

“You alright?” Harry asked, looking up. He saw Silvia and he frowned. “That doesn’t look like Lucien.”

Silvia hissed at him and Hermione banged her against the wall.

“Harry, meet Silvia,” Hermione said through grit teeth. “Silvia’s going to tell us everything she knows.”

“You can’t make me!” Silvia growled. H

“Oh, you’re going to talk, I promise you,” Hermione said, giving her another forceful shove. “Harry, where’s Ron?”

Harry looked up through the hole in the ceiling. “He was with me a second ago. Merlin… I hope he’s alright.”

“I’m fine,” came Ron’s voice. “It’s all clear here. Think there are more?”

“We’ll make a run for the back. Meet me in the third car. Hermione, are you staying here with your prisoner?”

“Prisoner’s coming with us. Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

Harry nodded, eyeing Silvia briefly, as if committing her face to memory before he was off.

Hermione roughly shoved Silvia forward, hurrying them along. “Your mole gave you incomplete information,” she said. “You weren’t expecting us to be on this train at all. Else Voldemort wouldn’t have sent you sorry-arsed, half-skilled lot.”

“He would’ve sent us anyway,” Silvia hissed. “We’ve proven our worth!”

“That would’ve sounded better if I didn’t have your arm twisted to your back. If Voldemort knew I was here, he would’ve sent someone ancient. Maybe not Janus, but someone old, like Ginza or Augustus. That hulking piece of giant that attacked me earlier wasn’t even properly trained. All brawn, no technique. You were sent to kidnap Potter. Why?”

“I don’t know. My instructions were just to take him—“

Hermione snapped her wrist.

Silvia shrieked with agony. “You bitch!”

Harry skidded to a stop ahead of them and turned, wand raised.

“Don’t you call me a bitch, Silvia,” Hermione growled in her ear, already feeling the bones of Silvia’s wrist knotting back into place. “I have every right to hurt you, you sadistic psycho. I still remember that night you killed him. That night you murdered Samir. I won’t ever forget that, and one of these days, I’ll call you on that life, but not tonight. Tonight, I’ll break every bone in your body if I have to, and it’ll just keep healing. Unfortunately, the pain stays the same, no matter how many times I do it, and you don’t get to die just yet.”

Those horrifying memories began to surface in Hermione’s mind once again, but she still insisted on pushing those back. Another time. Another place. If I let that memory consume me, I’ll rip Silvia’s heart out. Silvia is useless, dead.

“Think you can break me like that? Well, I’ve been locked in a coffin for three months without being fed, so I know suffering like you’ve never had!”

“We’ll see about that. Keep walking!”

“What’s wrong?” Harry asked.

“Everything’s wrong,” Hermione said as they maneuvered through debris and body strewn aisle. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. Someone ratted on us.”

He was unresponsive for a moment before he finally nodded.

They maneuvered through the wreck and switched cars. Hermione wondered where Solomon and Lucien were. She had seen the vamp Solomon had been fighting with earlier, head unattached to his body. Obviously, Solomon had won that fight, but where were they now?

The third car was even more damaged, dead werewolves strewn everywhere. There were at least five. One headless vamp lay among them.

At the other end of the car was the rest of their party.

Solomon was speaking to Seamus and Mad-Eye while Lucien stood at the background, restraining a vampire.

Harry flicked his wand at Silvia.

She hissed furiously as her arms and legs were bound and tied by magic.

Hermione set her facedown on the ground.

Harry turned to one of the aurors. The young man looked like he was fresh out of Hogwarts, unfamiliar yet to the realities of war. “Watch her. If she tries to turn over, call for help. Got that?”

Mutely, the young man nodded. He looked pale and nervous, but he had gotten through the night alive and unscathed. He was dependable. Not everyone had been as lucky.

There was one dead, a few others injured, two of which suffered were-infection. They sat on the ground as the cuts the werewolves dealt them were attended to. They would never been fully were, but it was still a damning disease.

Remus, Shacklebolt, Arthur and Ron looked up at their arrival.

Ron gasped upon seeing Hermione. “Merlin, Hermione! Are you alright?”

“The blood isn’t mine,” she said.

“Harry?” Remus asked.

Harry nodded. “I’m okay. How’s everyone else? Any casualties?”

Arthur looked tired. “One, too many, but Lucien and Solomon were very helpful. The werewolves were manageable, but those vampires… we couldn’t have made it if we didn’t have our own vampires to defend us.”

Harry looked to Lucien who held their vampire prisoner tight enough to prevent movement. “We’ve got a prisoner, too. We can interrogate them both. Is the train in working order?”

Shacklebolt nodded. “The engineers seem to be fine, though one of them is a bit too shaken up to be of much use. We can get this train moving.”

“Good. We can interrogate the prisoners on the way. I just want to get us all to Hogwarts.”

Hermione looked at the vampire in Lucien’s captivity. Past the blood and gore staining the enemy vamp’s face, she came to a surprising but advantageous realization. She chuckled, catching everyone’s attention. “This is most convenient,” she said, walking towards their captive.

She grabbed a fistful of their prisoner’s blonde hair and she yanked his face up to what little light there was. She smiled. “I smell groupie…” she whispered in a sing-song tone.

“What?” asked Lucien.

“Don’t you recognize him? He’s one of Silvia’s. I think this one’s even involved with her now. Paolo, isn’t it?”

The prisoner bared his fangs at her.

Hermione chuckled. “Would you like to see her, Paolo?”

Lucien gasped. “Silvia’s here?”

At that, Paolo’s eyes flickered, hissing with rage. “What have you done with her?”

Hermione chuckled. “Spoken like a true Boy Toy. Your Silvia’s safe, for now. And I’m going to have fun questioning you both.” She looked to Harry and the rest who had been watching her with oddly fascinated stares. “Alright, here’s the deal: I want first dibs…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The train moved at a steady pace, the more damaged compartments blocked off with magic. Most of the party converged in the third car. Hermione said she would conduct the interrogation in the fifth. The space was wider there than in the other cars. Perfect for its purpose now.

Hermione had Silvia and Paolo sitting face to face, Lucien holding Paolo while Solomon held Silvia. There was no one else in the room with them.

Walking in circles, Hermione considered how best to approach the situation. She had reached into their minds earlier, hoping to catch something from their memories. She was expert at catching images, but her powers, though strong enough to penetrate the sturdiest walls, were limited; she couldn’t hear words, not unless they were being fed to her directly, and as the memories of others went, that just didn’t happen. Sometimes, she was able to piece things together with the memories, but pictures could only go so far; worse, pictures could be misleading. Silvia’s and Paolo’s memories weren’t so detailed as to enlighten Hermione, so an actual interrogation was necessary.

So now she had to ask herself: How far was she willing to go to get answers?

Considering the answers might save Harry’s life, as far as it takes.

That realization was almost crippling.

Hermione braced herself. Time to channel my bitch of a boss.

“How long have you been ‘officially’ together now, a year? Year and a half?” Hermione asked as she put her foot up on the side of Silvia’s chair. She extracted her pistol from her thigh and slid out its cartridge. She removed the silver bullets from its cartridge and pocketed them. “Took you long enough. Been dancing around for ages, it seemed…”

Silvia and Paolo watched her warily. Hermione gave them a poisonous smile as she reached into Solomon’s jacket pocket, pulling out a wallet of odd-looking bullets. They were mostly made of lead, except that half of it was hollowed out with tiny little arches. Inside the hollowed, windowed cavern sat a tiny glass ball with something liquid and colorless. With deliberate care, Hermione put the wallet on Silvia’s lap so she could see what they were.

Hermione began to load the cartridge with those same bullets. “Silver bullets can pretty much hurt us, can’t they? But I’ve found that they don’t really do much good breaking stubborn vamps such as yourself.” She looked at Paolo and smiled briefly. “You love Silvia?”

Paolo glared at her, hissing with bared fangs.

Lucien giggled. “That’s vamp-talk for, ‘Leave her alone you fucking bitch or I’ll rip your throat out.’.”

Hermione cocked a grin. “Well said, Paolo.”

Lucien laughed.

“Solomon,” said Hermione, loading the last of the bullets in her gun and cocking it. “Why don’t you tell Silvia just what these bullets can do to a vamp.”

Solomon leaned over, pressing his lips to Silvia’s ear but speaking loud enough for even Paolo to hear him. “Each bullet contains a thimble-full of garlic essence. The glass ball containing it is mounted in such a way that would prevent the glass from breaking at the wrong time. It’s a clever bullet. It only explodes when it’s inside you. As you can imagine, it hurts like a motherfucker when the garlic starts to run in your blood. Best thing about it? Your body expels the bullet, but the garlic essence stays right where it is.”

Hermione cocked the gun. “Now, would you like me to demonstrate? Or is Solomon’s little explanation enough?”

Silvia glared at her. “Just try it, bitch. You won’t get me to break.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Hermione cheerfully. “Which is why I’ll do this.” She pointed the gun at Paolo’s thigh and pulled the trigger.

Paolo screamed as the bullet lodged itself into his leg and then his screaming got louder, prolonging into one, agonized wail. He bucked as the garlic shot through his system, convulsing as pain gripped him from within and twisted him inside.

Silvia had gasped, and as Paolo’s screams filled the room, she struggled from Solomon’s grip, vampire eyes blazing at Hermione. “You fucking bitch! You arrogant dyke!”

Hermione choked on a laugh. “Dyke! Never heard that one before. Is that what the rumors say about me now, Sol? That I’m a dyke?”

Solomon shrugged.

Lucien grinned. “I think I heard it once. Said you and Yasmin were getting it on. I think it’s hot.”

Hermione tapped the barrel of the gun to Silvia’s temple, smiling. “Yasmin’s alright. Sexy as hell, but if I’m going to get me a girlfriend, I won’t pick someone as coldhearted as Yasmin. Someone sweet as candy. Someone wonderful, like Elena, for example.”

Everybody in the vamp world knew Elena. Elena was a jet-set Madam who had all sorts of connections. She gave vamps what they wanted, for a price. Usually, the goods were legal, but sometimes, they were difficult to come by. Elena had the resources to get them without having to break a sweat.

Lucien sighed wistfully. “Oh, man. Elena… that woman is amazing. Been after Hermione for years.”

“Shut-up, Lucien,” Hermione said, mildly disparaging. “She is not after me. She fancies me, but Elena chases no one. Now, how’s Paolo doing?”

Paolo was just now getting over the throes of the bullet. Just as Solomon said, the bent and battered remains of the bullet began to resurface from Paolo’s healing skin. The shards of glass followed, but the garlic had done its worst. Paolo made a few more agonized sounds, groaning as the last of the pain nagged him. The memory of it, though, was something that wasn’t going to leave him anytime soon.

“And now a question,” Hermione said, looking to Silvia. “Who told you to kidnap Harry Potter?”

Silvia didn’t hesitate with this one. “Bellatrix.”

Old news. “Any idea who ordered her to order you?”

“Voldemort.”

“Who told Voldemort?”

Silvia was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know.”

Hermione snorted. She had expected as much. She had seen no misplaced face in Silvia’s mind earlier; no one Hermione could suspect as a mole. “Of course you don’t. You’re just a flunkie. Well then, tell me why they want Harry alive.”

At that, Silvia’s eyes flashed.

Humph. Predictable. Hermione arched an eyebrow, turning to Paolo. “Do you know why Voldemort wants Harry alive?”

Paolo was still gritting his teeth from the residual pain of the bullet. “To kill him. Voldemort wants to kill Potter himself.”

“How very dramatic,” Hermione said dryly. She grabbed Paolo by the collar of his shirt and yanked him forward, drawing him close enough to be nose to nose with her. “I have no time for this bullshit, Paolo. I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how painful that bullet was, the garlic inside you boiling your blood. That wretched, agonizing pain can go on all night. There are more bullets were that came from.”

Hermione smelled Paolo’s fear and Silvia, perhaps sensing it as well, cursed on her seat. Hermione grinned. “Now are you going to answer my questions?”

Paolo’s jaw hardened through his fear. “I can take the pain. I don’t care. I won’t talk.”

“Fine.” Hermione threw him back in his seat, turned and grabbed Silvia by her braid. Yanking back Silvia’s head, Hermione pressed the barrel of the gun to Silvia’s eye.

Paolo’s eyes widened in shock and he bucked in his seat. “No!”

Fangs bared, Hermione looked over her shoulder at Paolo. “Remember the pain, Paolo? How it felt? Well, there’s nothing quite like having one’s eye blown out and having all that garlic pooling in your brain. Silvia’s going to love you after this.”

“Silvia!”

“Sh-Shut up, Paolo!” Silvia hissed. “Don’t say a thing. Don’t!”

“I’m going to count to five, Paolo!” Hermione warned.

“If you hurt her, I swear!”

“ONE!”

“You—“

“Bitch! I know! TWO!”

Paolo’s struggles were so violent that Lucien actually began to exert effort to hold him down. “Let me—“

Hermione hissed. “Five.” She motioned to pull the trigger.

“No! Just don’t! There’s something. I’m not sure what it is, but it sounded like a spell! Maybe it is, but I couldn’t be sure!”

“Paolo, you IDIOT!” Silvia cried as Hermione released her roughly.

Paolo looked at her beseechingly. “I can’t let her, Silvia. I just can’t…”

Hermione snorted. “Touching. Silvia, you vicious girl, how did you get such a tenderhearted, naïve creature to fall in love with you? Incidentally, Paolo, did you know that your sweetheart liked butchering children for the Coven? She loved doing that. It’s against vampire law to sire the young and pre-pubescent, but most Coven members, even Yasmin, for that matter, don’t really go out of their way to hunt vampire younglings. After all, who wants to kill kids? It wasn’t their fault they were turned. Silvia, however, just loved ripping out their little hearts. And you know what? She messed with the wrong child when she killed Samir. I’ve got her on my shitlist and I’m taking down anybody that gets in my way. So do yourself a favor and quit her. It’s not in your best interest to be associated with someone like her.”

“Samir thought he was safe from the hand of the law,” Silvia growled, a dark shadow falling over her eyes. She looked more the beast than any of the werewolves they had slain that night. “Fortior et potentior est dispositio legis quam hominis.”

The will of the law is more resolute and more powerful than that of man.

Hermione controlled her rising fury and kept her gaze on Paolo, biting back her reply to get to the more important matters at hand. “Tell me the name of this spell you’re talking about.”

“Animus Messer. That’s all I heard. I don’t even know if it has anything to do with Potter, but I heard the words.”

“Soul harvest,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

Hermione shucked a few more questions, hoping to get more information. Paolo didn’t know any more than what she already knew. Silvia wasn’t going to talk; not for Paolo, not for anyone. The woman may look like an angel, but she was demon all the way through.

Hermione ordered Solomon and Lucien to bind the vamps and haul them to the third car where they could be constantly watched. They left, leaving Hermione alone in the room.

When they were gone, she wearily sat on one of the chairs, letting go of the Yasmin Persona she had created for the interrogation. She un-cocked the pistol and slid the cartridge out of the gun, removing the garlic bullets. It was only then, as the silence enveloped her senses, that she felt his presence. She tensed with a mixture of horror and amazement. Horror, because she knew he had seen what she had done, and amazement, because she realized a moment later that she had only felt his presence because he let her.

“Well, Harry… brilliant magic you got up, there,” Hermione said.

For a moment, there was no response, then the familiar rustle of that clever, magical cloak shuffled through the air. Harry stood in the corner of the room, shock evident in his eyes. His breath trembled and he swallowed visibly.

Hermione gestured to the seat across from her as she pocketed the garlic bullets and took out the silver ones. “Care to sit?”

Slowly, Harry approached, settling on the chair in front of her. He was still watching her with barely concealed horror.

She smiled bitterly. “Nice trick, masking your presence. Didn’t know you were there, so… you saw what I did. Not pretty, but it had to be done.”

“Y-You…” he began, swallowing. “You used… you used Paolo’s feeling for Silvia… and you shot his leg…”

“That, I did. But you have to understand… pain is different for vamps. Aside from the fact that we can heal from our wounds, we can take pain. It won’t make us break. Paolo would’ve never said anything if I kept hurting him. But I had to make him feel what it was like to get shot by these bullets. I shot him where it hurts the least… but yes, he did feel an enormous amount of pain.”

“Then why hurt him if you knew he wouldn’t break that way? Why let him feel such pain?”

“So that he’d save Silvia from it. Paolo would take the pain, but he would never let Silvia suffer it, even if he knows she could take it. He loves her. Paolo would only break for her. Wouldn’t you have given in for someone you love, no matter how strong you know they are?”

Harry held her gaze for a moment before slowly nodding.

“Silvia wouldn’t have cared,” Hermione continued. “She could’ve watched Paolo suffer all night and she wouldn’t have budged an inch. My way was more merciful. Contrary to what Ron thinks, Harry, I don’t like inflicting pain. I already told you, didn’t I? Torture isn’t my cup of tea.”

“But you did it anyway.”

She nodded, clicking the newly loaded cartridge in place. “Yes, I did it. Tonight, I did it. Don’t ask me why, or else suffer the burden of my answer.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Harry… for what reason have I ever broken the rules? For what reason have I ever broken my rules?”

He didn’t speak. Not for a while, the terrible answer hanging in the air between them.

She couldn’t ever be so cruel as to let him say the answer out loud. “I’d expect we’d be arriving in Hogwarts soon. Will Shacklebolt and Mad Eye let Lucien and Solomon stay in the castle?”

Harry swallowed before he replied. “Yes. Your boys won them over assisting them in battle this evening.”

“Good. Do you think I should be let into the castle, now that you’ve seen what I’m capable of?”

His eyes flickered with what she was astonished to realize was hope. “I was listening to everything you said, you know… who’s Samir?”

Her heart twisted painfully at the name and hesitated. Should she tell him about that?

“Please,” he said in a soft, beseeching tone.

Maybe it was one of those looks of his that she couldn’t turn away from, but she could tell he needed her to tell him. Who was Samir, indeed.

Tentatively, she began to speak in a soft, hushed voice. “Samir… he was only seven when he was turned, and his family abandoned him for becoming what he was. He was… he wasn’t even vicious. Vampires turned that young… they don’t usually turn out right in the head. Sometimes they’re even more vicious than adults, but they lack the skill to survive. Often they’re slain by any vampire they happen to cross. It’s such a frequent outcome that we in the Coven don’t even bother to hunt them. It’s just not… easy to take a child’s life, no matter how—but Silvia could handle it. She found those children and killed them. Called them Little Buggers.”

Harry flinched.

“Samir,” she continued quietly, “was just a frightened little boy. He didn’t even know how to hunt. He was so weak. So I took him in.”

He remembered, then. The talk they had the first night she came. He had seen pain, and he had wondered whom that pain was for. “You took in a stray…”

She swallowed. “Yes… I have a thing for… anyway, Yasmin didn’t care. She thought I was an idiot for taking in a child, but she didn’t make a big fuss over it. Besides… I wasn’t going to give up Samir for anything at that point. I loved the sprog.”

Harry made a motion to touch her.

She shifted, flinching away.

He pulled back and expelled a breath. “Silvia murdered him.”

Hermione nodded. “She used a wooden stake. Didn’t even bother to give him a quick death with a sword.”

“Oh, Merlin…” Harry whispered, running his hand down his face at the horror of it.

“I watched Samir die, Harry. In my arms. Silvia… I never thought she would harm Samir. He was… he was hers. She turned the child, and then she killed him. I still don’t understand it.”

Whatever revulsion Harry had for what she’d done earlier was gone and for the life of her, Hermione didn’t know if she should even be feeling relief. His revulsion was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

“I would’ve killed Silvia,” he said. “I would’ve shot a whole round into her, watched her suffer before I took her head.”

Hermione smiled slightly at that. “No. You wouldn’t have, Harry. You can never do such a thing. Not for Samir. Not for anyone you love. You’re too pure for that.”

She was astonished when his hand wrapped around hers.

“You could’ve killed Silvia in battle. Staked her through the heart, like she did with Samir. Why didn’t you?”

She clenched her hand into a fist. “We needed her.”

“We did, but can you, Hermione? Kill her in cold blood for Samir? For revenge?”

Hermione hesitated, but she realized that the hesitation came not from uncertainty. She knew what she wanted to do to Silvia, given the opportunity. What she couldn’t bear was what Harry would think of her if he heard the answer from her lips. “Don’t make me answer that.”

For several seconds, neither of them moved.

His hand loosened, and just when she thought he was going to let her go, his hand was cupping her face. The touch was tender, and his eyes conveyed true sorrow.

She was too shocked to pull away.

“I’m sorry about Samir,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

Tears threatened and she frantically blinked them back. “It was over three years ago. It’s not—it’s not something—“

She felt the firm but gentle grasp of his hand on her neck; the warmth of his touch scattering her thoughts.

She didn’t know how it happened, but she was in the embrace of his arms, and she wasn’t struggling to be let go.

Closing her eyes, she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, inhaling his scent as she pulled herself together within the safety of his nearness. The bitter coldness she had placed around Samir’s loss melted and the grief hit her anew. Tears fell and it hurt to push back the sobs. She clung to the fabric of his shirt, fighting her emotions back. She had to stop. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Finally, she found control, and gingerly, she pulled away from Harry. Mostly dry-eyed, she gave a final sniff before she spoke. “It’s fine, Harry. I’m over it. We better get back to the third car. They might be wondering what we’re doing, staying away for so long.”

He didn’t look at all convinced that she was alright. “They can think whatever the hell they want. Are you sure you’re—“

“I’m fine,” she growled irritably. “Can we please just go?”

He expelled a soft breath before he nodded. “Alright, Hermione. Alright. Let’s go.”

She hated it and loved it that he was giving in for her. Hated him and loved him for caring.

It was almost more than she could bear. Turning, she hurried to the front of the car, leaving Harry to follow sluggishly in her wake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Props to the Merovingian, from Matrix: Reloaded who said, “Okay… you have some skill.” I love that quote and I just had to use it. Later on, you’ll probably catch, “We are getting aggravated. Yes we are…”

*The “Crescent Moon Werewolves” were mentioned earlier in the story in Part I, Chapter 4: Occasion. So it isn’t as if I’ve just now come up with the idea to fit my purposes. I came up with the idea earlier to fit my purposes. ::evil laugh::

*An aikuchi is a tanto (dagger, or knife, with a blade less than twelve inches) without a tsuba (guard).

*Credit duly given to the movie “40-year-old Virgin” for popularizing the words, “Do you know how I know you’re gay?”

21. Chapter Twentieth: Hogwarts

Author’s note: I’m just so utterly amazed by the response. 700+ I just couldn’t believe it, but it’s there! I’m going crazy.

Check out Siangwu’s fanart contribution to Forever Knight. See it, here: http://gallery.portkey.org/galleryView.php?viewDetails=835

Thanks so much to Lady Diamond’s mad beta skilz!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

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Chapter Twentieth: Hogwarts

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Hogwarts had dungeons a-plenty for students, guests and prisoners.

Personally, Harry thought it would do those insufferable Slytherins good to be informed that there were vampires situated beneath their common room, but as Hermione said, even the most vicious vamp child didn’t deserve to get slain in cold blood.

He dug into his robe for his watch and he checked the time. It was an hour yet before the meeting.

Sooner still before I go spare, he thought, picking up a stone and tossing it into the lake. It plopped in heavily. He never did know how to make a rock skip.

He briefly recalled their arrival at Hogwarts, all quiet and furtive so as not to wake the students. The Head Boy and Head Girl had met them at the front steps to escort them to the Great Hall, where the Headmistress waited.

Harry had looked at the young man in Ravenclaw blue with bright blue eyes and brown hair. He was just seventeen, and perhaps he didn’t understand many things, but he understood the gravity of the situation, because he hadn’t smiled when he let them through. Winston, the Head Boy, had taken account of them for a brief moment with his serious eyes and said, “Please follow us.” He had questions. Harry could tell. But Winston had chosen not ask them.

The Head Girl, an interesting young lady with long wavy black hair and bright green eyes seemed a bit less grave, but she hadn’t smiled either, nodding as she followed the Head Boy’s lead.

It was behind these young adults that Harry had watched Hermione as they walked the dark, quiet hallways of Hogwarts. He had seen these hallways many times beneath the veil of his invisibility cloak, and it felt very strange to be walking back into it at this hour as if they owned the joint.

She had been cloaked like a druid, her dark robes and the fluid movement of her gait casting her as an enigma. And even so shadowed, even having watched the nerve-wracking events on the train, he couldn’t forget that those minutes he had with her on the train car had showed him something he knew made the last five years of searching for her worthwhile. She was strong; she was ferocious; she was vampire; but for that one blessed moment, he realized that the Hermione he knew was far from gone. Samir had been more than a frightened, vampire boy. He was everything Hermione once believed in. He was the scared little boy who lived that Hermione chose to guide; he was the oppressed elf that Hermione adamantly fought for; he was the abandoned half-kneazle that Hermione felt compelled to save; he was the unloved orphan that needed her to take care of him; he was the reason Hermione broke the rules; he had become the key that had locked away her true self.

She was right there, but for some reason, she had filed that part of herself away, those parts that were the reasons Harry had loved her—loves her still. He could only suppose that she had shut down that part of herself that cared and loved so much because Samir had been taken so violently away from her. Hermione had—in spite of having so much love to give—been a creature of thought. Logic and reasoning had been her strong point. When the emotional became too much for her to explain with clever words and objective processing, she either cracked—raging in Yule balls, conjuring psychotic canaries and rushing to her parents’ house to see if they were alright—or went cold—scolding him about strange potions books, lecturing him about girls or perhaps, abandoning him without so much as a goodbye…

In the last five years, the only emotional anchors she could’ve had were Lucien and Solomon. She cared for them, and they seemed to care for her. If only for that, he could let go of his petty jealousies of them; of Solomon seeing her as more than just a friend; of Lucien swearing devotion to her when he probably never promised anything before to anyone in his entire egocentric life. But then more often than not, it seemed more like they leaned on her. She was their anchor. So when the burden got too much, who did she turn to?

He was willing to bet his wand arm that it wasn’t Yasmin.

When they met McGonagall in the Great Hall, she was as dignified and poised as ever, even when Hermione made herself known. The good Headmistress had listened quietly to the alarming news of the train attack and immediately sent for Madame Pomfrey to see to the injured.

McGonagall confirmed that the captains situated around Hogwarts would be arriving soon having been individually told that the Headmistress was requesting the honor of their presence in Hogwarts. No mention of a meeting was made. No hint of the governing board was hidden between the lines; just that their attendance was imperative and cannot be postponed.

When the last minute arrangements of sleeping quarters were made, they concluded their pre-conference to settle in during the interim.

“Granger,” McGonagall had said. “You, I’m not quite through with. We shall finish our discussion in my office.” The Headmistress had looked at Solomon and Lucien with her hawk eyes. “Alone.”

Hermione had promptly told her boys to settle their chambers after helping to put Silvia and Paolo away, shooting them a warning glance when they showed hesitation. When she turned her back to them to follow McGonagall, they had merely sighed, utterly defeated. They did as they were told.

Harry had settled into one of the communal rooms with Ron and Seamus. But for Dean and Neville, it was almost like old times, especially when Seamus had started talking about this girl he was set to have a hot date with. It was around Seamus’s admiration of said girl’s assets that Harry had excused himself.

Ron had shot him the obligatory, “Need company, mate?”

To which Harry had declined. They’d been best friends long enough to know when the other really wanted to be alone and wasn’t just faking it in some fit of melodrama.

Ron’s parting words had been, “Don’t jump into the lake.”

Harry had to wonder if he ever came off as suicidal, the way his friends always told him, “Don’t jump into the lake,” or “Don’t get killed!” or “Don’t let them get their fangs on you!”

He sighed, elbows to his upraised knees as he leaned back on a smooth boulder.

The silence was comforting and he was just beginning to release the tension in his shoulders when he saw a cloaked figure gliding into his line of vision. She pulled her cowl back, her gaze transfixed on the lake.

Under the light of the crescent moon, she looked even more unattainable.

Does she even know I’m here?

She turned slightly, as if surprised. She wasn’t looking at him, but she seemed to be speaking in his general direction. “I didn’t realize you were here. What kind of magic is that? When you cloak your presence?”

He cocked a wan smile. Always asking questions. “Nothing conscious. It happens like that most of the time. I just want something so badly and the magic kind of… translates. A lot of times, I just wish I’m invisible, especially when I’m the headline on the Daily Prophet. I suppose cloaking my presence is how the magic translates my desire for invisibility. It’s probably gotten to be a habit… wanting to be not noticed.”

This time she turned to look at him, and he couldn’t get over how lovely she was under the pale light of the moon.

“Does the magic respond to you like that all the time now? You will it and it does what you want?”

He paused. “It’s not—it’s not like I’m willing it. I’m not ordering the magic to do something for me. It’s like the magic decides that yes, I want it enough for it to cut me some slack, and even then, it has to be able to use something. Does that make sense to you?”

She frowned in concentration. “A bit. Give me an example.”

“Well, like I might want to fly without a broom, for example, but the magic can’t lift me up in the air or make me grow wings. So perhaps it’ll make my consciousness… separate from the things holding it down and let my mind fly.”

“Astral projection.”

“Something like that.”

“Have you ever done it?”

“Just… once. I—I was at the Ministry when the explosion that killed Percy happened. I was trapped.”

“Trapped?”

“Under rubble. The space was… awfully small. Smaller than a—“ he paused “—than a cupboard.”

Her expression softened and he realized that he had missed that look in her eyes. That tender concern often assured him that she would always care, no matter what. He wasn’t sure what to make of it now since she was so eager to convince him that she only cared because Yasmin made her care. But still, it was a look he had longed for and it was good to see it again.

“That sounds horrible,” she said.

He nodded slightly. “I hadn’t realized my days in that cupboard had developed into claustrophobia after I got out of that box, and when I got put back into one—“

“You felt the fear. Oh, Harry, what did you do?”

“Closed my eyes and wanted out. O-U-T all-caps. I suppose the magic didn’t think it wise to blast me out of there. Instead, it set my consciousness free and then I was outside the wreckage… seeing it all. It took them twelve hours to dig me out. If I hadn’t gotten my mind out of there, I reckon I’d have gone nutters, literally.”

“Half a day! Couldn’t you—maybe communicate with them in your astral form?”

He shook his head. “I tried. I really did, but it wasn’t working. It’s not always cooperative, you see. The magic is whimsical. You’d think with that kind of power, I could do anything, but I couldn’t, it seems. I think maybe I’m limiting it. I don’t know.”

“Like how, whimsical? How is it that you figured you’re limiting it?”

He stifled a grin at her obvious academic interest on the matter. “Like I can’t manage legilimency with much competence. My inclination for that is still very raw. If the magic were reasonable, it would’ve sharpened that power for me, don’t you think? And then there are times that I think something in me is limiting the potential of the magic, like when my patronus becomes wonky. Poor Prongs has had to charge dementors missing one set of antlers every now and then.”

She smiled very slightly. After a moment, she gave in and decided to sit by him.

He made space, hoping she would sit closer. She didn’t, but at least she was within reach.

“Not enough happy thoughts?” she asked, hugging her legs to chest.

“Too many sad thoughts, I think,” he replied. “Tonks had the same problem before, when Remus was trying to push her away.”

She was silent, and only then did he realize that what he said carried a load of meaning between the two of them.

He stifled a sigh. Everything they said to one another would mean something now.

“What did McGonagall talk to you about?” he asked to steer the subject to safer waters.

“Nothing much,” she replied immediately, clearly embracing the topic. “She very calmly asked me how I’ve been doing, what I’ve been doing… bit difficult telling her I kill vamps, werewolves, and the occasional human, for a living, but hey… not as if I could lie to her about it. So I simply said, ‘I exterminate bad vamps and everything that goes with it.’”

“How did she take it?”

“Well… she said it’s a damn shame I didn’t go into something more academic, like vampire research, or something. I thought it was a fairly reasonable response, coming from her. Not as if she could deduct house points from me, if you know what I mean. We talked about a whole bunch of random things. I was surprised she didn’t bring you up, or maybe I wasn’t. I’m not sure.”

“Now, why would McGonagall want to bring me up?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know… maybe because the whole wizarding world revolves around you and everyone who knows our story thinks I’m the stupid-arse girl who walked out on Harry bloody Potter.”

“Admitting you’re stupid? Stop the presses.”

She sneered. “I only said they thought it. I didn’t say I agreed with it.”

“Of course,” he said with affected gravity.

There was a silence, and Harry wouldn’t exactly say it was uncomfortable. There were hundreds of things he wanted to say that he wasn’t sure how, but she was projecting as if she wanted to say something, and he felt he ought to wait for her to speak.

She fidgeted a bit, biting her lip. Reminiscent of old her old habits. Finally, she did speak. “Look, about what happened on the train…”

He arched his eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I’m usually more… put together, than that. It’s been a rather emotional three nights, I think. I haven’t had to deal with so much—well, angst, if you want me to be blunt, in the last few years. You’ve seen how Lucien and Solomon are. We take things seriously but at the same time we don’t. We laugh at the worse things and yet the sappiest things make us laugh even harder. There hasn’t been much emotional… chow-chow… know what I mean?”

“Chow-chow?”

“Yes, chow-chow. You know, touchy… feely… talkie… chow-chow.”

“Ah.” Harry wasn’t sure he understood, but from the look on her face, she was desperate for him to.

She nodded, gesturing randomly, as if to encourage him to keep following her. “And the barrage of this chow-chow in the last few nights and these last few hours… well, it’s kind of exhausting, to tell you frankly.”

“But you’re a vampire. You don’t get tired. Not in the normal sense, anyway.”

“Yes, I thought so, too. I have quite the admirable ‘emotional stamina’, if you’d like to call it that, but tonight I was completely drained, so what I’m trying to say is, my little… emotional burst in the train… that’s… a fluke.”

“A fluke.”

“Right. And I would really appreciate it if you never bring it up again. Between us or when there are other people around to hear about it. Mm’kay?”

“Uh-huh…” He cleared his throat. “So let me get this straight. When you—when you let me hold you—“

“Well, you sort of grabbed me, and I didn’t want to be rude.”

“Of course! And then when you cried in my arms—“

“A few tears, really!”

“Right. When you—with the tears—those were tears of exhaustion, not tears of grief.”

“Not tears of grief. Right.”

“Because you’re a cold and unfeeling bitch who hasn’t had to deal with emotional chow-chow in the last few years.”

“Right! I’m glad we understand each other.”

Harry nodded. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He began to scramble for a handhold on the boulder as he rose to his feet and stared down at her, shaking his head with obvious disapproval before he turned to leave. “That’s it. That is it!”

“What?” Hermione yelled after him. “Was it something I said?”

He pulled at his hair—literally—in frustration, and he turned to face her across the clearing. “You’re just determined to convince me that you’re not who you used to be, aren’t you? You want to make me think that you’re this BIG, BAD, hardened vampire that shoots other vampires and threatens to torture his girlfriend—“

“Oy!” she shrieked. “I didn’t know you were there! I wasn’t putting on a show!”

“Whatever! Well, you know what, Hermione? I’m not buying it. Not ONE BIT! And if you ask me, I think you’re only trying to convince yourself!”

“What! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! I don’t need to convince myself of anything! I am big and bad and hardened! Last year, I used a man because I wanted to get my hands on his meditative techniques, use his Zen garden and get bloody Tantric screwed!”

“Oh, my fucking GOD! I JUST DID NOT HEAR THAT!” he shouted, hands to his ears. “And that’s another thing! You’re constantly mentioning your ex-boyfriends! What the hell is up with that? It’s driving me crazy! Do you get some sick pleasure out of making me so bloody jealous—“

“I am not trying to make you jealous, Harry,” she said, now looking as furious as he was. “I just happen to mention them, is all! And you shouldn’t be jealous, anyway. It’s not like you have a right to be!”

“OH, IS THAT SO?”

“YEAH, THAT’S SO!”

“Well, what if I happen to mention that I slept with fifteen—seventeen—hell, I DON’T KNOW, TWENTY WOMEN! Didn’t keep count, actually! At a certain point, the beautiful women and sex sort of mix together like one big, happy, screw-fest!”

Her jaw dropped, and then she shot him such a furious glare. “Well, if you like meaningless—“

“Mind numbing, abso-fucking-lutely good—“

“HUMPH! Better than me, were they?” she cried.

That threw him for a bit, but he wasn’t about to lose this fight. He was Harry bloody Potter! “Alright, MAYBE not!”

“I THOUGHT SO!” she yelled, half-smugly.

“But at least one of them, the one that MATTERED MOST, was there for me. More than I could say for some people.”

She threw him a snooty, narrow-eyed scoff. “Well, that was the whole point of my leaving, wasn’t it? So you could find somebody.”

“Yeah. It was Cho Chang.”

Her eyes flashed. It just did. It glowed amber for a brief, unforgettable moment. “Shut up!” she hissed, hands fisting. “Shut the HELL up! You’re just saying that to—“

“Annoy you? Force more emotional CHOW-CHOW on you?”

“HURT ME YOU INSENSITIVE, OVER-SEXED GIT!” she shrieked. Her voice echoed off the trees, sending a flock of birds fluttering madly into the dark sky.

And there it was: Hermione’s CHOW-CHOW on steroids.

Harry stood there, absorbing the how and what that had just happened. From the look on her, she was struggling to make some sense out of it, too.

When Harry’s breathing had settled, he let her words process in his mind. “Hurt you? Hermione…”

“Shut up,” she hissed again. “I don’t want to hear it. This discussion never happened.”

“Hermione—“

“I said, shut it, Harry! Bring it up again and I swear I’ll hit you. I swear it! Like a jackhammer, I’ll clock you—“

Oh, for—“Alright! I get it! Jesus feckin’—“

“I’m going back into the castle,” she grumbled, already pulling her cowl over her face. “And I don’t want to see you there!”

“You don’t—hello! My room’s in there. You expect me to camp out here? Conjure a tent from the lake weeds, maybe? Sleep with the Giant Squid like it said in one of those fan frickin’ fics those fan-girls got up for me, perhaps?”

She frowned, an intensely disbelieving and displeased look in her vampiric gaze.

“It’s true!” he yelled. “Sent me their story in the mail! Pure unadulterated squid-cest! And they have a club! They call themselves the Squick Shippers!”

She looked over her shoulder and glared at him. “Don’t get smart with me, Harry Potter,” she said in a dangerous tone.

“Oh, goodness, NO!” Harry cried. “Because GOD FORBID ANYONE BE SMARTER THAN THE BLOODY SMARTEST WITCH OF—“

“FINE! BE THAT WAY! BE A BIG ARSE BERK!”

“I’M the berk?” He rolled his eyes and ground out a frustrated sigh, throwing his hands up as he turned away. When he turned around again, she was gone.

Then he remembered just what time it was and he growled. “THERE’S GOING TO BE A MEETING!” he bellowed. “AND WE’RE BOTH GOING TO BE IN IT MS. SMARTY PANTS!”

No one answered. Cursing and hissing, he made his way back to the castle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To say that things were rather tense at the meeting wasn’t just an understatement, it was a way-down-below-Earth’s-core-and-probably-deeper-than-hell-exclamation. Even Ron, who had been an advocate of giving Hermione the “cold shoulder treatment” earlier couldn’t stand it, especially when he tried to drink his butterbeer and found that it, and Charlie’s, and Seamus’s too, were frozen solid in their respective bottles.

He immediately pegged Harry as the cause, as it seemed to be the most logical assumption. “Merlin’s bullocks, Harry… when I told you to give her the cold shoulder, I didn’t mean you should freeze Great Britain and the rest of hell over along with it!”

Harry didn’t apologize, though he knew he had caused it, and perhaps she was feeding his magic, too because Hermione was even colder than when she first showed up at Grimmauld Place, if that was possible. She certainly wasn’t turning on her vampire charms in front of the governing board, her former professors and the Order captains. She tried to smile, and she was polite, but the warmth just wasn’t there, so she looked a bit frightening, lovely though she was. It was rather heartbreaking to see Hagrid so overcome with emotion at seeing her again, and the great big bear hug he gave her lifted her off the floor like a rag doll, but did she thaw? No. She might have tried, but it seemed to have caused some kind of crackling electricity. Harry felt it with a jolt, and at that moment, they eradicated at least two bottles of wine and a pitcher of pumpkin juice.

Proof enough, Lucien and Solomon cornered Harry at the end of the meeting and asked, “Alright, what did you do to her?”

This was from Solomon who was throwing cautious glances over his shoulder, in case Hermione was around to overhear them.

Harry was not in the mood to explain himself. “What did I do to her? You’re seriously asking me this? Why don’t you two buttheads stop kissing her arse for once and ask her?”

Both had stared at him blankly.

“Ask her?” Lucien replied. “What—like with questions?”

“Yes,” said Harry wryly. “That is the way it usually goes. What’s the matter? Afraid she’ll tear your heads off?”

They seemed surprised.

“Well,” said Solomon. “She wouldn’t do that.”

“Of course not,” agreed Lucien. “That would kill us. Break a few fingers, maybe. And, well… she kicked me in the nuts, once. She claims it was an accident but…”

Solomon grinned, as if remembering it fondly. “T’was hilarious! We even had a name for it! What was it?”

“Ho, yeah! The Trannie Incident! I swear to you, I didn’t mean to get that roaring jack in my pants!”

“She was so mad! Said you were undermining her authority and all that!”

They laughed together before their guffaws dwindled to pained grimaces.

“Don’t want that to happen again,” said Lucien with a shudder.

“No. Definitely not.”

Harry didn’t even want to know. “Well, then, you can just go wear a Nut Cup, for all I care. And while you’re at it, you can just tell her to stop jerking me off—“

Ron gasped (Seamus, too, who had suddenly poked his head into their group at the mention of jerking). “Harry! Did you say she—“

“Not literally, Sherlock. Good LORD! I’m surrounded by RANDY idiots!”

“Who’s Sherlock?” Ron muttered aside.

Seamus shrugged.

“He says it like it’s a bad thing,” Lucien grumbled, nudging Solomon with his elbow.

“Well, you did get kicked in the nuts for being that, boyo.”

“You have a point.”

Harry was just about to throw up his hands and walk out when Charlie nudged him.

“Chocolate usually sweetens their tempers, you know,” Charlie said. “Vampire and human alike.”

Harry scowled. “I don’t have to sweeten her anything. If she wants to be snitty, that’s totally fine by me. I’m not going to grovel at her feet like her Shadow Kin.”

“We do not grovel,” Solomon interjected.

Lucien nodded. “We call it soliciting her favor. Being in her good graces. Safe-keeping her affection.”

“Prostrating yourselves at her feet?” Harry added with a sneer.

“Only sometimes…” Solomon said softly. “We reserve that for when we’ve been very bad.”

“If I don’t leave this place, I’m going to hit someone,” Harry muttered. “I’ll see you later, Charlie.”

Charlie flashed him a sympathetic smile before nodding a goodbye.

Harry hurried off, focusing his mind on what was discussed during the meeting in the hopes of forgetting his aggravation.

Hermione had drawn up a long parchment of terms detailing what Yasmin would like in exchange for the sworn support of her Coven, and perhaps even its affiliates. The demands weren’t really all that unreasonable, and what the Coven was willing to throw into the agreement sounded generous, particularly the part where the Coven would—to the best of its abilities—secure the support of several vampire groups, apart from the Coven’s affiliates whom already formed part of the contract. Many of the demands were aimed to lift discriminatory regulations and silly legislation against vamps. Arthur was more than ready to push his weight in the ministry for them. There was also a clause at the end demanding the reevaluation of a particular Elf proposal, docket number so and so. Harry suspected Yasmin didn’t have much to do with that. Many of the captains gave their input for the improvement of the terms, particularly with regard to who would be subordinate to whom in the ranks. All of the input was acknowledged, processed and added.

Overall, the terms of the agreement were reasonable, and it was even stated in the recital that the contract was magically binding. Hermione, as the duly appointed representative, was allowed to make changes on the contract necessary for the agreement of both parties. Hermione had made tweaks here and there, making copies of the contract once they came to an initial agreement of the contract’s contents. None but Yasmin’s signature (in blood, of course) could yet be found at the bottom, but it was agreed that a thorough reading of the contract would be done before anyone signed it. There were six other blank spaces, one for Hermione Granger, Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Arthur Weasley, Minerva McGonagall and Harry Potter. They would have three days to fill in those signature spaces. Beyond that, all prospects of an agreement would be dissolved and the humans could very well rot in their indecision.

Harry wasn’t afraid that the signatures wouldn’t be gathered, and Hermione had so far assured them that Yasmin was good for it, that it was Hermione who drew up the contract therefore there was no trickery, loopholes or carefully hidden agendas. The contract was clean, drawn in good faith and beneficial to the humans.

As far as Harry was concerned, the only thing he was worried about was why it was all so very fair.

Yasmin was no fool. She was no lover of humans, either, and Harry doubted it was because he “amused” her so much that she would be so congenial.

There was something else. He just had to figure out what.

With these thoughts occupying him, Harry went straight to his dorm room, changed into workout clothes and headed for the Room of Requirement.

The moment he walked through the magical room, it was transformed into a more compact version of their gym in Grimmauld Place. Harry blessed the Powers That Be for the Room of Requirement.

Harry was ripping into the punching bag when to his utter shock, the door to the room opened to let someone else in.

That had never happened before. Not unless the author of the room wanted it that way.

Given the state of things between him and Hermione, he couldn’t fathom how the room supposed that he wanted her in there for anything.

Hermione walked right in wearing full gym attire. She looked fantastic, but Harry wasn’t so gone on her looks that he would forget their shouting match by the lake.

She froze upon seeing him. “What are you doing here?”

He sneered. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re done. My turn to use the room.”

“I just got here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her look was seething. “The room wouldn’t have let me in if it didn’t think it was my turn, so it’s my turn!”

“Oh, is that what the room thinks? Well then, why don’t you just ask the room if it wants me out? Go on, then, ask it. Has it said anything yet? Did you listen hard enough—“

“Alright!” she cried. “So it doesn’t work that way! We both need the room, apparently, and we’re supposed to be mature adults about this. I’m willing to be mature. I don’t know about you.”

“I’ll be the freaking messiah of maturity if I have to be…” Harry grumbled, turning his back on her to start on the punching bag again.

He was just beginning to loosen the muscles at the base of his neck when Hermione came into his line of vision, glaring at him.

“I was going to use that bag,” she said, hand to her hip.

“Well, wait your turn. I saw some pink girlie weights over there. Maybe you should start with those.”

Her eyes ringed so ferociously that he was almost certain it would be the last thing he’d see before she took his head off with her bare hands.

“Alright, Mr. I Slept With A Bunch of Slags,” she hissed. “We obviously have to think of another way to make this work.”

Mr. I Slept With A… “First of all, they weren’t slags.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Cho Chang.”

He paused, blinking as a brand new thought dared to make itself known. “Hermione, are—are you jealous?”

“Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely?” she growled. “You can call it a monster in my chest, for all I care, but I want to settle the usufruct of this room. Get on the sparring mat. We’re going to fight for it.”

That threw him. “What?”

“We’re going to fight! You know; hit, jab, kick… fight. Whoever wins gets the room.”

He frowned, outraged. “I not going to fight you for the room!”

“Oh, please. Don’t tell me you can’t hit a girl.”

“Well, I can’t! Especially not you! You can just—“

She threw a kick, in fine form, too and he had to duck frantically to the ground to avoid it. Her shin landed on the punching bag and some of the seams burst open, sending sand floating into the air.

He stared at it in shock. “Are you MAD?”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Harry. Get up!”

“Look,” Harry said through grit teeth as he got to his feet. “This is a matter of principle, really. I don’t care how strong—“

Growling, she threw a punch, which he barely managed to dodge. It landed on the bag again, popping even more threads out of the leather. More sand poured as the bag bled from its injuries.

“Christ, woman!” Harry squeaked. “Aren’t you even pulling your punches?”

“I am pulling my punches. How do you think you’re able to dodge them?”

Harry’s ego reared like an offended dragon. “I can dodge them because I’m fast,” he hissed.

“Humph,” she huffed. “Not fast enough.”

And before he knew it, she had jumped and landed a roundhouse to his face. He didn’t even see her graceful landing. All he knew was that he had gotten hit by a jackhammer and that he was definitely down for the count. She may have loosened some teeth.

“Son of a—GODDAMMIT HERMIONE!” he yelled, pounding his hand on the floor in frustration and pain. She had been fast. He hadn’t even seen it coming. Was everyone on steroids except him?

His head was still spinning as he pushed himself off the floor and he had to shake his head a couple of times just so Hermione would be one person instead of ten.

But in spite of all that, he was determined to stick by his guns. “Hermione, I just won’t—“

“Afraid you’d get beaten by a girl?”

“It’s not—“

She smirked. “Don’t be such a Slytherin…”

You can call Harry Potter the Boy Who Lived. You can call him the Chosen One. Heck, you can even call him a Coward or a Fool, and he wouldn’t have taken the bait, but call him a Slytherin and you can make him tickle a sleeping Hungarian Horntail with naught but his socks to protect him.

“Don’t,” he said dangerously, “call me a Slytherin.”

Oh, but the smile on her face was evil. “Slyyytheriiiin…” she breathed in a singsong tone.

“You’re going down,” he said, getting into his defensive stance. “Let’s go.”

“That’s the spirit,” she whispered with what Harry could only discern as delighted anticipation. She put her left hand behind her back and held out her right, going into a one-handed, straight-backed stance.

Harry frowned and dropped his stance, throwing a gesture at her. “What the hell is that?”

She affected a puzzled smirk, staying the way she was. “Well, you can call it the Golden Fucking Tiger Claw, for all I care. But really, it doesn’t have a name.”

Could she be more aggravating? “I mean what’s with the hand behind the back?”

“Oh! Well, that I have a name for. I call it the I Don’t Want To Kick Your Arse Too Badly stance. And I promise, I won’t use vamp speed and strength without telling you, alright?”

Haughty little… “Fine, then. Do what you want, but feel free to use both hands when the need arises. I won’t hold it against you.” He went back, loosening the muscles on his neck as he raised his fists and angled his shoulders to form. I’ll swat that perky little bum and get this madness over with…

“You look hot when you do that,” she winked at him.

He narrowed his gaze at her. “Nice try, Granger. Now quit stalling and hit me.”

“And make the first move? I’m not that kind of girl.”

Harry had to admit, she was pretty good with the battle-banter.

He went for a basic arm lock that was meant to incapacitate her, but she flipped her hand, then her arm, evading his grip with fluid ease.

She smirked. “Trying to hold my hand already?”

Okay, so she knows her hand-locks. It’s a good thing for every fighter to know.

He went in for a full-body take down, gliding smoothly to get his arm across her chest so he could brace her for the backward leg sweep.

But even before he could get a lock on her shoulders, she maneuvered her head, swept it under his arm and smoothly transitioned into ramming her shoulder into his ribs. He stumbled back and it knocked the wind out of him a bit, but it didn’t hurt very badly.

“I’m too small for that move,” she told him, her tone gone of its earlier flirty lilt. “If you’re going to use that on someone much smaller than you, compensate for the height.”

Bossy, know it all…

But he said nothing, measuring her movements. Her body language revealed nothing and she still had one hand behind her back. It was beginning to get a tad annoying.

“And enough with the hand locks and take-downs,” she said rather seriously. “Start fighting for real.”

Loathe as he was to admit it, he really didn’t want to take a swing at her. Just the thought that he would ever strike her made his stomach turn. It was just against the very core of his hero-complex, and there was absolutely no way—

She threw a punch. He blocked it and she grinned just when she turned her fist to grab his wrist, pulled him towards her and sank her knee right where his diaphragm was.

He fell over, his breath getting sucked right out of him. He saw blackness and stars; an alternating flash of light and dark. He managed a painful, rasping gasp—or-two—before he was able to return to a semblance of normal breathing.

“Just because I have one hand behind my back and the other is occupied hitting you, it doesn’t mean I don’t have a follow through,” she said. “I could’ve kicked you, too, you know. Both my legs were free and you were wide open.”

The instructional tone was really getting to him. He knew all that; but the problem being was he was holding back by some protective instinct, and it was making him look like an idiot.

Well, Potter, considering that she bloody well seems to know what she’s doing, holding back does smack of stupid.

Pushing himself off the floor and ignoring the fiery ache in his abdomen, he went back into stance. “Alright, play time’s over,” he managed without rasping.

“Try to mean it, this time,” she said, eyebrow arching. She was still going to do it one-handed, but she lowered her stance, and Harry got the impression that since he looked more determined, she was going to up the ante of her defense as well.

She attacked first and even as he blocked, he felt the upped force of her punch. And then her foot was heading his way, and he had to block that, and she was turning, and he didn’t know what to expect. He had to seriously stay alert to catch each and every strike. If he weren’t so intent on preserving the dignity of his ass, he would’ve stopped to admire the distinctive grace she kept in combat.

When finally, she pulled back to stop the barrage of hits, he was panting from the effort, and she still had one hand behind her back.

She grinned. “Well, that’s better. Let’s go a bit faster, shall we?”

Faster? How fast can she go without the vamp-amp?

She attacked again, and this time, Harry seriously had to get creative to manage at all. But then she threw this absolutely unfair move that literally had him knocked head over feet. All he knew was that she had done a split-second hand-stand before he went down on the mat, her thighs wrapped tightly around his neck.

She clenched, and he could feel the pressure of her hold, though he could still breathe through his windpipe. Barely.

He was too discombobulated to do anything to help himself out of the situation.

“Under different circumstances,” he rasped thinly. “I would’ve been very happy right now.”

She checked her nails as she sat on the mat comfortably whilst slowly suffocating him. “Hmm, well, I usually go ahead and break my opponent’s neck at this stage, but I’m rather enjoying myself…”

“Need air…”

“Say please.”

“Pretty… please…?”

She let him go, untangling herself from him.

He rolled away, gasping for air.

“Too fast for you?” she asked with a smirk. “We can take it slow, if you like.”

He glared at her through his coughing. He was going to get her for her double entendres.

Barely recovered, he got up, went into stance and faced her determinedly.

Grinning, she got into her own stance, this time with both her hands up. “You ready for this, Harry?”

“Just watch your back,” he said without humor.

He attacked this time, and he grudgingly admitted that with both her hands up, she pretty much kicked his arse. There was no use denying it, she was good; she was phenomenal, she was better than him, and he began to wonder if he there was a point to this.

She was beating him. Strike after strike, hit after hit, she would do something completely unorthodox that would have him stumbling, doubling over, careening or just flat out falling. If he wasn’t so intent on winning one stupid round…

Just ONE dammit!

And suddenly, he felt a familiar sense of magic pool in his gut. He knew right then that he would win this round. It lasted a split second, almost as if it had happened in a blink of an eye, which it actually did, because he was behind her with a swoop and pop, and he had every opportunity to grab her, lock her in his hold and pin her to the wall.

She grunted and he let her go. She turned and faced him. “How did you do that?”

He wasn’t quite as pleased with himself as he should be, he supposed. She had beaten him nine times out of ten. He still had a lot of catching up to do. “What do you mean how did I do that?”

“How did you get behind me so quickly?”

He frowned, a flush rising in his cheeks. “I-I’m not sure, but I told you about it, didn’t I? I want something badly enough… I think I apparated—“

“I think you did, but we’re in Hogwarts. Since when can you apparate in Hogwarts?”

“Well, it’s not like I could come and go. It’s just within the grounds, and only when it lets me. Ties in with the whole whimsical, temperamental magic… thing…”

She stared at him impassively, absorbing this fact. Finally, she spoke. “You did it very quickly, too. Do it again.”

“I’m not sure I can. It’s not an entirely conscious thing.”

“Just try. I’ll do what I can to help you call it.” She came at him, twice as ferociously this time. She could feel her hits vibrating through his bones when he blocked them, and he realized that every single one of his hits received a counter-move in return. It was damningly hard work, and he thought maybe he received more bruises in their three-minute spar than he ever had fighting werewolves in real life combat.

Her eyes flashed, and he saw the telltale signs of her vampirism. His instincts reared in response. He forgot it was Hermione; forgot that it was a spar.

“Brace yourself,” she hissed in a low tone as she disappeared from his line of vision.

He prepared himself for the onslaught. Survival was key.

The magic gathered around him and he pulled at it. The crack followed, and he was sweeping her legs from beneath her, sending her crashing to the floor on her back.

He scrambled to his feet, going back into stance as she blinked up at the ceiling.

He watched her warily from his vantage point, so it surprised him to see her chuckling.

“This is most interesting,” she said. She got up to her elbows and smirked at him. “That was… actually quite amazing. What else can you do, Harry?”

Pausing, he frowned. “I told you, it doesn’t always happen. Sometimes, I want it to happen and it doesn’t. I just end up getting arse-kicked worse when I’m trying to consciously summon it, so I just—you know, do my thing and I don’t even think about it. Anyway, whenever it comes to me, I know, and I use it.”

“Hmm.” She turned her gaze away, as if lost in thought. After a moment, she looked at him with a kind of astonished fascination. There was curiosity mixed in it too, as if she had suddenly realized something.

Cautiously, he held out his hand to her. “Boost?”

She looked at the hand, cocked an ever so tiny smile and slipped her hand through his.

Just when he was about to pull her up, she heaved him down. He lurched forward with a yelp, falling right on top of her.

He was just about to scramble off her when she jerked him to her again, rendering him helpless as she leaned up against him.

“What else is special about you, Harry?” she whispered, staring intently into his eyes. “What other secrets inside you need unlocking?”

He lay sprawled atop her, mesmerized by her, her intensity, her eyes. “I-I don’t know…”

“What does Yasmin want from you?” Her voice trailed and he could feel her finger run lightly down his cheek.

His breath hitched. “Oh, you know…” he droned unthinkingly. “Chosen One and all that shite…”

She shifted and he felt her knee brush casually on his inner-thigh just when her fingers trailed beguilingly on the side of his neck.

The tiny hairs on his back rose momentarily before warmth began to cascade down his body. His eyes wandered, tracing the curves of her chest, shoulders, neck before settling on the glossy curls of her hair. Shifting a bit, he reached up to touch the silky ringlets.

“What are you doing?” she whispered with the barest hint of surprise.

“Nothing,” he replied nonsensically, letting his gaze travel to her lips. He could see fang. The mere remembrance of having them sink into him made him shudder. “Nothing at all. Just… looking…”

Her soft fingers seemed to have found its way into his own raven locks, trailing fire where she combed through the strands.

He resisted the urge to close his eyes and moan. This sudden intimacy didn’t fall into any of his expectations that night, especially when, only a few minutes ago, they were exchanging fists and kicks, yelling and hissing at each other…

Like a couple of cats in heat…

“You have the most extraordinary hair,” she said softly. “Never stayed put… there’s so much magic inside you that it has to find an outlet, like these uncooperative strands and your ‘accidental’ spells. If it didn’t do that, you’d—maybe you’d burst, or something.” She ran her fingers further through it.

It was almost more than he could stand. “Maybe,” he said huskily, closing his eyes and turning his head to press his lips to her wrist, inhaling the scent of her that was soap over skin. He opened his mouth and felt the gentle pulse of her blood beneath his tongue as he cradled her wrist with his hand.

She gasped, and it was a wonderfully intoxicating sound.

There was hardly any point to thinking about the ifs ands or buts. His mind had clouded in itself, because he did want her; had wanted her for so long, even when he was angry with her; even when he thought he’d never see her again.

Desire and longing began to pool in the pit of his belly, and as badly as he wanted to love her right now, there was one part of him that was ready to fight, and she was surely feeling it through his nylon trousers.

“Harry,” she whispered in what sounded to him like a half-hearted scold.

The equipment around them suddenly got sucked back into the walls, the crashing and banging sounds around them happening in quick succession as the room changed. They were suddenly elevated and his arm buckled from the abrupt movement. Hermione gave a squeak of surprise as he inadvertently pinned both of them to what was suddenly a cushioned surface underneath.

The lights dimmed. The air smelled of perfume, and they were surrounded by soft gossamer sheets and candles.

The Room of Requirement knew exactly what he was thinking.

“Don’t.” She said this very softly. If she sounded displeased at all, it was marginal enough to be ignored. “Just don’t.”

His breathing had gone just the tiniest bit ragged as he answered. “Hogwarts: A History is on the bed stand. I wasn’t the only one redecorating the place.”

“Well, un-require your end of things. It’s not going to happen.”

“You un-require it,” he drawled, leaning over as close as he dared. He could kiss her. All he had to do was lean over a bit more.

“Don’t be difficult,” she whispered, her tone and her desire-lidded gaze belying her words. She shifted, perhaps in a feeble attempt to get away, which only caused her to rub.

A moan escaped him, and even before realizing it he was ravishing her lips with his own, their tongues tangling desperately as they pressed their bodies against each other.

He was feeling the softness of her; the pleasing curves and bumps of her that melded with the hard planes that was him. If he ever imagined he would feel her this way again, his imagination had failed him utterly, because the reality was sending him into sensory overload.

“Oh, God,” he gasped, trailing his lips from hers, to her cheeks, to her neck. His hands cupped her face before they wandered to the firm swell of her breasts.

She hissed. “This isn’t happening,” she whispered frantically even as she let him undo the laces of her rubber shoes. “This is a mistake.”

Harry was only half listening as he desperately needed to get her out of her clothes. “Says who? Good lord why am I even bothering with these shoe laces?” He yanked her shoes and socks off and he threw them over the edge of the bed.

Mission accomplished, he crawled back up over her body to kiss her.

Her lips and tongue was a conduit of warmth and pleasure, eliciting their mingled moans.

She gasped and began to mutter through their kiss. “Alright. This has to stop.” Her hands were firmly clasping his shoulders. Perhaps she had put them there to push him off. He wasn’t feeling the resistance, quite yet.

He was in no condition to give an opinion about it, so as in the past, when faced with a question he hadn’t the capacity to answer, he relinquished the settling of it to Hermione. He leaned back, panting for breath as he asked, “Do you want to? Stop, I mean?”

She swallowed, the red puff of her lips driving him mad. “My mind says yes.”

“But your heart says no?” he practically squeaked. Merlin, I just want to—

“My what says no?”

He paused, feeling a sudden ringing in his ears. Maybe it was the sort of thing that happened when one’s hard-on disappeared without actually blowing one’s load, or maybe he was beginning to get annoyed again. It was hard to tell, considering his emotions were a jumbled pile right now. “Now, you’re just saying that to hurt me.”

She sighed, going limp in his arms as she looked away. “Get off me, Harry.”

“That’s what I was trying to do before you—“

“Finish that sentence and die, Potter.”

He sighed and rolled to her side on his back. He put his arm across his eyes. There was a brief, awkward silence between them before he spoke. “Just so we’re clear, you started this.”

“I didn’t—“ She stopped and sighed. “It’s not something I planned, alright. It must’ve been all that shouting and yelling and body contact… Merlin, when have I ever had shit for brains? I’m not even a man. At least you blokes have an excuse. All you have to do is blame your—“

“Oy! I totally resent that!” He sat up, frowning down at her. “I am not blaming my dick on this one. It was never about that with you. Even when I didn’t know what the hell was going on between us that summer you came to Privet Drive, it wasn’t just about sex. You were the one who seemed to think it was just a sex-thing.”

She sat up, glaring at him. “You know it wasn’t like that for me at all. And for your information, between the two of us, you’re the one who slept with a bunch of women without feeling anything for them. At least I somehow cared for every man I’ve slept with. Well, except maybe for that one bloke… can’t remember his name… anyway, the point is—“

He pulled up his knees and leaned his elbows on them, hanging his head between his shoulders as he ruffled the hair on his head. “The point is, Hermione, I still love you. That’s the God’s awful truth of it. I still love you. Do what you want with that information, for all I care. Ron’ll probably sock me for being spectacularly stupid, telling you all this. But hey… it’s not like you hadn’t figured that out by yourself. I hadn’t exactly been subtle about it. So, yeah, I’m not going to play hard-to-get, especially when you let me kiss you like that… but Merlin, I was so going to have my wicked way with you…” He tried to laugh, but it came out weak and bitter.

She didn’t say anything, and as he looked over his shoulder at her, he saw that she had pulled her knees up to her chest, embracing her legs loosely. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

He sighed again. “Yes, well… takes two to screw, I suppose.”

“That’s not what I mea—I’m talking about five years ago, Harry. I’m sorry. I’ve said it to Ron but I haven’t said it to you. I’m sorry for the pain I caused you. Especially because I left without saying goodbye… but I had to go, and I couldn’t have if I had to explain to your face why. It was a cowardly thing to do. Not very Gryffindor, but it was the only way I knew to go about it without failing. So yeah… I’m sorry… for breaking your heart.”

He stared at her, and she actually looked like she meant it this time. There was no chill to her tone; none of the ferocity she had shown so abundantly in the last few days. It was just Hermione, and after she tried to hold his gaze, she gave up and looked away.

He let his gaze lower to the soft sheets of the bed, a confession on his lips. “I never read it.”

“What?”

“The letter. Your letter. I never read it.”

Her jaw dropped slightly, staring at him in disbelief.

He expelled a breath. “I never read it. I tried, but I couldn’t. I was so scared that reading the letter would end all hope for me. I didn’t want closure. I probably could’ve gotten that from your letter, but I didn’t want it. I just wanted to find you and—well, I don’t know—make you want me back as badly as I want you back?”

She frowned. “Harry—“

“I’ve spent the last five years being among your kind. You vamps… you’re equal parts amazing and terrifying, but humans have a tendency to forget that vamps are about as different from each other as humans are. Your kind is the flip-side on the coin that’s supposed to be human kind. We like sunshine, you like the dark. We fear death, you embrace it. We breathe life… you drink it. You said once that I couldn’t understand vampires. Maybe I don’t. Maybe I won’t, ever, but I’ve seen the worst of your kind. I listened to you order the beheading of a werewolf. I watched you shoot a man and threaten the woman he loves with pain. Hermione… I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but… I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

She made no response, but she didn’t look particularly contrary, either. “Do you still have the letter? Or did you throw it away?”

He pursed his lips against every spiteful thing that bubbled to his brain about that cursed epistle. “I didn’t throw it away.”

“Perhaps now that I’m here, you don’t have to be afraid anymore. Read it. You might learn something.”

“I’ve learned all I wanted to learn. I don’t need to read it.”

She shrugged, releasing a shadow of a sigh. “Whatever you want, Harry.”

“You know what I want.”

She shook her head and lowered her gaze to her knees.

He lay back down on the bed. He looked at the brown hair cascading down her back and began to play with a curl again, running his fingers through it.

“Stop that,” she said, frowning.

He smiled slightly. “Why?”

“Because it makes me uncomfortable. Stop that.”

He chuckled and pulled his hand back. “So now, what are we going to do with this room? Seems an awful waste of romantic ambience.”

Her frown deepened. “Alright, I give in.”

For a moment, Harry actually thought she was—well, going to sleep with him, but then the head that was better at this logic and reasoning thing told him that knowing Hermione, it was something completely different. He was right.

“So you’ve become a smooth-talking, insufferable cad. You’re completely entitled to that being a randy, twenty-something, attractive male. You seduce women and have gotten really good at it, and assuming you’re still the Harry I know, somewhere in that over-sexed muck you call your personality, you wouldn’t be lying about your Sex Stats. I can live with that, but can you explain to me what the hell was up with you dating Cho Chang? I mean, what was that? Ran out of girls? What?!?”

He laughed. He really did and it caused her to glare at him malevolently. He was too delighted by all this to get upset by the look of pure hatred in her eyes. “I love how you say Cho Chang like she’s some sort of rash on your you-know-what!”

“I told you what I thought of her, Harry. I called her a ditz, and you know what? I don’t care if I sound like a berk, but I have to ask: Did you date her to get back at me? Tell me the truth!”

He wanted to jump her and pull her into his arms. It was satisfying to listen to her this way. He grinned. “No. I didn’t date her to get back at you. I really did fancy her. She’s actually much sweeter than we thought. And she cared for me, so yeah, you sound like a berk.”

She sneered. “Humph. Whatever. Could’ve been worse, I suppose. You could’ve dated Lavender. If you really wanted to give it to me, that would’ve been a kick in the box.”

Kick in the box! He laughed at that. “And just for the record, you’ve got me completely wrong on the matter of smooth-talking—what was it?—oh, yes, insufferable cad. If you think I’m smooth and savvy at all, it’s because I’m talking to you.”

She actually blushed, rolling her eyes sheepishly. “Easy, am I?”

“Are you kidding? If you’re easy, who needs a challenge? Somewhere between the Yule ball and this moment right here, you decided you were going to make every man bleed and break for you before you gave them the time of day. I can only hope I got one up over your other ex-boyfriends. I’d settle for a tie with that Tantric-sex bloke, though… that’s like a whole different level…” he muttered.

“His name was Adrian and it was only Tantric to a point. We ended up screw—“

“Let’s see, how am I going to make this clear? It. Hurts. Me. When. You. Go. Into. Details.”

She opened her mouth to say something, and from the look of it, it was going to be an argument, but she seemed to think better of it. “Sorry. I’ll shut up about that now.”

“Yeah. That would be kind of you. But now you have to answer me truthfully, because I deserve to know after everything you’ve put me through. Are you ready for my question?”

It almost made him shudder with delight, the outrage in her eyes. Getting to her was invigorating!

Her jaw hardened, but she replied. “Sure. I’ll answer your stupid question.”

He coughed to stifle his laughter. “Hermione… were you being jealous just now? And at the lake?”

She looked positively like she was going to explode. He could practically see the steam coming out of her ears. “Do I have to answer that?”

He grinned cheekily. “I’m in love with you. I thrive on constant affirmation.”

She growled and jumped off the bed, storming towards the door.

He laughed. “Where are you going?”

“Out!”

“You haven’t answered my question!”

“You can bloody well choke on it, for all I care! Hell will freeze over…”

Harry suddenly didn’t care what she said next. The pain on his forehead struck him like a flash of fire, searing through his skull. The awful incantation of an unforgivable curse echoing in his mind as he watched—with tormented horror—Bellatrix Lestrange screaming at the unbearable pain of a Crucio.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry could hear voices as he rose out of unconsciousness. People were talking around him in semi-loud voices.

“Is he going to be alright?” came a voice, male.

“Yes, Mr. Hughes. If you’ll all just step back and give me room, I will make sure of it.”

Harry knew that last voice well. Madame Pomfrey had never ceased to be a presence in his life. Ron often said Harry ought to be paying for the good healer’s salary.

“I love medicine women. The lot of you are so hot, uniform and everything.”

“Lucien!” someone hissed. Harry knew that voice well, too. He would always know Hermione’s voice.

“Mr. D’Godenot!” cried Madame Pomfrey, though Harry thought she didn’t sound as disapproving as she ought to be. “Shameless!”

“Tell me to behave. Oh, please tell me—ouch! Mother fucker, Hermione! There’s no need to be jeal—OUCH! Y’ bleedin’ swamp donkey, that hurt!”

“Sorry, Madame Pomfrey,” whispered Hermione. “Goodness… he’s never called me a swamp donkey before. That’s new. What does that even mean? Makes no sense, even for swear words.”

Harry groaned, squeezing his eyes tight at the pain reverberating through his head.

There were gasps all around him.

“Ouch,” was all he could say for the meantime.

“Harry?” It sounded suspiciously like Ron, except it was ten times louder, and it was designed to cleave Harry’s head in two from the inside. “Speak to me, mate. Say something.”

Harry reached out at the blur that was Ron and put a hand between them. “Get… out of my face… too loud…”

“Oh. Sorry.”

At that point, Madame Pomfrey fussed over him. She gave him a soothing spell and the ache in his head diminished considerably. She sat Harry up and propped pillows behind him, handing him a tea-like potion and ordering him to drink it slowly. It didn’t taste bad at all, and he detected a hint of honey. It was certainly better than the nastier tasting potions.

She checked him over several times before finally pulling away, telling everyone that if she caught any of them aggravating him, they were all going to be thrown out of the hospital wing. The swish of curtains signified that she had finally left and closed them in.

“Solomon, give him his glasses,” Hermione said.

Solomon did, and gingerly, Harry slipped his glasses on.

There was Ron, Hermione, Lucien and Solomon. He wondered where everyone else was. Such fainting spells as this tended to elicit the anxiety of everyone. Voldemort in the head of the Boy Who Lived was certainly cause for worry.

“Everyone’s asleep,” Ron explained, perhaps seeing the question in his eyes. “Hermione thought it best to let them, so that they wouldn’t bother you.”

He shot her a grateful gaze, from which she looked away.

I suppose that means I ought to forget about our little snog session in the Room of Requirement.

Her gaze flickered for a moment, as if she heard him, but she made no response.

“What happened?” Ron asked. “Hermione said you were talking when your scar hurt. What did you see? Was Voldemort hurting someone again?”

Talking when it…? Harry almost laughed, but he didn’t. One, it would hurt to; two, he had to respect Hermione’s need to keep it all secret; and three, he didn’t want anybody else to know, either. It was difficult enough with the two of them; they didn’t need the whole of England butting into their personal life and putting undue pressure on an already awkward situation.

Harry nodded. “He was. Bellatrix. He must’ve found out that the train raid was unsuccessful. Or maybe he found out Hermione was still alive. Hard to tell. All I know is he was really teed off.”

“What was the—“

“Crucio, again. Damn bugger’s too fond of that bloomin’ curse…”

“I bet he chains Bellatrix to a rack when he shags her,” Lucien said, grinning.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ugh! Spare us your fantasies, Lucien. Especially the ones about Voldemort.”

“Well, it’s not like I get off on him,” Lucien explained. “It’s purely academic. Tell her about our project, Solomon.”

“Oh, yes, our project,” Solomon said. “We’re making a study about the sexual behaviors of Evil Overlords. So far, we’ve broken down Darth Vader, Sauron and Stewie, that baby from that yank cartoon.”

“Don’t you boys talk about anything except sex?”

“Well, what else is there to talk about?” asked Lucien.

“There are many things to talk about!”

Solomon nudged Lucien. “I knew she’d object.”

“Oh, she’s just deprived, is all.”

“LUCIEN!”

“Don’t call it sex when Hermione’s around,” said Solomon in a teasing tone. “Call it, ‘making lurve.’”

Lucien laughed. “Oh, you know what I think about making love.”

They looked at each other, evil grins pasted on their faces. “It’s what a woman does while her boyfriend is fucking her!” they cried in unison as they slapped each other’s backs.

Harry couldn’t help it. He smothered a laugh. Ron tried to stifle his laughter, which caused him to choke ungracefully.

Hermione was livid. She looked about ready to explode. “You know, you two, sometimes you just—argh! Maybe I ought to just leave you boys to talk about screwing women while you scratch your bullocks and drink beer. How about that?” She turned to leave.

Harry chuckled. “Hermione, don’t go. They were only joking. Come now, I just woke up from getting scar-zapped. I need you here.”

She stopped in her tracks and she turned to glare at him.

He gave her that look and she rolled her eyes. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.” She directed her daggered gaze at Lucien and Solomon, sparing one for Ron, as well.

“Thank you,” Harry said, giving the others his own look of warning. “Will someone be a gentleman and get her a chair? Please?” He could very well pull up a chair for her with his magic, but he figured Solomon and Lucien needed the brownie points.

His words seemed to appease her and as expected, Lucien and Solomon scrambled to fetch Hermione a seat. They set it near Harry and he noted only the slightest hesitation from her as she sat.

“How frequent have these attacks been?” she asked, all business in an instant.

Harry obliged her. “None more often than when they first began.”

“Have you ever learned anything from these attacks at all?”

“Just that he punishes some more than others. There’s not much to tell.”

She pondered this a bit before looking at Lucien and Solomon. “You two. Out.”

Lucien pouted. “But we brought you a chair!”

“It’s not about that, you blithering idiot. But I really ought to smack the both of you for saying such vulgar, misogynistic—“

“Of course, Hermione. Whatever you say!” Solomon said hastily, shooting Lucien a glare as he hustled the both of them out.

She looked to Ron.

Ron frowned. “Are you going to tell me to get out, too?”

“No, but I will ask you to keep this between the three of us.”

“You know I will.”

“Good.” She turned her attention to Harry and began to speak in a lowered voice. “Have there been any hints at all that Voldemort knows you’ve been destroying his horcruxes?”

Harry had given that particular question a lot of thought in the last five years. He matched her soft tones. “None. It’s even more likely he’s blocking that particular bit from me. What’s scaring me is that he hasn’t let on that he’s done anything about it.”

“Which probably means he is doing something about it. I’m going to look into that spell Paolo told us about.”

Ron nodded. Harry had told him about it in the train. Ron, however, didn’t know how Hermione extracted the information. It was Hermione’s story to tell.

“Have you ever heard of such a spell?” Ron asked softly.

She shook her head. “No. It’s not ringing any bells. However, I have a vague idea of where I’m going to look first. First thing tomorrow night, I’ll begin doing research. In the meantime,” she took a sheet of parchment from her pocket and gave it to Harry. “I made this research plan… before the meeting this evening. You can start looking in the library. I’d look with you, but the day thing… gets in the way, you know?”

He couldn’t help but feel the tiniest bit touched. She had thought about researching the spell even when they were supposed to be at odds with one another. He must’ve looked at her weird because she tore her gaze from him and raised her eyebrow snootily in Ron’s direction.

“Before I get into anything else,” she said, “I have something that’s been nagging me since our conversation on the train: What did Harry mean when he called you Mr. I Have A Meaningful Relationship With A Seventeen Year Old?”

Ron reddened.

“Ah,” Harry said. He told her.

“Bloody fucking hell, Ron!” she shrieked. “Are you dead from the shoulders up? Or maybe just a little too alive from the waist down?”

“Ms. Granger!” gasped Madame Pomfrey from beyond the curtain. “Your language!”

Ron scowled. “Yeah, your language! I’m fine from the shoulders up, thank you very much, and it has nothing to do with sex. I haven’t—well, we’re waiting.”

“Well, at least one of your heads is thinking!”

“Oy!” Ron cried. “Don’t give me that! You and Harry were shagging each other like crazy when you were seventeen!”

“Mr. Weasley!” cried Madame Pomfrey. It wasn’t that she was eavesdropping, just that their voices carried to the rest of the room, which, Harry found out later, wasn’t exactly empty. There were a few patients from the attack on the train and also a couple of students who were probably too young to wake up to the damning sound of casual sex-talk.

She reddened. “We were BOTH—oh, sod it! Do what you want, Ron. You’re old enough. Just make sure Gabrielle’s old enough. Say, whatever happened to Luna? Didn’t she have a crush on you back then? I think a weirdo is infinitely better than a child.”

“Gabrielle is not a child and what is up with Luna? Did you two talk about this?”

Harry sneered. “No, Ron, we didn’t talk about it, and Hermione, Ron and Luna are just friends.”

She scoffed crossing her arms over her chest. “Used that one before. Fat lot of good it did… ended up shagging the brains out of the bloke.”

“That better be me you’re talking about,” Harry pointed out.

She sighed, disgusted. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, who else would it be? Drink your tea.”

Harry did.

Ron got up, glaring at them both. “I don’t know what you two were doing when Harry’s scar acted up, because it seems to me you two have worked out some kind of arrangement, but I don’t have to put up with your similar opinions about my dating Gabrielle. So you can just both of you shove it up your arses and leave me to my love life while I leave the two of you to yours.” He turned and walked out amidst Harry’s entreaties to stay and “not be like that.”

Harry watched him storm through the curtains and leave. Harry was only mildly bothered by it, admittedly. He found that he was eager to continue his conversation with Hermione before Voldemort so rudely interrupted them. “Have we?”

She scowled. “Have we what?”

“Worked out some kind of arrangement?”

“The only arrangement we worked out so far was the position of our tongues down each other’s throats.”

He rolled his eyes but realized that he wasn’t as upset about it as he should have been. Maybe it was because she had kissed him back so naturally when he began it in the Room of Requirement. Never mind that she put a stop to it later. In retrospect, maybe it was for the best, after all. It seemed wise to take it a bit slower. They were only just beginning to get used to one another again.

“I’m guessing,” Harry said, “that you’re going to tell me to forget it happened. Am I right?”

She reddened. “Well, what do you want me to say, Harry? Yes, you can cut the sexual tension with a knife? Let’s just shag and see where it gets us?”

He wanted to roll his eyes again. He sulked instead. Why did she have to kill everything, anyway? “Worked the first time,” he muttered.

Her scowl withered into a tired frown. “Is that what you want, Harry?”

He sighed, a dull ache beginning to settle between his eyes. Setting his tea aside, he lifted his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “No, of course not. I already know where that will get me, and I don’t want to be in that place by myself. Do you understand what I mean?”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Finally, she looked up. “You have to put all that out of your mind,” she said.

He shook his head, frustrated as he looked down at his hands. Didn’t she get it? “I couldn’t put it out of my mind, being away from you. What do you think your being here is doing to me?”

He was greatly astonished when her hands covered his, squeezing ever so gently. It caused him to look up, surprised, and her honeyed gaze met his green one. She seemed serious, but the cold had thawed from her eyes, and he found himself eagerly awaiting what she had to say.

“We will talk about this; about where we’re going from here. But if you want me to consider… whatever possibilities you’re thinking, we both need ample time to reacquaint ourselves with each other; being in this situation. It’s different now. Surely, you know this. And perhaps you might even be surprised to realize that your… inclinations have changed. Does that sound fair to you, Harry?”

“That sounds like something you’d say.”

She conceded it with a half shrug.

He turned his hands so it would be clasping hers. “We have to be honest with each other. No more mind games. And no more trying to make me think you’re a cold, unfeeling monster.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “It’s… It’s more a Coven thing. A habit, really.”

“If it’s a habit, it’s a bad one. Quit it or we won’t do it your way.”

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t try. Do.”

“Fine. Whatever you say, Master Yoda.”

“Master who?”

She sighed, smiling a bit. “Nothing. We’ve an arrangement, then?”

“That, we do. Not going to be easy, though… it’s not like I could stop myself from being dreadfully attracted to you.”

“I’ve just the thing for that,” she said, much to his surprise. “There’s a reason Yasmin sent me instead of someone else. I promised you I’d tell you what I know about the assassination attempt on me and my Shadow Kin, remember? I can’t be absolutely certain about the reasons for it, but I can make a good guess.”

He took a moment to shift gears in his psyche, and when he had it all sorted out in his head, he looked around him. “I need my wand.”

She reached over the next bed stand and handed it to him. “Still feeling a bit weak?”

“A little.” He flicked his wand around, warding their space so that no one would overhear. When he was done, he tucked his wand into his robe. “Alright. Hit me with it.”

“They’re trying to kill the messenger. There’s something Yasmin told me to give to you, for you to unravel. It’s something from the Oracle.”

Harry began to get a bad feeling. “Please don’t say it’s a prophecy.”

She hesitated. “Well… Yasmin didn’t exactly call it a prophecy…”

He groaned. “Fuck me, why does it always have to be that? And why does it always have to be about me?”

“Yasmin insists that the Oracle doesn’t give prophecies. The Oracle’s main function has always been to guide. To dictate the best course of action or to say that something is very, very wrong. So it doesn’t necessarily have to be all about you. Yasmin says you have a part in it, and it’s a little bit about everyone else.”

“Fine. Whatever,” he said grudgingly. “Give it over, then.”

“Sure, I can do that, but you mustn’t unravel it until after I’m done with you.”

“That either means you’re going to shag me senseless or you’re going to kill me. If it’s the second option, can you just maybe shag me senseless first? I bet it’ll make dying easier.”

“You’re lucky, but not that lucky. You’re wrong on both counts. Yasmin sent me here to train you.”

He stared at her for a moment. “She sent you to what?”

“Train you. You’re good at what you do, Harry, but Yasmin thinks you can be better. She thinks you ought to be pushed to the limits of what you can learn from the Coven. Ergo, she sent me to train you.”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m not a bad instructor, really—“

“That’s not what I meant. What does she want from me? Why does she want me taught?”

She paused for a moment. “Honestly, Harry, I don’t know. If she wanted something from you, she would’ve told you already. All I can say is that this is what she wants done; this is what she wants from you, and from me, so we do it that way. Anyway, it’s not a bad deal, yes? So you killed six vampires. Big deal. You can’t fight a vamp that knows how to use a sword.”

He scowled. “I go up against a sword-wielding vampire—“

“Yes, it’s suicide. This, I agree with if you weren’t properly trained. I’m here to change that, and I know you can do it. I sparred with you tonight, and I’ve been studying your moves. You can learn this.”

“And you say I can only unravel the Oracle’s prophecy—“

“Not a prophecy.”

“The Oracle’s message, then. I can only unravel the message after you’ve taught me.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t suppose you have a reason why. After all, they only tried to kill you so that you wouldn’t be able to give it to me. Wouldn’t it be logical for me to—oh, unravel it already and get it the hell over with?”

“That seems like the logical course of action, but according to Yasmin, the contents of the message could either have a very positive effect on you or a very negative one. She said it was better not to risk it and just make sure you’re ready first before you unravel the message. She said this was very important, and that if you risked unraveling the message before you were prepared and it has a negative effect on you, then you’ll get fucked, I’ll get fucked, we’ll all get fucked. Her words, not mine.”

“Like proper fucked, right?”

“Yes. Proper fucked. I already told you: You’re not that lucky.”

Harry expelled a weary breath and rubbed his hand over his face. “Look, I’d just as soon not have another one of these messages burdening my mind, so really, I can just tell Yasmin to fuck off—and I do mean proper fucked—to get out of my face and to get another boy-toy to do for her whatever she needs doing. I don’t need her using me anymore than she already has.”

“Harry, it’s not like this won’t help you. I can train you to be a better fighter, and I can help you with other things, too.”

“Like what things?”

“Just trust me, alright? You said so yourself. You believe I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“No, I believe you wouldn’t betray me. Hurt me… well, that’s a whole different issue now, is it?” he said through grit teeth.

She sighed, leaning back wearily. “Mind games, Harry. We promised each other, remember?”

He sighed, nodding. “Okay, I might bite with the training, but frankly, Hermione, I’m beginning to feel a bit iffy about what Yasmin wants. First she draws up the Order-Coven contract that’s very beneficial to the humans then she wants me trained. What is she up to? I ought to be wary, and maybe I shouldn’t be taking anymore favors.”

“Yasmin said you’d doubt her motives, so when you did, she instructed me to offer something to force your cooperation.”

Harry snorted. “What could she possibly offer me that I’d want so badly?”

She smiled apologetically. “Well… something valuable. Something you need. Something you simply can’t refuse.”

“You?” he joked gently.

She arched an eyebrow. “Do you really want me as a commodity, Harry?”

“Of course not, Hermione,” he said, chuckling as he touched her chin with true affection. “Just couldn’t think of anything I’d want more.”

“That would’ve sounded very sweet if I didn’t know what I was going to offer you in exchange for your cooperation. The fact is, see, Yasmin told me that should you be so reluctant to accept the training, I should offer you Gryffindor’s staff.”

There was a split-heartbeat’s moment that, to Harry, felt like a profound void. Her words didn’t register. “Gryffin—“

“In other words, Harry, she told me to offer you Voldemort’s last horcrux.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: And there ends Chapter 20.

For the definition of “Making Love”, I give credit to one of my friends who told the joke.

Sex and the City came up with the brilliant term “emotional chow-chow”.

22. Chapter Twenty-First: Learn

Author’s Notes: There’s a passage in this chapter about a “train wreck.” It was inspired by a reader who dropped a note in my live journal. It described Harry and Hermione’s relationship in this fic wonderfully, so I just had to add it.

I apologize for how boring you may think this chapter is. It’s necessary for Hermione’s character development, you see, so I couldn’t omit it. There’s a teeny tiny bit about Harry, too, anyway.

Thanks so much to Lady Diamond!!! This came at a most opportune time, when my mind was already bursting from too much work.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty-First: Learn

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So let me get this straight,” said Ron, whispering fiercely as they sat in the library with a pile of books surrounding them. The sun was streaming through the windows and it was late morning in Hogwarts. “She had the last—you know—all this time and she didn’t tell us?”

Harry sighed, peering over the books to make sure no one was near enough to eavesdrop. He caught a whole bunch of students who had been looking their way. Some averted their eyes; some smiled and blushed at getting caught; some actually waved shyly and giggled. Harry had to wonder where all the boys of Hogwarts were. Didn’t they know they were supposed to use the library?

Annoyed by the attention, Harry warded their table, casting charms to prevent anyone from listening in on them or paying them any more attention. “She doesn’t have it, have it. It’s some place safe. She only found out about it recently, when Yasmin told her. So it isn’t like Hermione’s been keeping it from us all these five years.”

“Okay, fine, but now she’s using Gryffindor’s staff as a bargaining chip to—“

“So I would let her train me. Prepare me for something. I don’t know what and she doesn’t know what, but apparently, Yasmin knows what, and I hate it when I’m being used, as you might understand.”

“God, she’s such a bitch.”

“Tell me about it. Yasmin’s just moving everyone around like pawns—“

“I was talking about Hermione. Why does she have to play you like that? She ought to give you the horcrux, but yeah, Yasmin too.”

Harry frowned at that. “She doesn’t know where it is. Yasmin won’t tell her until Hermione confirms that I’m ready.”

“She could lie for you. Won’t be the first time.”

“She would probably do that if I asked her really nice, but the fact is, if she’s going to lie, it would have to be a credible one, and Yasmin’s not going to believe that Hermione got me all trained and ready in three days. Besides… I don’t think Hermione could lie to Yasmin, even if she wanted to, and I don’t want Yasmin taking her head off for it, either.”

“Whatever,” Ron muttered.

“Look, I told you I’m going to keep out of your business with Hermione, and I’m sticking to that, but if there’s one thing I’ve realized about her in the last few days, it’s that she’s going to let you hate her for as long as you’re willing to. She thinks she deserves the punishment, and maybe she does, but it pushes her away. Do you want to push her away? Is that your main reason for treating her the way you do?”

Ron shot him a sardonic grimace. “Of course not. You know why I do this. I’m watching out that she doesn’t hurt you and me the way she did back then. We can’t let her do that again.”

“She doesn’t want to, which is the main reason why she’s being so bloomin’ cold to us since she got back. It’s just like her to cut it at the roots just because it could potentially become a worse situation. Can’t you see that?”

Ron sniffed in disgust before slinking down in his seat. “Suspect’d it,” he muttered. “It’s like she’s refusing to let it go back to the way it used to be. But don’t you think that just means she has every intention of leaving again? After all this is done, she’ll pick up and go back to wherever it was she was hiding, just like before.”

“Yeah, well, she thinks that if we hate her by that time, no one would be sorry when she has to go. Even when we were talking this morning—really talking, I figured she still thinks she could get me to change my mind about her. She called herself my ‘inclination’. Would you believe it? She said it like she was an eccentricity of mine, or something. Like I’m some freak for loving her.”

Ron shook his head, sighing in resignation. “You’re hopeless. You both are. It’s like a horrible train-wreck waiting to happen but I couldn’t help but keep watching it to its catastrophic end.”

“That’s so inspiring. Sheer fecking poetry.”

“Well, it’s true! You love her. She doesn’t want you to, and I don’t even know where to begin sorting what the hell she’s thinking. And even if you get past all that anyway, you both still belong in different worlds! It’s a complete disaster!”

Harry might have heard his heart crack the tiniest bit. Ron wasn’t handing out greeting cards. “Is that what you think, Ron? That there’s nothing for me and Hermione?”

“Yes!” Ron sighed. “No! It’s both! It’s just… on the one hand, I see your point, on another I see… I see her point. In a typical Harry-Hermione fashion, you’re using your heart and she’s using her mind, so you’re both right and you’re both wrong! Merlin’s bullocks, all this emotional chow-chow is EXHAUSTING, how the hell do you sensitive people deal with it all the time?”

“Wait… you know what ‘emotional chow-chow’ means?”

“Everybody knows what emotional chow-chow means.”

Harry growled. “Well, I’m not everyone, am I?”

“Yeah. You’re so different. You’re the Chosen One. Boohoo. Nobody loves me. Everybody hates me. I’m going to eat some worms.”

Harry bristled. “Well, if you’re so smart, what the hell—“

“Chow-chow is sliced vegetables pickled in mustard, so ‘emotional chow-chow’ is a slanted reference to the proverbial pupu-platter of angst delectably displayed for all to pick and sink their teeth into. Like hors d’ oeuvres.”

“I don’t know who you are but if you don’t tell me where Ron is, I’m blasting your bullocks off.”

“Blame Gabrielle. She practically has me memorizing this stuff. Have to say, the food angle made it easy to remember.”

Harry stared at him with a certain degree of concern. “Are you sure it’s healthy to date her, mate?”

“Oh, not like she’s sucking my blood or anything.”

Harry sniffed. “Point for you, but at least Hermione’s not transfiguring me into a girl.”

“I’m not the one who got his ass kicked by a woman last night.”

Ron was on a roll, it seemed. Harry scowled. “That’s low. I told you that in confidence.”

“You relinquished that trust when you ragged me about Gabrielle, yet again. Frankly, I’m getting tired of hearing you tell me that she’s too young, or too anything. Can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Fine. I’m happy for you, alright?”

“You don’t sound like you mean it.”

“Well, for feck’s sake, Ron! What… do you want me to hug you or something? Share a moment? Here, put your head on my shoulder, Ickle Ronniekins.”

Ron scoffed but laughed, too. “As titillating as all this gender reassignment is, I’ll pass. And we ought to go back to talking about you, and this thing you have with Hermione. Are you setting yourself up to be heartbroken again?”

“You sure cut right to it, boyo.”

“Hey, real men get to the point.”

“It’s practically a Homo Erectus motto. And to answer your question, yes, I’m setting myself up, but hopefully not for heartbreak. I want her back. Is that so bad?”

Ron gave a non-committal sound. “I don’t know. Is it?”

“Maybe… we sorter…” Harry paused then glared at Ron. “Okay, this is really something I’m telling you in confidence. You don’t get to use this to taunt, hit or mock me with, alright?”

“Stop ragging me about Gabrielle.”

“Deal. Okay… Hermione and I fooled around last night.”

“Fantastic,” said Ron, unenthusiastically.

“Yeah, it was, actually. She put a stop to it, but… well, she was saying no, but her kiss said yes.”

“That’s the defense used by date-rapists.”

Harry shot him a sardonic grimace. “You know what I mean. I think she still has feelings for me.”

“Have you told her about your women?”

“Wha—they’re not my women, Ron! And yes, I’ve told her about those. Told her about Cho Chang, too.”

“Was she jealous?”

“M-Maybe…”

“Well, there you go! All you have to do is make her even more jealous. You ought to bust out that black book of yours and floo some birds. Maybe you should have an illegitimate child handy to really drill it in.”

“First of all, I have no black book; secondly, I sincerely hope you’re joking about me having an illegitimate child. I know nothing about this child you’re talking about; and thirdly, especially if you’re just making up that bit about the illegitimate-child, you have no soul for suggesting something like that. This isn’t a game, Ron. I’m seriously trying to get her back. Please… no more boneheaded advice. And it isn’t like I’m going to cook up some kind of sinister plan. It’s nothing like that. I suppose there’s going to be a lot of talking involved when she’s not beating the crap out of me in training. I just don’t want to do the wrong thing, you know?”

“Maybe you should talk to Lucien and Solomon about that.”

“I just said no boneheaded advice. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Ron rolled his eyes in disgust. “Nothing is wrong with me, and I’m serious. She’d spent the last four or five years with these blokes. A lot has happened in those years. Maybe understanding what she’d been like those five years from their point of view would help things a little. I’m just saying.”

“Fine. That makes sense, which is strange coming from you.”

“No appreciation at all…”

“I’ll take your wonderful, inspired and purrr-fect advice and talk to Lucien and Solomon. There, appreciated it enough for you?”

Ron shot him a grudging smile. “I’m all tingly.”

“Good. I think I ought to throw in the traditional chocolates and roses…”

“Oh, Harry, you’re sweet, but no thank you.”

“For Hermione, idiot. Now I just need an occasion.”

“Halloween’s coming up.”

Harry shook his head. “Might be too far off.”

“How about the general meeting of the Order? That’s in a couple of weeks.”

It might be an odd time to romance her, but Harry figured sooner was better than later. “That’ll do.”

Ron made a face. “I was kidding.”

“You were?”

Ron sighed. “How can a badass, Chosen One, vampire-shagging, Auror-bloke such as yourself be so romantically stupid. I swear to God, Potter!”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“Blimey, Harry, go ask her out on a date!”

Harry scowled. “Don’t you think she and I are a bit past that?”

“The point is to get the both of you relaxed enough to start fresh; get to know each other again. Asking her out on a date will put you both in that mind-set. Besides, don’t married women always complain about their husbands not taking them out on dates anymore? Women like to be swept off to a romantic evening, whether they’ve slept with your ugly mug or not.”

Harry looked at him suspiciously. “How do you know all this?”

“Well, you know. I visit my nieces and nephew at Bill’s, and Fleur’s always off about ‘ze romance in ze marriage.’ It kinda sticks into your brain if you hear it enough times.”

“You do realize, Ron, that I’m a moving target. I can’t just go out on a date without getting attacked by Death Eaters.”

“Yes, but if she’s as kick-ass as you say she is, then she could defend herself in an attack and you won’t have to worry about her.”

Harry shot him a glare.

Ron was unbothered. “I thought you were determined to get her back. What’s with all the excuses?”

“Forgive me if I’m a bit over-cautious about getting Hermione and myself killed while we laugh and flirt over drinks and music.”

“I’m just saying; if you want it bad enough…”

Harry sighed and ran his hand irritably through his hair. “I think I’ll just take it one step at a time. How’s that?”

Ron shrugged. “Eh, might work.”

“Should I even be thinking about this? I mean there’s the horcrux, and that stupid message from the Oracle and this entire bloody war…”

“I don’t know, Harry. We do what it takes to get through this war without losing our minds. Maybe you shouldn’t feel so guilty.”

“Maybe.” He reached across the table, picking up the scroll that contained the agreement between the Coven and the Order. He read it over again and it would be the third time he would have reviewed it. By the time he got to the bottom of the scroll, Ron was deep into doodling nonsensically on his pad while he sat staring aimlessly at a page of one of the many books on their table.

Harry stared at Yasmin’s signature. Right beneath it was Hermione’s.

He took his quill, dipped it in ink and signed his name at the bottom of the contract. There was a flicker of magic, his signature glowing for a moment before it settled. Several minutes later, Remus’s, McGonagall’s and Arthur’s signatures appeared in the blank spaces with the same, shimmering magic. Shacklebolt’s came shortly after everyone else.

The scroll flashed gold for a heartbeat, marking the contract enforceable and binding.

Harry had to wonder if they had just been waiting for him to sign it before they all did.

Nah. Just a coincidence, is all.

Having decided that was a satisfactory explanation, he went back to doing his research.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione and her Shadow Kin were discreet as they emerged from their dungeon. They waited until most of the students were clear of the hallways before parading through the walkways, and while perhaps their darkly cloaked figures were a bit frightening, they kept their faces hidden and they bothered no one. Besides, they were being escorted by Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, the two people whom everyone could depend on to make sure that Hogwarts was safe.

They went straight for the Room of Requirement, outside of which Hermione ordered Lucien and Solomon to wait.

Harry noticed a flicker of hurt pass their faces. From what he knew of vamps, the Shadow Kin had a right to be hurt. Shadow Kin liked to think their alphas trusted them because they trusted their alphas almost unconditionally. It was a very important bond. Never to be taken lightly.

“Hermione, you’ll eventually tell us what this is all about, won’t you?” Solomon asked beseechingly, without demand.

Hermione’s eyes visibly softened at the expected looks on their faces. “Yes, eventually. Right now, my instructions from Yasmin were to keep this between me and Harry. I include Ron because it is his right to know, and I do dare Yasmin to challenge me on it. She won’t, but I cannot justify telling you and Lucien just yet.”

Both vamps nodded at this, though it was evident in their eyes that they wished their alpha had given them a different reply.

“As soon as I believe it wise to let you know, or when Yasmin authorizes me, whichever comes first, I will tell you,” Hermione said.

“Not a moment later,” Lucien added.

She nodded. “Not a moment later.”

“Swear it.”

“I swear.”

“Here.” He pulled back the sleeve of his robe and exposed his leather, long-sleeved top underneath. “Swear it on Versace.”

Harry had to wonder if Lucien was serious. The vamp certainly wasn’t laughing.

Hermione didn’t even blink. She obliged Lucien very patiently, delicately placing her fingers on his leather-clad arm and looking him in the eye. “I solemnly swear it on Versace and all your favorite fashion designers. I would swear on Prada but I’m not wearing my pair.”

Lucien nodded, seemingly satisfied. He looked to Solomon who nodded as well.

It was moments like these that Harry could somewhat understand the dynamic of Lucien and Solomon in relation to Hermione. Aside from the fact that she was their alpha, they regarded her as someone who watched out for them, like a parent who was both tolerant and inflexible to their faults and foibles, at the same time, she was proud of their strengths. They took their roles seriously, yet they would indulge in the silliest things, often designed to amuse Hermione, letting her in on the silliness without having to force her down from the pedestal they put her on.

Much as Harry hated to admit it, they were good for her, and considering Lucien and Solomon’s background stories, Hermione was very good for them.

After Hermione swore on haute couture, Solomon and Lucien stepped aside for Hermione, Ron, and Harry to walk through the door.

When they were closed into what looked like a very cozy Gryffindor common room, Harry caught Ron glancing hesitantly at the door behind them.

“Your… Shadow Kin are rather funny,” said Ron.

Hermione looked at him with a barely stifled smirk as she undid her robe. “If you’re meaning to tell me they’re queer, Ron—and yes, I know you mean it in that way—all I can say is welcome to my world. If you have a problem with it—“

“Oh, no problem at all! I’m really quite fond of—“ Ron reddened, checked himself and continued. “I mean, I’m all for that—erm—gay thing…”

Hermione grinned. “Thing?”

“What I want to say is… I think maybe… erm, Lucien’s been… looking at me funny.”

“Funny, haha, or funny, I want you so badly I’m going to eat you up?”

Harry choked on a laugh.

Ron scowled at him before replying to Hermione’s question. “I’m not sure. I don’t know him enough to tell by the look of him.”

She smirked. “Well, I’m just teasing you, Ron. I know why he’s looking at you funny. He doesn’t like that you’re being mean to me, so he’s… well, he’s not too happy with you, is all. So no, he doesn’t fancy you. Not that he doesn’t fancy men, mind you. He’s bisexual and does tend to prefer men every once in a while.”

“So he’s just teed-off with me?” Ron looked relieved, as if getting on the bad side of a vamp was better than being fancied by him.

“No. I don’t think you’re his type. I think he’s more inclined to fancy Harry. He said Harry was good looking.”

“Yeah, I’m a big hit with the vampires,” Harry grumbled, sitting on the couch as he slumped over, elbows to knees.

Hermione actually chuckled as she shrugged out of her robe. She wore a dark maroon halter top with felt patterns of the same shade. Her black leather pants fit her really well at the hips but went down a straight, flattering cut to accommodate belted biker boots at the bottom. She wore a thick lacey choker with a gothic pendulum hanging down the middle from a thin chain. It took everything in Harry’s willpower not to stare down her halter top.

She sat herself on the great big reading chair that was just for her. “Truer than you realize, Harry.”

He wasn’t even going to take that at face value. He eyed her questioningly. She merely smirked in reply.

Ron took the sofa chair, putting his foot up on the adjacent ottoman. “I’m not that mean to you, am I, Hermione?”

She cocked a smile. “I don’t know. I’ve grown a bit thick-skinned over the years.”

Harry shot her a look, eyebrow arched, as if to remind her of their promise with each other to be honest.

She caught it and arched her eyebrow right back at him. “But we’ll talk about that some other time, Ron,” she continued. “Right now, we have a bunch of other important things to discuss.”

Harry supposed he would have to settle with that, for now. They hadn’t really talked about the particulars of their “arrangement”. After she told him about the horcrux, it was all sort of downhill from there.

His initial reaction was similar to Ron’s. He asked her if she had it all these five years but didn’t tell him. She had—amazingly—looked hurt. The emotion flashed very briefly, but Harry caught it, and he felt a little remorseful about accusing Hermione of something like that. After that, she glossed cold again, telling him that she’d only just found out about it when Yasmin told her the details of this mission, which had been about a week ago. How Yasmin got her hands on a horcrux, or even knew it existed, Hermione didn’t know. All Hermione knew was that Yasmin—though capable of using people and withholding the truth—never told outright lies. So while Hermione didn’t know where the horcrux was, she was sure Yasmin had possession of it.

Harry remembered apologizing for assuming Hermione had been keeping this information for years. He really was sorry. She had said something like, “It’s fine. Don’t even worry about it,” but it was bereft of warmth. He believed she had accepted his apology, but he had a nagging feeling that she had resigned herself to the idea that her motives and priorities would be questioned because his first reaction had been that, and he did realize that if he, out of everyone, could judge her like that, then that was the way it was going to be for everyone else.

“I saw the contract,” continued Hermione, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Yasmin will be pleased. She should know about it by now. She has a copy, too. I should be hearing from her soon, if not personally, by owl. Have you decided on whether you’re going to accept the training, Harry?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I’ll go with it, Hermione. What choice do I have? I need to get that staff.”

“I know, and under any other circumstance, I would’ve gotten that staff for you, even if it means I have to lie for you, but Yasmin would know I’m lying, and there’s no telling what she’d do after that.”

Harry briefly exchanged glances with Ron. Now he felt even more wretched about mistrusting her.

“You have the worst boss, Hermione,” Ron muttered.

“Her system works, I suppose,” she said, curling up into the chair without kicking off her boots. “How far have you boys gotten on the research.”

Ron tore his gaze away having done very little reading that afternoon. Harry was more forthcoming.

“Not far,” he said. “Most of the leads I followed turned up as dead-ends. There’s still a lot of material to cover, though, so it’s too early to say there’s nothing.”

She nodded. “I’ll head on to the library after this, and I’m fairly confident I could order Solomon and Lucien to help. They’ll whinge, but they won’t shirk.”

“You should talk to Remus about this. He could help.”

She visibly hesitated. “Umm, yes. I’m sure he could. You go and talk to him. And you decide what parts he gets to research.”

Harry’s eyebrow rose inquisitively. “Something wrong?”

She seemed surprised. “Wrong? Nothing’s wrong.”

“You don’t want to talk to Remus?”

A blush tinted her cheeks. “It’s nothing like that… it’s just that—what I mean to say is—well, Remus… he’ll do as I say… you know what I mean?”

At first, Harry was confused. He didn’t even look to Ron in case Ron understood. There was already a glazed look in Ron’s eyes having already zoned out.

Then it occurred to Harry what Hermione was trying to tell him. Remus would do as she says. Remus was a werewolf drawn to Hermione as a servant. Unlike Lucien and Solomon who deferred to Hermione out of loyalty, respect and survival, Remus would do so out of instinct, and in servitude. It was easy to understand how Hermione—of all people—found that revolting, and odd as it was, he was warmed by this tiny rediscovery of her.

She had, in the last two days, made an effort to keep large pieces of her from knowing eyes, only to slip with the little, telling things.

He tried not to let on that he was pleased by this discovery. It was bad enough he had caused her retreat the night before with his careless assumptions; he didn’t want to make her edgy because he let on that he saw more and more of what she was trying to hide. He simply nodded. “I’ll talk to Remus.”

“Thank you,” she said with a hint of relief.

Ron frowned. “Did I miss something?”

“Nope,” said Harry.

“I did miss something. You two have that look about you again.”

Harry frowned. “What look?”

“That talking-with-your-eyes look. I ought to butt your heads together, the way you’re getting back into old habits…”

Hermione scowled. “It’s not our fault if you’re zoning out in the middle of important conversation.”

“Well, excuse me. Some of us actually have to speak to understand one another, and whatever emotional drama you had in the last five minutes is not something I make my business. Because it was an emotional drama, wasn’t it? Your eyes were like—‘Oh, Harry, save me!’ and Harry was like—‘Don’t worry, Hermione, I will because I’m Super Harry!’”

For someone who missed something, Ron sure had a rather detailed take of it.

“I go by many names, apparently,” Harry said, but neither Ron nor Hermione seemed to pay him much attention.

Hermione looked like she was going to pass out from the blood rush to her face. “I was not looking at Harry like that! I hadn’t needed Harry in the last five years and I’m not going to start that again!”

One step forward, two steps back. Ron, Ron… I have to love you, or else I’d have already killed you, he thought wearily.

She continued her tirade. “So you can just quit making stupid assumptions, maybe go back to your little corner and play chess.”

“Well!” Ron cried. “Some things never change, obviously! You’re still impossibly haughty about your brains, you know-it-all little nightmare.”

“Ooh, good First Year insult. Too bad the only Troll you can get now won’t save my opinion of your IQ.”

“Alright, you two, stop it,” Harry said, eyeing them both sternly. “Ron, we talked about this, eh?”

Ron tore his gaze away, grumbling to himself.

Harry looked to Hermione. “Just try not to argue with Ron so much.”

“Of course. I would have to be the grown-up, wouldn’t I?”

No grown-ups from where I’m sitting, he thought irritably. He was about to say something when the look on her face stopped him.

She blinked and her anger seemed to recede.

“Whatever,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest and slumping into her seat.

Harry looked at her in surprise. Had she heard that? He waited for her to say something more but she wouldn’t catch his eye.

“Somebody has to be,” he said to wrap up the issue. “I can stay in Hogwarts for another day, after which I have to go back to London. You can either stay here or come back with me. Ron’s staying longer, I think.”

“Yeah. Got some stuff to finish at the dragon pens so I could be free for the weekend. Have to go to France, you know.”

“Of course you do. Gabrielle has to show off her older-guy boyfriend to her friends,” Hermione teased.

Ron made a face but said nothing.

“I’ll go back with you, Harry,” she said. “The research is important, but so is your training. If I really need to go back to Hogwarts, then I’ll just have to risk another train ride. I won’t compromise yours and Tonks’s jobs by asking you to make a portkey for a bunch of unattended vampires.”

Harry smiled apologetically. “I’d make you the portkey if you wanted me to, and I could care less about the job, but Scrimgeour and his ministry flunkies will cause an unnecessary fuss and there’s no telling what the repercussions could be. I just want to keep you under the radar. You don’t want the ministry’s and the general public’s attention on you, and I don’t think your vamp superiors would like that, either.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” she admitted. “This is the one thing I hate about the vamp thing. Can’t apparate, can’t floo, can’t ride a broom…”

“You can fly, though, can’t you?” Ron asked. “That vamp that brought Harry to the hospital…”

“Rashad,” said Hermione, a faint look of sorrow in her gaze.

Harry didn’t know if it was for Rashad’s death or if it was because she was remembering that night she had promised Yasmin her life in exchange for his.

He answered the question for Hermione. “Not all vamps can fly, Ron. It’s a special power, like their mind reading and the coming-with-the-mist thing.”

Hermione nodded. “And even then, any power that has to do with shape-shifting drains a vampire considerably. So sprouting wings, or turning into mist or transfiguring into a dog-demon… it shouldn’t be used on a regular basis.”

“I’ve never seen a dog-demon,” said Harry.

“They’re ugly. That’s all you have to know,” said Hermione.

“So can you fly, Hermione?” Ron asked.

Harry looked to her. He never thought about asking her about her vampire powers. When she first turned, she wouldn’t have developed her vamp powers yet. She might have had an inkling that something about her was changing, but most vamps only become aware of their powers when the power randomly manifested. Nothing or anything can trigger it. It just happened. It hadn’t happened for Hermione yet before she left them, or she might not have been aware of it.

She hesitated. “I—I’d really rather not talk about that…”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. So did Ron’s.

“I’d really rather not,” she repeated.

Which of course made Harry think that he would bring it up next time and probably wheedle the entire story out of her.

“I use a car to get around,” she said, grinning slightly. “Yasmin always has a lot to spare for the coven affiliates. I’ve had to use a motorcycle a few times, but they make too much noise and I feel exposed. Love the outfit that goes with it, though. That’s the only upside.”

Seeing Hermione on a motorcycle, with the outfit, was likely to make him drool and pass out. He shut the image from his mind lest it addled his brain further. “I can apparate you side-along. Just you, though. Lucien and Solomon could very well fend for themselves.”

Hermione frowned. “Like, just leave them?”

“I thought you were good at that sort of thing,” Ron said.

Harry sighed, leaning back on the couch as Hermione became visibly outraged by Ron’s remark. And just as he expected, she didn’t explode. She instead froze over and stood up from her seat.

“You’re right. I am. Watch me do it.” She turned to go and Harry had to stand up and take her gently by the arm to stop her from leaving.

“Don’t,” he said in a soft, soothing voice. “Please don’t. Look… you and Ron”—he volleyed his gaze between them—“you have to talk.”

“We have talked,” she hissed.

“Well, talk again,” he insisted, shooting Ron a glare. “I didn’t want to interfere, but if I’m going to spend all my time refereeing you two, that broom’s not going to fly. I have better things to do with my time. I’m going to leave you two alone. You can come get me when you’ve sorted things out.” He made for the door.

He heard Ron grumbling unintelligible things.

“Where are you going?” Hermione demanded as she watched Harry go.

“I think I’ll hang out with Lucien and Solomon,” Harry said as he walked out of the Room of Requirement.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So you left him in there with Hermione?” Solomon asked. “Is that safe?”

Harry frowned. “Ron’s not going to hurt her.”

Solomon rolled his eyes. “I’m not worried about Hermione. I’m worried about Ron.”

Right, thought Harry, mentally chastising himself. “I don’t think Hermione’s going to hurt Ron, either. They’ll work it out. I know they will.”

Lucien made a face. “Yes, well, we’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

Harry adjusted his seat on the floor and muttered a cushioning charm on the stone. They’d been sitting across the Room of Requirement door for a few minutes now, and Lucien and Solomon were eager to find out what all the drama was all about. Harry was surprised to realize that the two vamps were easier to get along with than he expected. They, as Hermione said, hardly took anything seriously, and Harry found that oddly refreshing. The war took the sense of humor out of too many people.

He had to admit that he had another reason for walking out on Hermione and Ron. He was eager for the opportunity to have some time with Hermione’s Shadow Kin and ask them things about her. He was going to take Ron’s advice.

“So,” said Harry, bracing himself for what he was about to do. “I’ve been curious. How’s Hermione as an alpha? Is she fair? Is she good at it?”

Solomon’s and Lucien’s eyebrow shot up. They were nobody’s fools, after all.

“Relatively more affectionate than most alphas,” said Solomon casually. “And she takes her promises to us very seriously.”

Lucien nodded. “Never left us behind for anything… takes care of us… protects us… actually quite nurturing.”

Harry tried to sound nonchalant as he gave a half-shrug and nodded. “Hmm. Sounds like her. You”—he began, looking at Solomon—“dated Hermione?”

Solomon’s eyes bugged out, a blush rising in his cheeks. “She told you about that?”

“Yep.”

Lucien made another face.

“For the record we didn’t shag,” Solomon said rather hastily.

Harry had to wonder why Solomon felt compelled to explain himself. In retrospect, there was every reason to desire Hermione. She was gorgeous and loving and intelligent. It wasn’t Solomon’s fault. Then again, Harry just felt so much better about the entire thing because there was no shagging involved. “I know. She admitted that.”

Solomon held his hands up. “Just so you know. She had… issues. So it was awkward.”

“Yes, well, I suppose the whole ‘just friends’ thing could sort of take the mojo out of anyone…”

Solomon stifled a laugh. “Well, I wasn’t thinking of her as a friend when we were—well, if you know what I mean.”

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. “You probably didn’t, but she did. Told me so.”

“Oh, is that what she said?” Lucien smirked.

“Lucien…” Solomon said in a warning tone.

“Liar, liar…” Lucien said in a singsong tone. “Pants on fire…”

Harry stared at Lucien suspiciously. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked cautiously.

“Lucien!” Solomon cried more forcefully.

Lucien waved a dismissive hand at him. “Oh, hush up. This’ll be good for her.”

“I swear! I wish I hadn’t told you about it! You couldn’t keep a goddamn secret!”

Laughing, Lucien leaned over in Harry’s direction. “They were fooling around, right?”

Harry fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t think—“

“And in the heat of the moment, she called him Harry,”

Solomon sighed in resignation. “Which was terribly weird because—well, I’m black and you’re… just… not.”

Lucien laughed. “I thought that was particularly hilarious.”

Harry paused to consider this.

“That happened three and a half years ago. She was quite hung up on you still,” Solomon explained, sneering in Lucien’s direction. “But out of loyalty to Hermione, I’m telling you: her feelings for you might have changed since then. I don’t mean to be harsh, and I’m not telling you to fuck off. I’m just saying don’t go jumping to conclusions. The last thing Hermione wants is someone telling her what she feels or ought to feel. She’ll come out with it, whatever it is, when she’s good and ready. Don’t push her.”

Harry was really listening now. “How many boyfriends did she have not counting you?”

Solomon sniffed, glaring at him.

Lucien nudged him. “Give the man a break. He’s been looking for her for five years. He just wants to know.”

Harry gestured agreeably at Lucien. “Lucien feels my pain. Come on, Solomon, I just need to know my chances here.”

“Your chances,” Solomon began through grit teeth, “are up to her. I swear to you, Potter… I don’t care if she left you or if she broke your heart. She had her reasons. Good reasons. I love her and respect her for them. If you mess her up—“

Harry sighed in frustration. Great. Someone more protective of her than I am. “Mess her up? How in hell could I do that? She’s more likely to mess me up.”

“I’m not kidding, Potter. It took a lot from her to go on without you; without falling apart. If you think you’re the only one who had hell to put up with because she left, well, then you thought too little of her. She sacrificed something too, perhaps more than you did. You had a bunch of Weasleys and a whole Order of people who cared for you to listen to your woes. She hadn’t told me about any of it until much later, when she had herself under control, and by that time, she didn’t need much from me and Lucien anymore, so she had to keep herself together all by herself. Do you understand? She had no one but herself. So boohoo for you, Potter. Boohoo for Ron. But forgive me if I’m taking her side. If I didn’t, then who would?”

Harry leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes. He had to admit, he hadn’t exactly though of it that way, and he could respect Solomon for being the way he was. Heck, he could even like the guy. He considered Solomon’s words before looking the vampire in the eyes. “Look… I can’t—I can’t explain to you what I feel about her. And frankly, I simply don’t want to be telling you this when I’d rather be telling her. Know what I mean?”

Solomon rolled his eyes but nodded. “Go on.”

“I’m dead serious about all this. I don’t want to screw up. And I don’t want to screw her up, but tell me honestly, Solomon, if you were in my shoes, would you stand around and do nothing if the woman you cared about more than anything walked back into your life and—and made you feel like she still thought about you in a certain… way.”

Solomon eyed him warily. “What way?”

“That way.”

Solomon was quiet for a moment. He looked to Lucien who simply grinned and shrugged. Solomon rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face ponderously before he dropped his hand and said, “She’d had four real boyfriends. I consider myself more of a… fling, even if she did care about me. There was another guy later on. A one-nighter.”

Harry hissed softly but he listened. He asked for this and he was going to pay attention.

Solomon went on. “She regretted it and never did another one-nighter again. Her four boyfriends… one was human. Sweet blokes. Very loving.”

“One of them was gay,” said Lucien.

Solomon shot him a sneer. “Adrian was not gay. He was rather new age, but not gay.”

Lucien waved him away in disgust.

“She mentioned Adrian,” Harry muttered. “Mr. Tantric.”

“Yes, well, he was her last boyfriend. Ten months ago, I think. She hasn’t dated again since. Her other boyfriends were… well, there wasn’t a pattern, really. They were all nice guys, but I couldn’t say she had a particular type. None of them looked like you, if that’s what you’re wondering. Maybe she did it on purpose, but they were all sorts of shapes and colors. Brown, blonde, red—“

“Red?” Red! Of all the…

Solomon had to laugh. “And then brown again. None of them wore glasses and they were stocky, tall, short, just right, respectively. Athletic, intellectual, genius, new age—in that order—and they all worshiped the ground she walked on, like—mental.”

Lucien nodded in awe. “She’s so good at that. Twining them around her pretty little fingers and they don’t even know it… it’s magic.”

Harry had fallen for that spell hook, line and bludger. “Give me something to work with here, Solomon. What did she like doing with these blokes?”

“There wasn’t a pattern there, either. Boyfriend number two and three, I understood how she got along with. They liked hanging around in—well, smart places. You know, museums, art shows, the opera… that sort of thing. And they were so...”

“Informed,” Lucien supplemented. “I could hardly understand a word they said.”

“But Hermione understood, and she really enjoyed being with them. But… well, they dumped her.”

“And she dumped Adrian,” added Lucien.

“The first boyfriend… well, things just sort of withered away there… didn’t understand how they got together in the first place,” Solomon said.

“Wait a minute,” said Harry. “You said they worshiped the ground she walked on. Why did those two blokes dump her, then?”

“Because they wanted all of her and they felt she was holding something back. They couldn’t love somebody half way, you understand. She couldn’t give them what they wanted of her.”

“Which was?”

Solomon shrugged. “Only she knows. Maybe she still is hung up on you, Harry. I don’t know. Maybe she wouldn’t set free that part of her that belonged to you after all.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of this bit of information. He would like to think that he was embedded in her heart that deeply, but he didn’t want to take things for granted. Still, all this was leaving him no more informed than when the discussion began. He was getting a little desperate. “How does she respond to gifts?”

“Appreciative, whatever it is. She’s not picky or high-maintenance. It doesn’t have to be diamonds and rubies. I suppose she likes the ones that mean something, the most. One of them… I think it was Stephen—the third one—gave her these wonky beaded earrings strung in the shape of two suns, imported from Aruba, because she mentioned the week before that she wished she could go to the beach in broad daylight. Obviously, it wasn’t something she could do, but the gesture was thoughtful. Get what I mean?”

Harry nodded. This was good. “Yes. Is there anything that’s been important to her in the last five years? Apart from her work.”

Solomon paused. “Well… that’s different. She… I don’t think I should be telling you this…”

“Solomon—“

“It’s very personal to her. If I tell you what it is—“

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Lucien muttered. “Children. She loves children. Not to suck their blood, mind you. She loves them in the real sense. She used to give to that county orphanage in Godric’s Hollow—“

Harry thought maybe he got the tiniest bit emotional about that. It was just the kind of thing that the Hermione he remembered would do. And he loved her all the more for it.

“And there was this orphanage in Albania,” Lucien continued. “She helped there, too. She went through all sorts of lengths so that the orphanage staff wouldn’t know she was a vampire. You understand that they wouldn’t have let her near the children if any of them knew what she was. I suspect the resident nun knew, but she’d seen Hermione with the kids and knew Hermione wouldn’t hurt them. And then there was Sa—“

“Lucien, no,” Solomon hissed. “That’s Hermione’s story to tell.”

“She told me about Samir,” Harry said quietly.

Lucien shrugged. “Well then, there you have a breakthrough, Harry. She never talked about that with anyone after it happened. Not to me, or Solomon. You should be glad she told you.”

Harry frowned. “I wish she didn’t have to go through that.”

“Well, it happened, and something of her died then,” Solomon said. “She stopped the orphanage visits. I don’t know if she stopped giving them money. I think she hasn’t, but personally, I thought her visits were far more enriching… well, that’s over with, now. I’m sure she still cares for them. Sometimes she sees kiddies with their mothers and she sort of gets this look, but that’s about it. Tragic that she can’t have her own sprogs.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah…”

“Is there anything else you want to know, Harry?”

Harry felt oddly depressed. Maybe those children had helped her more than anything in her supposed period of isolation. Maybe those children had been her anchor because Solomon and Lucien certainly hadn’t been given the opportunity to help her, but then the thought that Samir’s tragedy had ripped that refuge away from her, too… maybe she had fought to stay cold for more reasons than he thought. Maybe…

Maybe it’s not all about me. He almost laughed at himself for it. Way to go, Harry. Thought you were the center of the universe? Well, think again.

“I think I’ve heard enough, thanks,” he said softly.

They sat in silence for several minutes before Lucien and Solomon began telling fat-mum jokes to each other.

Harry only half listened, pondering everything he’d learned in the last half hour.

It was in the midst of Solomon’s turn in the joke-telling that the Room of Requirement door opened. Ron and Hermione stood within, peering at him. Neither of them looked worse for wear.

“We’re alright now, mate,” Ron said. “We’re not going to fight anymore.”

Harry looked to her and she nodded.

It was odd that he looked at her now with a different sense of perception. So much of her appearance had been improved in the last five years, but it was only now he recognized Hermione underneath all the perfect hair and perfect clothes. He could recognize the beauty that once had been all her own, without the vampire enhancements. It was lurking there, alive. He didn’t need to flush it out of her. Just the certainty that it was there was enough for him. He wasn’t going to screw this up. Not for anything.

He rose from the floor, eyeing her intently. “Good.”

She reddened and tore her gaze from him. “I think we’ve talked enough for one night. I’m headed for the library. Anyone want to come with?”

“I will,” Harry said.

“Are there any books there with pictures?” Lucien asked.

She shot him a wry grimace. “I’ll try to find a Dr. Seuss for you, Lucien.”

“A doctor who? I’d like to know, too—what this Healer Who—could do.”

She actually laughed; a true sound of mirth as she pinched his cheek. “You’re adorable sometimes, you know that?”

“Of course I know that. And you love me for it, darling.” He leaned over and pecked a kiss on her temple. “Race you to the library!”

He was off in a blink of an eye.

“Does he know the way?” Ron asked.

Solomon shook his head. “No.”

Hermione sighed. “Solomon, would you—“

“I’m there, luvvy. We’ll see you in the library.” Solomon left in a flash.

Harry cocked a smile. “I hate to admit it but… they’re alright, Lucien and Solomon.”

She looked up at him, surprise evident in her expression. The warmth shining from her eyes moved Harry. He realized that she really did think the world of her Shadow Kin, and perhaps Harry felt slightly jealous. It was what she used to think of him and Ron, yet, Harry couldn’t begrudge Solomon and Lucien for it. To have Hermione’s deep affection was a beautiful thing.

“Yes, they are,” she said. “They’re very special, but… you know, it’s not like—they’re not your replacements, you know. They can’t ever be like you and Ron.”

He was mildly astonished. Had he been that obvious? Had she read his mind? Or maybe she had merely been thinking along parallel lines and had caught it from the look in his eyes.

“No way in hell I’m like either of them, anyway,” Ron muttered. “I’m not exactly a swinging hipster.”

Harry might have had a brain meltdown if he had pursued the idea of Ron being a hipster.

Hermione smirked. “No, Ron, you’re not. You and Harry are more… casual chic, really.”

“I never thought I’d ever hear my name and Ron’s with the word ‘chic’ in the same sentence,” Harry said. Without thinking much about it, he draped an arm over her shoulder, rubbing affectionately. The stories Lucien and Solomon had told of her had left a deep impression on him. He had a desperate urge to let her know that she didn’t have to keep her hurts to herself anymore; that now, she had him to turn to again.

He felt her flinch slightly at the touch but she immediately relaxed into it, though she refused to look him in the eye. “Yes, well, when you spend an inordinate amount of time with metrosexual men like I do, ‘casual’ is immensely refreshing and easy on the eyes. Ron, I’ve been meaning to tell you that you really should rethink your eating habits. I mean, now you’re all broad and firm, but as soon as you slow down, that’s all going to become fat and I really don’t think that’d be flattering. Not to mention the fact that both Gabrielle and Luna look like such delicate creatures from what I remember of them. You wouldn’t match with either—“

Ron scowled. “You leave my eating habits alone, hear?”

She put her hands up. “I’m just saying. You don’t want to look like a Troll.”

Harry laughed. It was just so typical of Ron to get riled up about food before criticism, and it was so typical of Hermione to go all dietician on him.

“A troll!” cried Ron indignantly. “And what are you laughing about, Potter? It’s not my fault I’m big and strong as opposed to scrawny and four-eyed.”

“Oy!”

“Harry’s not scrawny,” said Hermione loftily. “He’s nice and fit. And don’t call him four-eyed. His glasses make him look distinguished.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Oh, brother,” he muttered.

Harry grinned broadly. “Why, thank you, Ms. Granger. Does this mean I have to tell you you’re lovely and alluring?”

She arched her eyebrow. “Well I—I knew that.”

Harry laughed again.

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” said Ron disgustedly, walking ahead.

Harry then took the opportunity to lean over, perching his lips lightly over her ear. “I do mean it, you know. I think you’re gorgeous.”

She looked up at him and actually blushed. “Takes one to know one?” she asked softly.

He smirked, pleasantly surprised at the indirect compliment.

She blushed even redder and squirmed out of his arms. She seemed flustered; probably a bit embarrassed. “Oh, enough of this nonsense, Harry. We better hurry on along. Stop flirting!”

Grinning and utterly pleased, he hurried on after her so they could catch up with Ron.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I feel stupid reading with a cowl on,” Solomon whined softly from across the table.

The library was quiet and sparse of students, the most distinct student being the Head Girl who sat several tables away, furiously scribbling on her long roll of parchment.

Harry looked up from the book he was reading to regard Hermione. She looked slightly annoyed.

“I’d rather the students not know there are vamps amongst them, Sol,” Hermione explained patiently. “It’s going to create problems for McGonagall when those Slytherin brats tell their mumsies.”

“You Hogwarts alumni and your silly houses,” said Lucien, who was muggle and never knew the glory of house rivalries.

Solomon ignored him. “But doesn’t Harry’s misdirection charm work well enough? I mean, really…”

“Harry’s misdirection charms would work ‘well enough’ if a couple of vampires weren’t projecting to get attention!” she hissed. “I swear the two of you are such attention-whores. It’s a disgrace sometimes!”

Lucien sighed. “Well, we’re so good-looking! It seems an awful waste if no one sees us!”

“So, is this vanity catching or are vampires just naturally full of themselves?” Ron asked to no one in particular.

“He says ‘vanity’ like it’s a disease. I don’t get it,” Lucien said.

“Most vamps don’t,” Harry told him.

“Just keep the cowls on,” said Hermione. “And I don’t want to hear another word from you two. Honestly. Like children, the pair of you. And don’t think I don’t know that you’re reading a lingerie catalogue behind that book, Solomon.”

Solomon pouted, caught. “But it’s the winter collection!”

“Lemme see that,” Ron said, reaching across the table.

“I recommend an in-depth study of page thirty one.” Solomon said, relinquishing the catalogue to Ron.

Hermione rolled her eyes and rose from the table. “I have to fetch something from the restricted section,” she grumbled.

“Fascinating,” said Ron, straight-faced. “Such brilliant engineering of fabric and aesthetics. I’m academically impressed. Do you think she’s really feeling that cold?”

“That’s why the winter collection is our favorite,” Lucien pointed out, winking.

With the boys thus occupied, Harry let himself wonder about something he had put off long enough.

Who had tipped off the enemy about their trip to Hogwarts? Only seven people had advanced knowledge of the train ride, of which he was included. Everyone else; Shacklebolt, Arthur, Seamus, Mad Eye, and the rest of the auror unit had been informed at the last minute, both for their safety and the safety of all the travelers.

Out of the seven who knew, Harry was certain five wouldn’t have betrayed the knowledge for anything.

He watched Lucien and Solomon furtively. It was hard to wrap his mind around either of the two betraying him, much less Hermione, and after the talk he had with them outside the Room of Requirement, it was harder still. There was nothing treacherous about either of them, yet his reasoning was telling him that they were the two people out of the six he knew the least.

Should he talk to them? Save Hermione the burden of confronting her own Shadow Kin for answers?

It seemed like the easy way, but if Hermione found out he had gone behind her back, he had to deal with more than just her inevitable anger. He would have to deal with the fact that he had disrespected her; bypassed her authority over her Shadow Kin. He might as well slap her face head-on. It was that awful.

I have to talk to her.

He shifted his gaze to the restricted section. He couldn’t see her from where he was seated but he would have no trouble finding her.

Seeing that Lucien, Solomon and Ron were distracted, he set his book aside and followed Hermione into the restricted section.

He found her nestled between two of the more obscured bookshelves at the back. Peering through some books, he saw Ron, Lucien and Solomon seated on one of the tables some distance away. He needed to talk to her in private and what he was going to say wasn’t going to go down easy.

“Need something, Harry?” she asked, barely looking up from the book she was reading.

He sidled up to her and spoke to her in a lowered tone. “We have to talk about the mole, Hermione.”

She looked up and frowned, pressing her back against the shelves as she closed the book. “Yasmin’s handling that. There’s nothing I can do about that from here.”

He pulled her closer and she scowled. He couldn’t afford anyone but her hearing what he had to say.

“Harry!” she hissed. “Room for the Holy Ghost, please? And if you’re just trying to cop a feel—“

“Hush it. I’m about to tell you something that you might not like to hear.”

“What—“

“The only ones who knew about our trip to Hogwarts were Remus, Tonks, Ron, me and you three. Everyone else on that train had been informed at the last minute. Remus, Tonks and Ron would never have given it away and I believe you wouldn’t have, either.”

Her eyes narrowed to ferocious slits. “What are you saying, Harry?”

“Lucien and Solomon… I believe they’re good blokes, but in retrospect, what the hell do I know—“

She gasped. She looked so utterly shocked. “Harry, don’t you accuse them of betrayal. That’s like Remus telling me you and Ron can’t be trusted!”

He shook his head, hardening his heart at the hurt expression in her eyes. “No, it’s not the same. We practically grew up together. We shaped each other. When you met Lucien and Solomon, they were already made. You were already made. It’s not the same!”

She pulled herself away from him. “Don’t, Harry. Just don’t!”

“I’m just telling you that’s what I think. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have brought this up if it wasn’t important, but I have to ask you, Hermione. You know I do!”

“Harry, those vamps and wolves on the train tried to butcher us all! Do you expect me to believe that Lucien or Solomon brought that upon us?”

“It’s not as if Lucien and Solomon are meek little lambs, Hermione.”

“Then accuse me!” she whispered fiercely. “Accuse me, too! Because neither of those boys would betray us anymore than I would. I can’t believe you would think—“

“Ask them, then. Ask them if they told anyone about the trip. Hermione, please. I’m not doing this to hurt you. A man died on that train, and so many others almost lost their lives. I’m responsible for those lives. I’m begging you to understand.”

She tore her gaze from him, but he could tell that her shock—and perhaps what anger she felt—had passed. “Oh, Harry…”

Her tone of voice wrenched his heart. He was asking too much; he knew, but it had to be done.

“Alright. Alright, Harry. I’ll ask them. For you, I’ll ask them.”

“Thank you,” he said, finally stepping back.

He watched her expression. She looked troubled and he wished he didn’t have to ask what he just did. “I’m sorry. I know it’s too much—“

“It’s not that…”

His brows knotted, and he stood there, perplexed. “Then what is it?

“Harry, I hope you realize that you have certain… powers over me that not everyone could understand. I don’t know if Solomon or Lucien could see it when they look at me, and I’m pretty sure Ron doesn’t have a clue, but if… if other people knew, like Yasmin for instance… it’ll be considered a weakness. My status and survival in vampire society depends heavily on how people perceive me. I can’t be—they can’t know you have this power over me. What I’m trying to say is… you made yourself vulnerable to me in the Room of Requirement with the things you told me, and so I make myself vulnerable to you admitting this much… we’re squared. I don’t have one over you.”

Harry felt the tiniest bit wearied by what she said. Something always seemed to derail the progress of the healing, yet he refused to believe it was what Ron called it: a train-wreck waiting to happen. Frustrated, he did the only thing he could think of to stop the bleeding. He pulled her tight into his arms.

He was surprised to feel her sinking against him compliantly.

“It’s not like that,” he said softly in her hair. “It’s not like that at all. It’s not one having the advantage over the other. I told you what I felt because I needed you to know. It’s not a competition, Hermione. You said so yourself. Things are different now and we have to get reacquainted with each other in this situation. This is just… this is one of those things we have to deal with, alright?”

He felt her grip on the fabric of his shirt tightening. She said nothing. He couldn’t explain her silence. Maybe he was getting through to her, or maybe she wasn’t listening at all. They stood there in silence.

After a while, she pulled back, though she remained within the circle of his arms. She didn’t lift her gaze to him, but he watched in mesmerized silence as she undid the tie of her robes.

“What are you—“

“Hush,” she said softly. She reached into her halter-top and pulled out the chain attached to her choker. At the end of it was a pendulum.

Harry had thought it had an odd design when he saw it in the Room of Requirement, but up close, in the dim light of the restricted section, he could see just how odd the pendant was. It was crystalline red with metal filigree, probably silver, worked around it. Upon closer inspection, the metal-craft formed the shape of a winged-angel, sensually wrapped around the cut crystal.

She shook it and he saw that the red was actually from the liquid inside. The pendulum was a vial. She rubbed the vial between her fingers and the liquid inside it took on a dark, crimson glow before the light receded. “This contains the message from the Oracle.”

Harry stood transfixed by the viscous substance. He reached for it and she relinquished it in his palm. The crystal felt warm. He rubbed it between his fingers and it glowed again. “The message is in here?”

Fascinated though he was by the object, he couldn’t wrap his mind around how the message could be in it. Would he hear the message when the vial was opened? Would it be anything like the prophecy in the Department of Mysteries?

“And I can’t unravel it yet, you say?” he asked.

She shrugged. “You can risk it. I won’t stop you, but I’ve told you Yasmin’s caveat. She’s unraveled the message and she knows what it contains. She suspects that Janus and Voldemort may know something, though she couldn’t be certain to what extent.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “How did Voldemort get his hands on this?”

“We don’t know if he ever did. Maybe somebody told him. I don’t even know how Yasmin found out he knows something, she just said he does.”

“Then I should risk it, don’t you think?”

Her hand wrapped around his, closing over the vial. Finally she looked up at him and he stood transfixed by her gaze. “Remember when I told you that the future wasn’t meant to be foretold? I know I said this isn’t a prophecy, but even if it isn’t, it’s still more about what might be than anybody should ever know. Knowledge is power, I agree, but power can destroy, too. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“You don’t think I should unravel it.”

She sighed. “I used to think prophecies were nonsense, but now I know they’re destructive. If you ask me, I won’t ever bother to know what’s in that vial. There’s a reason why things come to us in their own time.”

“Then why give me the vial at all if you feel that way?”

“Because the choice is still yours to make, and whatever you decide, I believe it’s the right one.”

He studied her expression and something occurred to him just then. “Yasmin gave you the choice, didn’t she? You could’ve unraveled the contents of this vial.”

She nodded. “Believe it or not, Harry, there are some things I don’t want to know.”

He rubbed the pad of his thumb on the apple of her pale cheek. “They tried to kill you for this.”

“I have a feeling they’ll try to kill me anyway. You decide what to do. Just promise me that when you do find out, you won’t do anything stupid. Alright? Promise me.”

He smiled affectionately, cupping her face. “Do you want me to swear on Versace?”

She chuckled and let her mirth dwindle. “Swear on me.”

He hesitated before casting a plaintive smile. “That’s not fair…”

“Are you planning to break the promise, then?”

“I never plan to. With my luck, it just sort of happens…”

She scowled but didn’t ask him to swear again. “Just don’t get killed.”

“Does everybody think I want to get killed?”

“Well… I don’t know if they think you want to, but sometimes I think you forget that you can get killed.”

“Or worse, expelled?”

“We will not speak of That Which Must Not Be Named.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh.

She finally pried herself away from his embrace as she unhooked the chain from her choker. She looped the chain over and around his neck and attached the open end of it to the top of the vial. With the vial secured, she slipped chain and pendulum into his shirt, pressing her hand over it as the vial settled against his heart.

He placed his hand over hers. “I’d really like to get this training over with.”

She looked up at him in mild surprise. “We’ll start tomorrow night.”

“Good. The sooner we get that done, the sooner we can talk about us.”

She hesitated before she nodded.

He let her go.

“You’d best go back to the table,” she said haughtily as she went back to reading her book. “Have a gander at that lingerie catalogue before they manhandle it beyond recognition.”

“A what catalogue? Lon-j’-ray? Never heard of such thing.”

She didn’t even look up as she said, “Smooth, Potter. Now, go away.”

He smirked. Retreating for a bit in a backward gait, hoping to catch her smiling.

She looked up and glared at him, though the corner of her mouth was lifting. “Shoo.”

Satisfied, he chuckled, turned and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron and Seamus were deeply asleep in their beds when Harry entered their communal guest room.

Light was already beginning to color the sky as Harry tiredly sat at the edge of his bed. He kicked off his shoes and socks and peeled off his jumper, exposing the wand holster strapped to his arm.

Wearily, he peeled the holster off and draped it over the side of his headboard where he could most easily reach his wand. He doubted anyone could sneak up on him in his sleep while in Hogwarts, and ultimately, he could make-do without the wand, but it was always more reassuring to have it nearby.

He pulled his undershirt from the waist of his pants and without bothering to change into nightclothes, lay back in bed. Reaching into the collar of his shirt, he pulled out the chain holding the pendulum.

Examining it more closely, he saw that the angel had fangs, and that perhaps it wasn’t as angelic as he first thought it was. The features on its face were a bit sharper, and less serene, than he first thought. The angel held what looked like a sand clock. It was an odd design, indeed.

His thoughts drifted to Hermione and everything she brought with her. It was no party, having her back, but the sense of having her there, even in the worse of circumstances, was strangely exhilarating.

Near dawn, he had escorted the vamps to their dungeon doors. Solomon and Lucien had hurried on ahead, leaving Hermione with him. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to do anything, actually. Anything more than an embrace would push him over the edge of reason and there was no telling what he would do, so he just said, “Sleep tight,” and waited briefly for her reply. She didn’t say anything, but she took his hand, squeezed it and hurried into the dungeon.

It wasn’t exactly the response he had been expecting, and perhaps it was a bit disappointing that she hadn’t given him reason to throw all his inhibitions to the wind and just let the moment take them, but thinking about it now, she had made great leaps trying to thaw that wall of ice she had put between them, especially during their encounter in the restricted section.

He chuckled softly to himself. Forget flowers, chocolates and the opera, the library’s the way to go with Hermione.

He smiled fondly at the memory of her nearness and was gently sloshing the liquid inside the vial when there was a flapping, like an odd rustle of wings from beyond the curtained window. An overwhelming sense of magic washed over him before it began to beckon like the touch of silk.

This wasn’t Hedwig, or any other messenger fowl, for that matter. They didn’t bring magic like that with them. Not with such noticeable potency.

It wasn’t hypnotic. In fact, Harry took a moment to be suspicious of its source.

Plucking his wand from its holster, he crept to the window and slowly, cautiously, pulled the shutter open. He peered through the crack.

A shock of colored lights blinded him and magic hit him square in the face. It wasn’t a painful hit, but it was forceful enough to send him stumbling back on his behind, half-blind.

He gave a yell, promptly causing Seamus and Ron to scramble out of their beds with their wands out, already on the verge of throwing hexes.

Harry shook his flashing vision to normal and blinked, looking up.

His jaw dropped, realizing that he wasn’t the only one stupefied into shock.

Hovering above him, with its beautiful feathers of red and gold, was Albus Dumbledore’s missing phoenix, Fawkes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: References abound.

And Sex and the City references are:

Samantha: Well, I don't know how you people do it. All that emotional chow-chow. It's exhausting.

Carrie: … his words said no but his kiss said yes.

Miranda: That’s the defense invoked by date-rapists.

Carrie: Swear it. Swear on Chanel.

The definition of “emotional chow-chow” was all mine, though.

The words, “Nobody loves me. Everybody hates me. I’m going to eat some worms,” came from a friend of mine way back in the sixth grade. A most distinguished lady who now writes for a magazine, has a loving husband and a beautiful little girl. She said these words to me back then and they stuck in my head forever. I don’t know if she got it from a book. I have reason to suspect she did, because I know there’s a book called, “How to Eat Fried Worms” or something like that, but whether she got it from a book or made it up herself, she’ll always be the author of the quote, to me.

On edit: A bunch of readers told me that the worm-quote is actually a popular Mexican children’s song. It makes sense. My friend (her name’s Rosemary) used to sing it.

23. Chapter Twenty-Second: Teach

Author’s notes: Here it is! It’s one of those “boring” chapters, but hopefully, the ending will make up for that.

It’s been a weird two days. I just got called a basher in the forums. Moi? A basher??? That hurts! Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m an insensitive git who didn’t express my opinion in a manner they consider congenial. Nobody loves me. Everybody hates me. I’m going to eat some worms. :P Thank goodness I’ve got dragon hide.

Thank you so much to Lady Diamond who caught a bunch of errors in this chapter, and then some! You’re awesome.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty-Second: Teach

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione was surprised to find herself in Grimmauld Place when next she lifted the lid off her casket. She had been under the impression that she would be up and about by the time Harry decided to head on back from Hogwarts.

She sat up, the flicker of torchlight bouncing off the shiny finish of her black coffin.

She wondered momentarily whether Harry had done the time-change on purpose. Obviously, he had suddenly become wary of Lucien and Solomon, in spite of having thought so well of them. Perhaps she shouldn’t feel miserable that he doubted her Shadow Kin’s loyalty.

Not like his approval of them is essential or anything like that…

She scowled at herself, muttering under her breath. “Who the hell am I kidding? Hermione Granger, you’re utterly and completely losing sight of your objectives.” This is why I made a conscious decision to swear off sex. “Sex is a drug, and just like any drug, it’s not good for you. Sex is bad. Sex is—“

“And you said Lucien and I talk about sex too much…” came a voice from the cavern archway.

It was always embarrassing to get caught talking to one’s self. She blushed but was not entirely chagrined.

“It’s too early for this, Sol,” she said in a singsong voice as she hopped to the floor. She began to gather her things for her bath.

He was dressed and ready to go out. He had always been an early riser; sometimes he rose early enough to see the last glow of sunlight in the sky. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was a vamp power, but it was certainly one better than his peers. Vampires didn’t usually gain the ability of early rising until much later in their immortal lives. That Solomon could do it this young was a phenomenon in itself.

He scoffed. “Not like you need a shot of caffeine to wake up. Quit complaining and hurry along. I’m hungry.”

“Fine. Give me a few minutes.” She made for the showers. He followed close behind.

“So, how have you been getting along with Harry? I saw him follow you into the restricted section yesterday night. Had a nice little talk?”

At the mention of the restricted section, Hermione’s stomach knotted, the memory of what Harry had asked of her pulling the knot tighter. “It wasn’t that kind of talk.” She said before she could consider her words.

But then she paused, and she did consider what she had just said. She realized that what she told Solomon wasn’t necessarily accurate. It had been that kind of talk, the muck of Order and Coven obligations aside. Somewhere during that encounter, she and Harry had unraveled something of each other, and she had a feeling she had unraveled more than was good for her. The only upside to it was that she trusted Harry unconditionally; that he would keep safe whatever she had told him. She wasn’t sure what possessed her, anyway, to tell him those truths. Maybe she didn’t want him thinking that she had some kind of unfair advantage over him; that she wanted to even the odds, just so that when it came to the reckoning, neither of them would have an excuse to back down or move forward under false pretenses.

Still, it had felt… nice to have him reassure her of whatever it was he seemed to think she needed reassuring of. Maybe Harry had more magic than even he realized.

The dynamics Harry’s magic had taken over the years was nothing short of amazing, and she had to wonder if indeed it was something he could learn to harness or whether it was better off beyond anyone’s control, even Harry’s. Incredible as the power was, it was also a bit frightening. It was almost as if…

As if Harry had become part of magic, itself.

It was the only way she could fathom Hogwarts ‘letting’ him apparate within its protective wards. She wasn’t so sure if it was so much that Hogwarts was letting him apparate. It just didn’t work that way. Hogwarts didn’t make exceptions for any wizard, no matter who they were. So Harry should have done something to convince Hogwarts that he wasn’t such a corporeal form. She could only suppose that while the magic of Hogwarts could be bent from within, it couldn’t be forced to comply with even a magical entity to enter or leave outright.

It was all still speculation on her part, anyway. Whatever it was, Harry had the potential to be either powerfully capable or dangerously self-destructive. If her theory was anywhere near feasible, Harry’s corporeal form could disintegrate and he could become—

Don’t even think it! she thought, cutting the thread midway.

“Er… Hermione?”

She blinked, staring back into Solomon’s anxious eyes. “Yes! I mean—what were you saying again?”

“I wasn’t saying anything. You just sort of… spaced out. Are you alright?”

She frowned. “Just fine. Where’s Lucien?”

“He’s still in his coffin. Lazy. Should I get him for you?”

“N-No. I’ll talk to him later. Sol, I have something I need to ask you and I’m only going to ask it once. Whatever you tell me now, I’ll believe you, so…”

His eyebrow arched. “Soooo you’re asking me to tell the complete and terrible truth, yes?”

She nodded gravely. “This is important, and whatever it is you tell me, we’ll—we’ll work it out, alright? Because I can never believe that you’d ever do anything so—so…” She groped for words frantically.

“Just spit it out.”

She pursed her lips nervously before she began to speak again. “After Harry told us we were going to Hogwarts that evening we left, did you—did you say anything to anybody—anybody at all—that might have given away our travel plans?”

A look of utter hurt passed his face. “Hermione…”

She caught his arm firmly and didn’t remove her gaze. “I know you wouldn’t betray us, Sol. I know you wouldn’t, but sometimes, we can slip with a seemingly harmless word, or gesture, or—anything, with the wrong people. Did you come in contact with anyone that might have inferred anything from whatever you might have said that night we fed?”

His brows knotted.

“I have to ask,” she said. “I have to. Harry’s right. The three of us were the only ones who knew about the trip long enough to have told someone who would have use for the information, and we left the house.”

“Somehow, I don’t see Harry accusing you of treachery.”

“He didn’t, but I thought long and hard whether I might have given it away to someone, somewhere. Sol, please… someone died on that train, and if we hadn’t been there, everyone might have died—“

“That’s right. If we hadn’t been there—“

“Just tell me, Sol. Just tell me—“

“I didn’t tell anyone anything,” hissed Solomon. “We went to Tirgoviste, we said hello to Henry and he got us blood donors. That was it. I asked my blood donor’s name and she said her name was Wendy. We went through the usual motions and after I’d taken her blood, I gave her the potion, tipped her and we went our separate ways. We didn’t talk beyond the routine flirting.”

“Can you tell me exactly what you said to one another?”

She saw his jaw harden, but he began to tell her and she listened intently. There was nothing out of the ordinary. She didn’t doubt either that Solomon was telling the truth.

When he was done, he said, “Do you want to confirm what I said? You can look into my mind. Check off the images.”

“I don’t need to do that,” she said, her tone softening. “I trust you. You know I do, but Harry had his doubts, and he could’ve gone straight to you; could’ve interrogated you himself. He went to me first because he respects what you and Lucien are to me. He asked a lot from me telling me to ask you these questions but I prefer it far more than him having gone behind my back. Do you understand?”

His gaze lowered before he nodded. “If you didn’t do it, he would.”

“Yes. I’d trust Harry with my life. I’d even trust Harry with yours, but I won’t let him question you like that. He probably won’t shoot garlic bullets into you, but if I let him interrogate you, then I’d have been a bad alpha.”

Solomon took in this last statement before his shoulders sagged in resignation. “It still hurts.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me today. Just… so long as you forgive me eventually… good Lord, I’m piling up my trespasses, aren’t I? You, Ron, Harry… all because I love my boys. I haven’t even ask Lucien yet…”

At that thought, her stomach practically twisted in itself. If it hadn’t been Solomon…

Please don’t let it be Lucien. Please, please, please…

“He’ll tell me the truth, won’t he?” she asked plaintively, giving in to a moment of insecurity. “Lucien, I mean? He won’t ever lie to me…”

“He won’t,” Solomon said without hesitation. “He thinks the world of you. He’d rather have his you-know-what cut off than do anything to hurt you.”

She sneered. “Goodness, Sol, this is hardly the time for vulgarity.”

“Vulgarity? I was talking about his hair! What were you thinking?”

She laughed in spite of herself. “You were not thinking about his hair, git!”

He grinned. “Well, then, tell me what I was thinking.”

She rolled her eyes. “You just want to hear me say a naughty word. Well, I won’t, just to be contrary.” She stuck her tongue out at him just before she retreated to the bathroom.

She took a quick shower, dressed and checked to see if Lucien was up and about yet. He wasn’t in his coffin and Solomon had left the dungeons.

As she got to the first floor, she felt the familiar presence of humans nearby. Two she knew belonged to Remus and Draco while the other two were auras she couldn’t quite place. Furtively, she made her way to the kitchen. She peered through the opening and almost gasped upon seeing Ginny. Beside her was Dean Thomas, holding her hand.

Ginny was a lovely woman of twenty-one. She radiated life and health; her fiery red hair glowing in spite of its short, feminine bob. She was tall, too; a good match for Dean who was taller than Harry but shorter than Ron.

She was speaking animatedly at Remus while Dean and Draco sneered at one another aside. Old animosities died hard.

It was only a matter of time before Remus turned to notice Hermione, and when he did, Ginny stopped speaking and Dean looked like his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets.

“Just missed your boyfriend, Sunshine,” said Draco, getting up from his seat to go to the chillbox.

“Hermione?” Ginny gasped. “Y-You’re here!”

Draco scoffed. “The Weasley intellect never ceases to amaze me.”

“Fuck here, try alive!” cried Dean. “Oh, my God!”

“Somehow, I’m not surprised Ron didn’t tell you I’m back, Ginny,” Hermione said. “Hello, Dean. I’m fine, thanks. Well… relatively.”

Dean whipped his gaze to Ginny. “You knew she wasn’t dead and you didn’t tell me?”

Ginny shot him a look. “We’ll talk about it later, Dean. Remus, you could’ve warned me, you know!”

Remus shrugged. “Well, Harry didn’t want the word to spread too quickly. You know how he gets. Dean, I’ll ask you not to—well, talk about it too much, if you can?”

“Seamus knows, the git! I knew he was hiding something!”

“It’s not his fault. Seamus was bound by his auror duties to keep mum about it.”

Ginny sighed irritably, leaving the two to discuss while she accosted Hermione by the hand.

Hermione was just the tiniest bit shocked by this and couldn’t help but let the redhead drag her off into the hallway. She could hear Dean calling after Ginny in a rather alarmed tone, no doubt having just been told that Hermione was a vampire. She could actually smell his fear.

But Merlin, I’m hungry…

“I can’t believe you’re back,” said Ginny in a half-excited, half-scolding tone. “Do you have any idea what sort of catastrophe your disappearance caused? Harry stopped talking for more than two weeks, Ron and mum went spare worrying about him and McGonagall was worried you had been taken by force, that some Death Eater forced you to write those words in your letter to Ron!”

Hermione had to wrap her mind around the fact that McGonagall had gone soap opera-ish on them all. “You didn’t happen to read Harry’s letter, did you?”

Ginny frowned. “Why would I? It was his letter.”

“He certainly didn’t think so,” Hermione muttered, more to herself.

“What?”

“Nothing. Listen, Ginny, are you going to stick around for a while? I have something I have to do. Do some things with my… companions. I’ll be back in an hour or so—“

“Well, Dean and I were supposed to catch one of those muggle movies of his, and I don’t mind saying I enjoy them, but tonight, I found something more interesting than four cute, furry footed men gone on a quest to save middle Earth.”

“Somehow, I’m feeling a bit… unsettled by what you said.”

“You better believe I’m going to let you have it, Granger.”

“Tell me this is all my lesbian fantasies come true,” came Draco’s voice from the archway.

Dean appeared behind him, nudging him forcefully aside. “Ginny, can you just—oh, I don’t know—stand around where I can see you?”

Ginny went to him, leaving Hermione standing in the hallway. “Oh, don’t be silly, Dean. Harry let her stay here. Do you honestly think he’d risk the lives of other people if it wasn’t safe?”

“The Boy’s mental, if you ask me…”

Draco sneered. “Boy’s randy is what I think.”

Hermione glared at Draco, her old instinct to defend Harry rearing unexpectedly. “Goes to show what you know about human emotion, Draco. And frankly, if a vampire has to tell you what human beings ought to be feeling, then you’re seriously demented from the inside out.” She was growing agitated, and the smell of Draco’s blood called to her. It would be such an easy thing to sweep Draco off to some corner in the house, drink his blood and leave him to recover by himself. Ample punishment, perhaps, for all those years of soul sucking he’d done living off Harry’s sense of honor and compassion.

“That’s the difference between you and me, Granger. You had to get turned to have a killer instinct. I was born with it,” said Draco without the slightest hint of remorse.

She gritted her teeth, staring at him with her ringed eyes. “Oh, but what I would give to wipe that arrogance off your face with my fangs—“

“Hermione,” came a voice from behind her.

The voice pulled her gently back from her building outrage. She turned and saw Solomon, Lucien behind him.

It was enough to calm her down and when she turned to look at Draco again, she saw that Ginny and Dean were looking a little pale, themselves. It was the first time either of them had seen her grow angry. It probably wasn’t a very comforting sight. Lucien’s eerie good looks coupled with the slave collar at his neck probably didn’t help things along, either.

Her Shadow Kin came up behind her. She didn’t bother to introduce them.

“We better go,” Solomon told her gently from behind her.

She nodded, eyeing Draco malevolently. While the Malfoy heir had grown pastier than usual, he stared back at her stubbornly. She held his gaze until he looked away first.

“I’ll talk to you later, Ginny,” Hermione said. Then thinking better of it, she added, “If you’re still around when I get back.”

Ginny reddened but held her composure. “I will be.”

Hermione gave brief goodbyes to Dean and Remus before leaving the house with her Shadow Kin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione didn’t have time to talk to Lucien while they were out feeding and she certainly couldn’t find the time when they got back to Grimmauld Place. Ginny had, as promised, stayed to wait for her, and as soon as Hermione stepped back into the house, she was accosted by the tall redhead and brought to the first floor drawing room, a cup of tea for Ginny and a small bowl of chocolates for Hermione.

Ginny then took a good half hour ripping into her with the most Molly-like scolding Hermione had ever heard. Even Molly hadn’t ever scolded her that way. Ginny had sat down to get the record straight, and it was a long list of Accounts Payable that Hermione had to answer for. And when Ginny was done chastising her, Ginny gave Hermione a dire, immensely painful account of Harry’s dating mishaps, milestones and misses, all designed to make Hermione think that she had made the mistake of leaving behind the one man no witch should ever think of abandoning, the way she did.

Hermione was certain that Ginny would end the tirade with an explosion of sorts, telling her in a no-nonsense way that Harry had half-a-dozen love children while she was gone.

It wasn’t entirely far-fetched, as this had been the fate of one of her ex-boyfriends when last they parted ways.

“Mum felt worse about Harry and Cho breaking up than Harry did, I’d wager,” Ginny confessed. “Couldn’t entirely blame Harry. It’s not happiness to find one’s face on the front pages of the Daily Prophet because your ex-girlfriend stormed angrily out of a café after dumping a cup full of hot tea on your lap.”

Hermione scoffed. “What a bitch.”

“I wasn’t a big fan of Cho, but Harry deserved what he got that time. Cho was a really sweet girlfriend. She made it a point to make Harry feel wanted and remembered. She baked him stuff and bought him those funny shirts whenever she went shopping by herself, and she always insisted on playing his team during pick-up Quidditch games. She deserved better than getting broken up with for a supposedly dead ex-girlfriend.”

Hermione sniffed, feeling a deep ache in her heart. She looked down at her hands as she fingered a chocolate truffle between her fingers. “Yes, well, the plan was for me to disappear and have Harry find someone like Cho to care for him. It wasn’t my intention to have him break up with anyone for me.”

Ginny sighed, sipping her tea calmly before speaking again, her tone grown suddenly gentle. “That’s really the only thing that makes sense to me, Hermione. That you left them for their own good, and not just because you were afraid.”

Hermione managed a plaintive smile. “You don’t hate me?”

“Believe me when I say I had more hate for you when I first saw you and Harry snogging.”

A smirk formed on Hermione’s lips. “You and Harry never tried again?”

Ginny blushed a bit. “He didn’t want to, I think. I think he was afraid he’d end up hurting me. He had so much baggage. And so he ended up hurting Cho. Ron rallied to get us together, for a while, but Harry wouldn’t bite. Ultimately, I’m glad it turned out this way. Dean and I are very happy. I’ll be moving into his flat next week.”

“Ron’ll have a fit.”

“He could bloody well throw a spectacular tantrum. He still treats Dean like Dean was the big, bad boyfriend taking advantage of the little sister.”

“Typical of Ron. He’s always very protective of the ones he considers his responsibility.”

Ginny smiled. “He’s sweet that way… listen, if he’s being mean to you, he’s just like that because he cares about Harry…”

Hermione waved Ginny’s explanation away nonchalantly, though she was acutely aware of the fact that Ron considered her apart from the three of them, now. “I know that. And we talked a bit about it. We decided we’d have a truce, for Harry’s sake.”

“Like old times.”

“Yes, well… it’s not exactly like before. Ron made me swear that when I leave to go back to Albania, I’d sit Harry down and tell him straight up what my plans are in the foreseeable future…”

Ginny frowned. “When you leave?”

“Yes. It’s just a matter of time, really.”

The young redhead shook her head disapprovingly. “So you’re not even going to consider sticking around for Harry?”

“That’s for me and Harry to talk about.”

They stared at one another at that, and after a while, Ginny nodded, quite satisfied.

Ginny then fell to talking about everyone else. The youngest Weasley filled Hermione in on all their Hogwarts friends, who was married to who; who had children, who would stay single forever, who were involved, who were Death Eaters, and who had passed on…

Hermione felt a mild melancholy over all of it. In spite of having existed and done things in the last five years, she felt like the world had passed her by. The simple truth of it was, while she had made herself believe that she belonged to a world apart from Harry and Ron and Ginny, she still felt that a part of her belonged to what was once Hogwarts, and Wizards and Witches.

It was a good three and half hours since she first sat with Ginny before the drawing room doors opened to reveal Harry smudged with soot, dirt and blood.

Both Ginny and Hermione stood from their seats in shock.

“Harry!” Hermione cried before Ginny could say a word. “Are you al—“

“Most of the blood’s not mine,” he said. “Just came to say hello, Gin. Remus said you’ve come to call.”

Ginny was about to say something when a ripple of pure magic drew Hermione’s attention. It was the kind of magic that made a patronus potently painful to her kind, but without the harmful effects. It was followed by the rustle of wings, and in a bright spray of red and gold, a familiar phoenix swooped into the room once and around before settling primly on corner coat rack.

Ginny’s beautiful brown eyes bulged at the sight.

“F-Fawkes?” gasped Hermione. “What in the—“

“Followed me from Hogwarts,” Harry explained. “I don’t know why, but come to think of it, it hardly matters. Fawkes is Fawkes. The only thing I can’t figure is what to feed him. Don’t even ask me what Hedwig thinks of it. She has refused to look at me since Fawkes arrived.”

Fawkes is Fawkes! thought Hermione indignantly. It was just so typical of Harry not to make a big deal out of it, even if it was. Phoenixes didn’t just show up on one’s doorstep asking to be adopted. Phoenixes didn’t think like most creatures. They had reasons bordering on the divine. Whatever Fawkes had in mind pledging himself to Harry, it wasn’t for birdseeds.

“Harry!” she squeaked.

He paid her little mind. “We’ve some nice cold sandwiches downstairs, Ginny. Did Remus offer you those?”

“Y-Yes… Harry, are you sure you’re alright? That shoulder looks like it needs tending.”

“It’s fine. I’ll see to it in a while—“

“Fine, is it?” hissed Hermione, getting a tad annoyed at being ignored and incensed that Harry was lying to them about his injury. The sharp smell of his blood was potent. His shoulder wound might not be fatal, but it was deep enough that it needed tending to immediately. Why the mediwizards at the auror department hadn’t seen to it was a mystery, or maybe it wasn’t, because knowing Harry, he had probably fended them all off with a wave of his wand. “I can smell the wound. It’s still bleeding.”

Before Harry could say something, Ginny interjected. “Um, I think I’ll go downstairs and have some of those sandwiches. Is Dean back yet? He said he’ll come by to fetch me.”

“Downstairs with Tonks,” said Harry.

Hermione seethed and Ginny was not immune to the tension.

Ginny said a hasty farewell, telling them that it was rather late and that she had to go. She promised to come back some time soon, and with that, she left in a hurry.

Hermione glared at Harry and Fawkes by turns. The phoenix had started preening its beautiful feathers and a shimmer of magic surrounded it briefly. She stifled her temper as she looked at Harry. “What are you doing home so early, anyway?”

He shrugged his good shoulder. “I told Shacklebolt there was something important that needed doing; for the Order. It’s true, isn’t it? We have to start training so I could get that last horcrux.”

“Not on that shoulder, you’re not,” she hissed.

He sighed. “It’s fine, really. I’ve had worse. See, even Fawkes doesn’t think it needs healing. He usually volunteers his tears when I need patching up. He’s just sitting there right now…”

She gave it a brief thought, wondering whether she should launch herself in a tirade about how careless he was with himself when he had no right to be thinking these things wouldn’t catch up on him. She decided that it would be a useless lecture, considering it was what she’d been telling him since they became friends in Hogwarts. She eyed the magical creature as it sat on its perch. It shuddered, poofing its feathers before letting them settle back against him.

Fawkes turned his head and eyed her with a strange kind of certainty, like he was waiting for her to do something. She glared at him, but there seemed to be no intimidating a phoenix. “Fawkes can do what he wants, and I won’t even begin to try to fathom his reasons, but I’ll decide whether you’re fit or not. Is your first aid kit still in the bathroom?”

He scowled, turning to leave. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

She followed after him. “Sure you can. What was it this time? Raid in an abandoned warehouse? Ambush in a small wizarding town?”

“Raid in the basement of a suspected Death Eater station. No vamps and wolves. Took a reducto to the back. Wasn’t able to temper it quite as well as I’d hoped.”

She frowned. “Took it to shield someone, I’d wager.”

Harry didn’t reply.

“Humph. Typical of you, Potter. Earn you another Ministry Plaque, will it?”

He remained silent, leading her to his room.

She stifled a scoff. It wasn’t something to scorn. What Harry did was true to his nature. He did it because he felt it his duty, not because he got commendation for it. If he didn’t have that kind of drive, he would have let the whole Wizarding world rot in hell under the shadow of Voldemort.

His room looked slightly different from the time she’d left it. Five years ago, his room looked barely lived in. He had spent a lot of his time in her room, and what possessions he brought to Grimmauld Place were still neatly stored in his trunk. Now the room looked like his own. It was neat and clean, with the bed made up and everything, but there were signs of him all over. The Quidditch equipment in one corner, the books and parchment on his desk, the cologne and men’s grooming kit on his dresser; there was even a record album of a wizarding punk-rock band laid out on top of two neatly arranged record cases.

She never thought Harry would be punk rock, but on hindsight, it seemed like the ideal choice for his personality. He certainly didn’t dress like he listened to opera, hip-hop, r&b or jazz.

Harry went straight for the armoire, opening it to reveal what looked like the personality that kicked vampire, werewolf and Dark Wizard ass. The armoire contained weapons and modern-wizard body armor. They were neatly arranged on hooks and mounts. There were crossbows and dubious looking potions; there were silver knuckles and wrist braces and holsters and all things that brought to mind the words “armed to the fang.”

He then pulled open a drawer at the bottom and produced a good sized box. He plopped it on his bed and snapped the case open. It contained all the first-aid materials and potions Madame Pomfrey would’ve assembled herself. “Do you even know how to apply first aid? Not like vamps need to know.”

She smiled slightly. “We have humans in the Coven. You know that. And sometimes, they get into trouble, too. Now are you going to let me look at that shoulder?”

“I can do it myself.”

“I won’t bite.” And she meant it both figuratively and literally.

He scoffed softly but pulled up his desk chair by the bed. He turned around to straddle it so that she could be sitting on the bed to attend to him. He tried to pull his shirt off but she could see the tensing on his shoulders from the effort. The wound was hurting him.

Gently, she helped him out of his shirt.

Whatever she had expected, it hadn’t been the deadly attractiveness of his lined body. Just as she first thought, he wasn’t quite the big and brawny type, bulging at the seams. He was lithe; his muscles were definitely there, pulled and fine tuned to make him look lovely rather than strong, but strong he was; she had seen it, and felt it, especially when they had sparred; especially when he lay atop her, kissing her like the world had been at his fingertips but had relinquished his possession of it for her. The low ride of his jeans showed the garter of his boxers, but perhaps because the jeans were now his and not handed down from lumpy elder cousins, the fit of the drooping waist and peeping boxers was pleasing, especially with his killer abs. The chained pendulum hanging from his neck and dipping down to his abdomen only served to make the image more appealing.

Merlin, but doesn’t he just look dead sexy?

Resisting the urge to slip her hand down his front, she sat behind him and assessed her subject in as clinical a manner as she could.

There were new scars here and there over the surface of his skin, but most interesting of all was the preening Hungarian Horntail drawn artfully on the back of his left shoulder. It reared its head and breathed fire.

She couldn’t help but laugh softly and touch it, gingerly avoiding the bleeding gash that curved around it. The wound glowed ever so slightly from the residual effects of the hex, but she’d seen enough blood and gore to be unbothered by it in the face of an amusing tattoo. Besides, she was a vampire; blood had its strange quality of beauty for her.

“Precious,” she said. “Hungarian Horntail?”

He half turned his head. “You were expecting a Hippogriff?”

She chuckled as the dragon breathed fire again.

“It shows off when there are women to see it,” he said.

Her smile withered a bit. The dragon, apparently, was no stranger to feminine spectators. “Oh, does it? Well, we couldn’t let the injury cramp its style, could we?” She peered into the first-aid kit and plucked out some cleaning agents. There were cotton pads and strips of linen. In spite of the sting of his words, she was very careful not to hurt him.

She could see the muscles around his wound tense just as the dragon’s wings fluttered agitatedly, but Harry didn’t flinch so much. Still, it didn’t mean he wasn’t hurting a lot. She plucked her wand from her boot and waved a numbing charm around the injury. Visibly, he relaxed and she continued her work more quickly.

“You’re quite good at this,” he said after a long silence.

“Haven’t you figured it out? I’m good at everything.”

He cocked a smile. “Can you sing?”

“Except for that. Couldn’t, to save my life. Sound like a wounded blast-ended skrewt, I do. Hold still.”

He seemed to find that greatly amusing. He started to laugh and wheedle her to sing something.

She blatantly ignored him as she finished cleaning the wound and was confident that most of the residual hex magic had been cleaned off by her ministrations. She pinched the wound close and secured it with old-fashioned muggle butterfly tape. She took a healing salve from the stock and found one of the heavier-duty potions in ample supply. Industrial, she called it. It was just like Madame Pomfrey to make it available. The stuff stung like fire and no numbing charm could temper it, but it worked wonders, unlike those painless ones that were only good for curing playtime cuts and scratches.

“This is going to hurt,” she warned. “So suck it in.”

He chuckled. “Great bedside manner, doc.”

She shot him a wry grimace, keeping in mind that his amusing little dragon tattoo had a penchant for showing off to women, probably just like its bearer. She slapped on a smear of the ointment rather indelicately.

He lost all manner of mirth, hissing and cursing under his breath while the dragon turned circles, snapping its maw at her. She resisted the urge to poke it.

The compound acted quickly. The bleeding stopped and the wound began to knit back together a bit. It would be sore underneath the skin, and still relatively raw, but having cleaned it properly, it was in no danger of getting terribly infected. She muttered a more potent numbing charm just before she began to wrap the wound with linens. The dragon was going to be out of commission for a bit, and it protested this indignity by scrambling halfway from behind the bandages and blowing out balls of fire at the strips of cloth. It made a roaring motion in her direction and she was unable to resist sticking her tongue at it, amusing herself with the idea that Harry had no idea this was going on behind him.

When she was done, she leaned back a bit and saw the contrast of her hands against his back; saw how pale and lifeless her skin looked compared to the pinkish white of his body. A deep sadness overcame her and she remembered that night she first realized that she had begun the steady loss of her humanity, and perhaps she knew the inevitability of having to give him up. It was the night she came home from hospital after her turning. They had just made love and he had asked her if she would be there when he woke. It still ached, the memory.

She looked up at the realization that they were sitting that way for a few moments now, neither of them saying anything. She could see some part of his face, and his eyes had a dazed quality to them, almost as if he was sad about something, too.

“There,” she said gently to break the silence. “All done.”

He blinked for a bit, as if snapping out of his own thoughts, before he nodded and gingerly left his seat. “Thank you.” He looked for his shirt.

She had tossed the bloodied and ruined shirt on the floor at her feet and she took it to toss it in a nearby clothes hamper. “I’ll get you a fresh one. Why don’t you go clean up a bit? You’re filthy.” She said this with a bit of a grin and he returned it.

He plucked a towel from a hook on the wall as he went straight to the connecting bathroom. She listened for running water before she went to the drawers to the side of the room to search through them.

The inside of his clothes drawer was as neat as the room was. She was pleased to note that he had gathered an ample collection of clothing and that many of the pieces looked like new. She found one of the more comfortable looking ones and couldn’t resist opening the nearby closet. She peered in and examined the articles of clothing.

His pants were all hung up the right way and she could see how most of them were cut. A lot of them were loose and casual fit, but she saw a few pieces that she imagined would look nice and snug around his hips and flattering to the rest of his legs. There weren’t a lot of them, but they weren’t grouped to one side as if he never used them. They were scattered throughout the rack, which told her he liked to look more put together more often than it seemed. He had a row of button up shirts and long sleeved blouses. The prints were simple and masculine if they weren’t plain and serviceable, and underneath the blouses was a low table, neatly stacked with folded jumpers and long sleeved shirts. There was no sign of shoes.

He must have them somewhere else, she thought, which was a damn shame. She wanted to see if he owned more than those mangy trainers of his.

The water stopped and she quickly closed the closet door. He emerged looking cleaner. Strands of his hair were wet and he ran his towel over it once before dropping the towel in the hamper.

Hermione tried not to stare at his nicely cut body so much; at least not so she would be too obvious. She would help him into his shirt and she could use those few seconds to stare all she wanted.

“Had a good long gander?” he asked.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “Erm… what?”

“At my closet.”

“Oh.” She was too relieved that he hadn’t been talking about getting caught staring at his pecs to come up with a wittier response. “I wasn’t looking into your closet.”

He smirked. “What do you think of it? Did I pass the test?”

“I saw your clothes drawers…”

He chuckled. “And?”

“Well, it’s nice and neat, and I approve of a lot of the clothes if not all of them. Umm, what test are you talking about?” She went to him, gingerly slipping the shirtsleeve through the limb of his injured side before holding out the other sleeve for his good arm.

He shrugged, slipping easily into the shirt as he spoke. “Whatever you women test us for when you look through blokes’ closets.”

“I said, I wasn’t—“ She took a nice long look at his body as she slipped the shirt over his head. She could see the gentle line of muscles rippling. Hmm. Not too much. Not too little. Just right. She recomposed herself. “I wasn’t looking into your chest—closet.”

She pulled the edges of his shirt down securely around him, smoothing down the fabric and hoping he hadn’t noticed her little slip-up. Besides distracting him from the myriad little details of what she had said, it was an excellent opportunity to feel him up. She was aware of how naughty she was being, but it was hard to resist faced with something so appealing.

Feels really nice…

She paused. Those hadn’t been her thoughts. Those were Harry’s, and he had projected his thoughts at her, yet again. She looked up and he was staring down at her with blatant adoration. She didn’t even realize he was holding her by the hips until he ran his hands slowly up and down her sides.

She didn’t know if he realized he was sending out his thoughts to her, or that if he even knew she could hear him. She hoped he only did it with her, and only because she was a highly receptive telepath in the first place. It wouldn’t do if he sent out his thoughts to just anybody. He would have to learn how to control it.

He leaned over, and she only had time to turn her lips away in slight panic. She felt his lips on the side of her neck, gentle and cherishing.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She tried not to squirm and show that it bothered her. His touch felt so wonderful, but she simply couldn’t let on that she felt that way. “You already said that.”

“Not quite this way.” His lips pressed again and she felt a slightly moist suction.

A shudder threatened to run down her back.

When, oh when did Harry become so good at this?

Resisting the urge to close her eyes and thereby give him the go signal to do with her as he pleased (which was promising to be a delightfully erotic experience), she stepped back and grabbed his hand, dragging him to the door.

She felt his silent protest, his hand trying to gently yank her back into his arms, but she pretended she hadn’t realized his intentions. “Your shoulder’s going to need some rest,” she said. It was a deliberate slant at forbidding all sorts of physical activity for the moment. “So we’re going to train your mind, Harry. Simple mental exercises to start. I’ve a thorough understanding of effective meditative techniques thanks to Adrian.”

She had mentioned the name deliberately hoping to kill the mood he was in with regard to her.

It seemed to work if the instant frown on his face was any indication.

She continued on this thread. “The Coven already gave me a good education on it, to start, but I’m fairly confident that Adrian’s tutoring was invaluable. He was a qualified Zen master, after all. I’ve only been practicing the more advanced techniques in the last few months, but judging by your mental control, I have a lot to teach you in that respect. I already know why your legilimens is so raw. Your thoughts are scattered. You have no focus…”

He was scowling by the time they got to the fifth floor gym and when she sat him down on the practice mats, she had to think of a way to wind him down from his indignation.

She summoned her Zen kit from the dungeons, all the while going in instructional detail about the finer points of meditation and focus.

Half an hour later, she had calmed Harry enough to get him to be more receptive to her instruction.

She had to admit, she was having a difficult time focusing, herself. She already knew she was dreadfully attracted to him, and he was completely comfortable about letting his attraction for her show, but if they were going to get anywhere, one of them had to insist on relinquishing all unnecessary thought.

Those lips are terribly kissable when they’re so bossy like that. I just want to run my tongue…

She lost her train of thought and got a bit derailed from her discussion. Harry’s thoughts were powerfully distracting. “Um, we should try—“

“You heard that, didn’t you?” he asked all of a sudden.

She blinked and realized there was no use denying it. “Did you want me to hear it?”

“Absolutely.”

She shot him a momentary glare before replying. “Good. So you do know how to project thought.”

“Only because you’re receptive to it. I don’t think that has ever happened with anybody else, not without a great bit of effort on my part, and even then, I only do it when I have to. My legilimens is too raw to try on just anybody. I don’t want to liquefy anyone’s mind.”

“You’re in no danger of liquefying my mind, at least. Part of that notoriously-hard-to-kill-vampires thing. I can help you control your legilimens in more ways than any human could. You’ll have to let me, though. Stop resisting. I’m here to help.”

He stared at her a moment. “How long have you known about your powers? Hearing thoughts, I mean?”

If this was what he needed, to be at ease with her, then she would oblige him answers. “I think I’ve always been receptive. Back then, when we—when I was human and we would make love, I could hear your thoughts when they were most unguarded. When I became a vampire, I became more receptive. My mental awareness was sensitive to all those who had telepathy, so Cicero and Yasmin could always access my thoughts. When we were in the forest at Ireland—you remember? That night Janus attacked us, Yasmin was already communicating with me, telling me to stall Janus until she could get there on time to rescue us. I knew then I could receive thoughts and actively shield them from anyone else. It was the first skill the Coven trained me to develop. I’m dead good at reading and catching images and memories, but I could only hear thoughts that are directed at me. I have a solid grasp of putting up mental blocks against intruders, except maybe for Yasmin. She has a way around my walls, which I couldn’t figure out. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. She could spot a liar ten paces away, anyway, with or without her mental powers.”

“So you can teach me legilimens,” said Harry, his tone ponderous.

She nodded. “I can. You’re in desperate need of an instructor, and I’m not bad at it. I’m at least a gentler teacher than Snape.”

Harry winced at the memories that accompanied the mention of the name.

“So are you willing to let me teach you, Harry?” she asked. “Frankly speaking, you have nothing to lose, and you can look into my mind. See my deepest, darkest secrets.”

She meant to make a joke of it, but she realized with growing horror that her words were just too true.

He seemed to realize this as well. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“It’s not, but the point of this exercise is to resist your efforts while you learn to break through mine systematically. I’ll make excellent practice.”

He tilted a sad smile. “What dark secrets do you have, anyway?”

She pondered this. “Honestly, I’m not sure, but I never stopped to consider them. I’m always too scared to find out how horrible they are. So if you see them and think them too awful for words, I don’t want to know what they are.”

“I don’t think you can have too horrible thoughts.”

“I didn’t think I could hurt anyone excessively for information, either, but lo and behold.”

His hand slid into hers and she knew he had something potentially upsetting to say. She noticed that this was his technique, that when he was going to say something that might put her off, he held her. Whether it was to secure her from walking out on him or whether it was to keep her from erecting her sturdy, emotional barriers, she wasn’t sure, but he made contact on purpose, and she hated to admit that his technique worked to a certain extent.

“Have you talked to your Shadow Kin, yet?” he asked. “About the trip to Hogwarts.”

She swallowed. She should’ve known this was coming. “Just Solomon. I haven’t had time to ask Lucien.”

“What did Solomon say?”

“It wasn’t him. He didn’t say anything to anybody, not even by accident.”

“And now you’re afraid of Lucien’s answers.”

“Yes. I mean—“ she retracted, flustered. “No. I’m not—he would never betray me. I’m sure of it. I know he won’t.”

His eyes were very kind as he stared at her. There was no judgment, and he wasn’t patronizing, either. “I’ve began an investigation on everyone in that train the night of the attack. Everyone. Passengers, aurors and train staff. Even if none of them had advanced knowledge of the trip, the aurors and the passengers were still told fifteen minutes ahead of time. In hindsight, maybe fifteen minutes is enough for someone who really wanted to lay siege on the train.”

A powerful wave of appreciation washed over her at Harry’s efforts.

“I still would’ve asked you about your Shadow Kin, you understand,” he said gently. “It’s imperative I cover all bases, but I want you to know that I just really need to find out what’s going on. I respect you, Hermione, and I respect the relationship you have with them. Don’t ever think that I’m not trying hard enough to make things fit into the reality of our situation.”

She clamped her lips shut at her instinctive response. She had been on the brink of telling him that she thought such conversations as these were supposed to be for when they agreed they would “talk about them,” but seeing the earnest look in his eyes, she found that she really was a fraud when it came to “cold, vicious Hermione.” Instead, she managed to turn her lips up into a wearied smile. “I’ve never doubted your intensity, Harry. If there’s one thing I could always count on with you, it’s your ability to put your entire soul into something once you got it into your head to do it. So no, I wouldn’t ever doubt you for a second.”

His eyebrow arched. “But?”

She shrugged and braced for the onslaught that would inevitably be caused by what she was going to say. “You know me, Harry… I don’t always think you know what’s good for you.”

It didn’t seem to upset him quite as badly as she thought it would. “I’m twenty two years old, you know, and I’ve actually managed to live without you in the last five years. Don’t you think it’s about time you realized that I do know what’s good for me? You may be immortal, but right now, you’ve only lived as long as I have, give or take a few months. I’ve seen about as much horrors as any man can take, and perhaps the experiences were worse for me, because unlike vampires, I’m not built to take these things in stride, but I’ve coped, and that’s saying something. So can you honestly say you know better than I do when it comes to knowing what’s good for myself?”

Hearing it so calmly stated from his lips, she did realize how high-handed she had sounded. Since she first became friends with Harry and Ron during the troll incident, she had gotten used to being the one with the best ideas, or the one pursuing the wisest course. She was their conscience and their voice of reason. She was the one who had all the answers. Sometimes, this all-knowing role translated into knowing how they felt, how their emotions worked for a given circumstance. Having Solomon and Lucien leaning on her like a couple of children who turned to her for answers probably didn’t help much in the humility department, either. It got to be a habit. It was something she was used to. She failed to realize that while that sort of thing worked for a couple of seventeen year old boys (and two needy vampires), it wouldn’t necessarily apply to a couple of twenty-two year old men who had been fighting a war, and has so far survived it, for five straight years.

“Old habits,” she said contritely, blushing. “I’ll stop doing that. I suppose I like to fancy myself needed. It has always been my drug of choice. When I realize people don’t need me, I get thrown in a pit of turmoil coming to terms with it. So you understand how devastating it was for me when I realized that I was becoming… harmful to you. It was the antithesis of being needed. It was my world turned to hell.”

He reached up, touching her hair. “I’ll always need you,” he said softly. “Always, and not because you’re useful to me, but because I love you. You need people you love, even if it’s just to be with them. Even if it’s just to sit around, saying nothing.”

She wasn’t quite capable of forming a proper response to that. He had already told her before what his feelings for her were, but she still wasn’t quite sure how she was going to handle it. In the past, she simply had to snog him senseless and hope he understood that he was entirely welcome to do more, but now she didn’t have that luxury. That’s what she thought, at least. Harry would obviously beg to differ. If there was any point to her being back in Grimmauld Place, risking more heartbreak, she should be useful and keep her desires in check, if she couldn’t do away with it completely.

“That’s—um… nice to know,” she rambled in a hurry. “You haven’t answered my question.”

His eyebrow arched, his lips on the brink of a grin. He seemed half-tolerant and half-amused at her little evasions.

It looked like she was slowly losing the ability to put him off, almost as if he was on to her, which was equal parts aggravating and exhilarating.

“What question?” he asked.

“The one about the legilimens. Will you let me help you or not?”

“Well, it’s hardly an offer I can refuse. Of course I’ll accept your help.”

“Good. We’ll concentrate on legilimens while your shoulder is healing, and when your healer tells me your shoulder is all better, we can alternate fight training with the legilimens.”

“What, do I have to bring a note from my healer?”

“Yes, actually. And no forgeries, Potter. I’d know. You’re talking to the witch who hexed the D.A. contract and everyone who signed it. You better believe Marietta hasn’t forgotten that.”

He grinned. “And it’s still one of the most brilliant schemes ever. Better than most of the things Fred and George have cooked up.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”

“Everywhere?”

“Well… maybe not everywhere. But it puts me in a good mood. Just so we’re clear, that note better be real!”

He smiled fondly. “Have I ever lied to you?”

“Erm… yes? To skive off homework, you have.”

“I mean about important things.”

She glared at him. “Now you just want to piss me off.”

He chuckled, perhaps realizing his mistake but not feeling the least bit sorry for it. “You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, which is why I know you’d lie about your shoulder feeling better so we can begin fight training. So I’m warning you. I’ll kick your arse if I catch you lying.”

“Will you tend to my hurts like you did a while ago?”

“I’ll let Lucien tend your hurts, and I promise you that he’s not half as gentle. Show him pain and he’ll get an erection. He gets off on things like that.”

Harry plugged his ears and began to sing tunelessly. “Lalala… I didn’t just hear her talk about some other bloke’s penis…”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, stop it, Harry. And here I thought you were more self-assured than that.”

“I am! I just don’t want to hear about other blokes’ bits. It’s not something I’m interested in. Most assuredly, in fact. We should change the subject right about… now.”

“Fine. I’m nothing if I’m not reasonable. Are you ready to start the meditation exercises again?”

“Yes.”

She handed him a set of Mala beads and relit a stick of incense. The thin line of white smoke rose and swirled lazily in the air.

He crossed and re-crossed his fingers over the beads. “How do you fly this thing, again?”

With utmost patience, she repeated hear earlier explanation, expanding a bit more since he seemed serious about it now. He became more receptive when he probably realized that the exercises weren’t as kooky as he likely thought.

Half an hour later, Harry was better focused, and little by little, she taught Harry how to sharpen and harness the abilities of his mind.

Under systematic tutelage, his progress was relatively swift. And gradually, she introduced more complex techniques. His main difficulty was maintaining focus and keeping the power gentle enough to go undetected. The moment his focus slipped, his magic would clatter about and he would be caught, blocked out and possibly even beaten back with mental hexes.

Admirable as his advancements were, Hermione realized that he was exerting too much effort than was good for him, and it wasn’t that he was flawed; it was quite possible that the there was something wrong with the technique, or perhaps even the approach. She would have to discover what could sharpen his focus without putting unnecessary strain on him. She needed to do an assessment.

“Try to get through my barriers,” she told him. “Do what you have to do to focus it. Never mind if you’re making a racket in my head. We’ll work on stealth later. Don’t be afraid to hurt me. You can’t.”

She felt him attempt to poke into her mind. His powers were indeed a force to be reckoned with, but legilimens was a tool meant for refinement. It was best when used with laser-like precision. Right now, Harry’s forceful use of his mind magic was like using a Death Cannon to zero in on an ant. She thrust her powers against his, their mental projections clashing explosively against each other. His magic rattled her brain, and for a split heartbeat, she believed she voided-out. It was like falling in and zooming out of a black hole.

Next thing she knew, Harry was cradling her against him and she was recovering from a blinding headache. The pain was ebbing fast, but Harry looked like he was going to have a coronary.

“Good God!” he cried. “Hermione, speak to me!”

She blinked to clear the haze and scowled, prying herself away from the grip of his arm. “For feck’s sake, Harry, calm down. I’m perfectly fine. Got winded there for a bit—“

“Winded! A bit!” he squeaked half-hysterically. “You’re bleeding from the eyes!”

She stared at him in mild surprise and brought her hands up to her cheek. It came away with blood. She winced. “Oh, dear. I must look a fright. Did my mascara run?”

“What!”

Okay, he’s not in the mood for wisecracks. “It was a joke, Harry. But Lord, you’re strung quite tight. I think you need a bit more Zen.”

His mouth hung open for a few seconds before it closed to a thin line. He looked furious, though she didn’t think he was furious at her. “We’re not doing this again. This was a bad idea.”

He began to get up.

“Oh for—“ she began, grabbing his arm and dragging him back down on the mat. “Harry, sit your arse back down—“

“I knew it!” he muttered. “I’m a menace! What if—what if I blew your entire head off—oh, GOD! I don’t even want to think about it! I could’ve killed—“

“Cease and desist all negative thoughts. Close your eyes, Harry,” she coaxed, gently kneading his shoulders. “And take deep, cleansing breaths.”

He did as he was told, breathing in and out.

“That’s it. Keep doing that.” She took out a handkerchief, wet it with a swift water spell and wiped the blood off her face.

When next he opened his eyes, the blood was gone and he seemed to calm even further as he stared at her.

She waited until she was sure they were both settled before she began to speak. “All of magic is tied to emotions, Harry. Even the worse curses draw on hate to work properly. But given that spells and hexes rely on specific basic emotions, there are always unique emotions that drive individual wizards. You have to identify what that unique emotion is when you’re casting legilimens.”

He sighed. “I just want to use it properly without getting anyone killed.”

She thought this over. “That reason’s a given. Search deeper. What other reason could you possibly have?”

He looked frustrated, but he paused to think. “I feel I need to succeed. I have to learn how to use legilimens because I think it would really help in the war, especially if I could look into Voldemort’s head and find out what his plans are. It’s imperative. It’s my responsibility to try everything I can to make it work.”

She nodded. “Good. Nice and specific. It also flags a possible source of your failure. You want it too much. You want to learn this quickly. You have to tell yourself that mastering the skill requires a gradual, careful process.”

“There’s no time for gradual!”

“There is every time for gradual, especially if you can explode heads with your magic. Maybe we should just hone that. Blow Voldemort’s brains out. That should end the war right quick.”

He laughed bitterly. “Tried that. No go. He’s got ironclad barriers. I may as well beat his walls with a wooden stick.”

“Iron rusts…” she said cryptically.

“Yes, well, not his…”

She smirked. “It can’t be completely closed off. A person has to be able to access his own mind, so there’s a door there. We just have to find that door and know how to open it. You won’t be able to find Voldemort’s door thrashing about like a troll. You have to sneak in there like a thief if you want to find anything out.”

He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with his palm then he leaned back on the heels of his hands, mostly on his good right side, and looked at her tiredly. “Merlin, you scared me,” he said in a subdued tone, like he was too weary to speak of it but had to talk about it anyway. “Like straight out of a muggle horror movie.”

“It would make a great Halloween prank.”

“That’s not funny, Granger. You know how I get whenever something happens to you…”

She did the kind thing and didn’t mock him for it. She leaned back, too, mirroring his posture. “I’m much stronger now, Harry. You don’t ever have to worry about me. You just concentrate on the important things.”

“You are the ‘important things’.”

“You have to get your priorities straight.”

He chuckled wearily, stretching out to lie back on the mat, his knees bent. He rubbed his face with his hands. “You’re impossible.”

She watched him for a moment. “Harry, why do you think Fawkes finally decided to come out of hiding, after all this time, and take up with you?”

“I don’t know. Why did you decide to come out of hiding, after all this time, and take up with me?”

She grinned. “Because Yasmin forced me to. Now, don’t change the subject. Answer my question about Fawkes.”

He sighed. “Maybe he thought I’d buy him the good birdseeds.”

“Harry…”

“Well, what do you think?”

She had to mull her answer over for a few seconds. “Many things. I’ve read about as much of phoenixes as I can get my hands on and the things related to them. One thing that’s consistent is that phoenixes choose their owners, never the other way around, and usually, the reasons behind their choice fall beyond human understanding. Naturally, that little tidbit never sat well with me. I looked back on history and myth, and it might surprise you to know that Fawkes has had an illustrious career in owner choosing. I have reason to believe that before you, Fawkes had three distinguished owners, the most recent one being Dumbledore, obviously. The one before him was Druidess Cliodna, a rather powerful witch who had the honor of being chosen by three phoenixes. She was a healer, and perhaps that appealed to the phoenixes’ sense of benevolence. At any rate, she was famous for bringing life where sickness and death had all but won. Fawkes’s first owner, or maybe just the oldest documented one, was none other than Godric Gryffindor.”

Harry raised his head in mild surprise. “Documented?”

“Well… maybe not documented, but there’s some written evidence to strongly suggest it. Interestingly enough, Fawkes incidentally bears Gryffindor House’s colors.”

“Huh. That is interesting. But this all means what, to me?”

“Seems to me that Fawkes is a kind of Kingmaker. Don’t you agree? Sure, he may not have literally made kings of his owners, but they somehow find themselves leading some great cause or another, usually tied to catalysts that significantly shaped the future. Gryffindor’s legacy wasn’t just Hogwarts, he also set in stone the very ideals that form wizarding society today: Magic for all. Magic as one. Druidess Cliodna delivered generations from death and sickness, perhaps letting live hundreds of wizards and witches who bore heroes and dark wizards and great minds. Albus Dumbledore saved the wizarding world from Grindelwald then formed the Order of the Phoenix to fight the growing threat of Voldemort. Now Fawkes has taken up with you.”

Harry sneered. “Presumably to beat my head with a stick regarding the Chosen One issue. I get it, already.”

“I don’t think you do… not all of it, at least. The Order has been without a leader for quite some time…”

He leaned up on his elbows and scowled. “It does have a leader. Five, in fact.”

“But even the five has to have one—“

“No, that’s not necessarily right. In fact, that’s a fallacy. There doesn’t have to be just one—“

“Fawkes seems to think otherwise.”

“Hermione, I think I might have liquefied your brains worse than I thought.”

“Look, Harry, it makes sense. Fawkes didn’t show up until now. Back then, you were too young; perhaps incapable of leading the Order by yourself. You needed guidance and development, which you got in the last five years. Now everyone’s clamoring for a piece of you: Voldemort, Yasmin and the Order, all of which want you alive, mind you. And don’t think I don’t know that the signatures for the contract came right after you signed it. I might have been asleep at the time, but I checked the contract’s magical signature. I could tell which signature came first and last and in what interval. They were waiting for you to sign it, because they believe you would know best—“

“Now, that’s just pure speculation on your part.”

“Maybe, but my reasoning is sound. You, out of all of them, know vampires best, so they needed your unequivocal go-signal to trust us. But even if it’s your vampire expertise that drove them to follow you this time, it still means that they’re already trusting you to lead them. It has to start somewhere, Harry, and from where I’m standing, it has already begun.”

He was staring at her, bug-eyed. “I can’t lead the Order!”

Hermione was growing the teensiest bit annoyed. “Of course you can! Most of the captains defer to you already, anyway. Do you think they only do it because they think you’re ‘kewl’? They do it because they trust you with their lives, Harry. And apparently, Arthur, Remus, Shacklebolt and McGonagall trust you, too. It’s no small thing to say: ‘Hey, I think I’ll let vamps fight on our side. Never mind that it’s their nature to suck the blood of the living.’ Essentially, that’s what they’re saying by signing that contract.”

Harry frowned. “Put on a skimpy cheerleading costume, jump around and say ‘Go, Leader!Harry!’, and maybe I’ll think you’re cute, but right now, I just think you’re blowing things way out of proportion. Lead the Order like Dumbledore? The idea!”

She gave a frustrated growl. “What is so horrible about the idea of you leading, anyway? You’re of sound mind and integrity, you have incredible magical capabilities and you’ve got an army of inspired followers behind you! I don’t know why you don’t think this all makes sense!”

“Humph. If I didn’t disagree with you so badly on this, I’d kiss you. Shame on you for flattering me.”

That was it. Hermione hated nothing more than someone who refused to use his God-given genius to effect worthy changes. She didn’t know yet what sort of worthy changes Harry could make, but she knew they were there. She rose to her feet. “You know what you can kiss? My arse, that’s what!” With that, she stalked out of the room.

She was halfway down the hall when Harry caught up with her. She realized that she could have very well used her vamp speed to get away, but she didn’t. Perhaps she had been hoping Harry would follow.

She looked up at him fiercely, arms crossed over her chest.

He stared down at her contritely. “I’m not laughing at you, you know. I just think you’re… look, you always thought I could lead, and I really appreciate that, but I think you’re thinking a bit too much of me—“

“Argh! If you’re just going to repeat what you said in the gym, then get away from me. I don’t want to see you right now.” She was already turning to go.

He held her gently by the arm. “What are you so annoyed about, anyway? So I don’t think I could lead the Order. Big deal. Why are you so teed off?”

Why, indeed? It was a question worth reexamining, and when she realized what her true answer was, she was so much more surprised at how much sense it made to her. “We never talked about the prophecy, did we, Harry?”

His eyebrow arched. “No… but what’s there to talk about? I kill him or he kills me. Simple, really.”

She shook her head. “I mean I never told you how I felt about it. My feelings about it had never seemed important. But maybe… maybe it was. When you told us about the prophecy, I was never more frightened in my life. That prophecy drilled the fact that yes, there was an evil Dark Lord and that yes, he was out to kill you. Suddenly, nothing was simple. Everything was fragile. I could lose you, therefore I could lose everything I lived for in one fell swoop. It wasn’t just a momentary realization, Harry. I fought it and denied it and refused to think that was the way things were. I closed my eyes to that reality for a full year, forcing myself to think everything was normal, that I was just a teenage girl who only had school and boys and myself to worry about. But in the end… in the end it only caused me to fail you, and Dumbledore died, and the fantasy around me just—I don’t know—folded up upon itself, I suppose, like some stage backdrop. The reality was still there. I hadn’t chased it away. I had to face the same fears: losing you and losing everything. But the fact remained, there was no running away from it, and the moment I accepted this, I swore I wouldn’t fail you again, and I went to Privet Drive to help you in every way I can. That certainly worked better than I’d hoped. But the main thing that gave me the strength to face my fears was you. You’re unstoppable when you put your mind to it, so I believed in you. I had to. I kept telling myself you were powerful enough; intelligent enough; capable enough, and the proof of it came from you, Harry. You know me. I’m a creature of thought; of logic. If I didn’t see it in you, then no amount of my belief can make it true. It had to exist, and I could see that it did. Which is why—which is why I get angry or panicked when you say you can’t, or you won’t or if by some twist of fate I… I wasn’t good for you anymore, because the only thing that could stand between you and imminent death is your faith in yourself. If you can’t believe in yourself, you can’t defeat Voldemort, and if you can’t defeat Voldemort, you’ll die, and I’ll lose you, and… and…”

She didn’t know when he started kissing her. All she knew was she had lost the ability to speak and the space between them had closed. He held her tightly in his arms, their lips and tongues pressing and brushing against each other in a languorous, tender cadence.

There was no escaping the fact that she did love him so deeply still, but she had been well aware of the fact that letting him love her would bring a whole new world of pain. Her heartache would affect no one; his heartache could devastate wizarding-kind.

But his touch right now was like heartsease, a calming draught to the turmoil of her emotions. Protected in his arms, she could almost hear the whispered assurances that everything was going to be alright; that things were not going to be as horrible as she thought; that love was more powerful than the bitterest reality.

It was nothing like the intense passion of their kissing in the Room of Requirement. There was desire, but it didn’t distract from the true message of the kiss.

She allowed herself this moment of escape, savoring the feel of him for however long it would last.

The moment passed in a gentle trickle, simmering until they finally separated, breathless.

The fantasy was over. The grim truth grew more palpable as the sound of his heartbeat slowed to a steady rhythm.

She felt compelled to speak.

He shook his head, brushing his finger on her bottom-lip with feather-like pressure. “We don’t have to say anything, do we?”

She stared up at him. The reasonable part of her brain screaming to disagree, demanding her to speak of the foolishness of giving in to their instincts (“We shouldn’t have done that.”), urging her to shatter the moment with hurtful, cold words (“We just got caught in the heat of the moment. Nothing to make a big deal about.”), or maybe even just to break the profundity of the moment with careless levity (“Ron’s going to kill me…”), but she said nothing.

We don’t have to say anything.

That was the beauty of it, after all. No words. Nothing to ruin it. Nothing to color it. Just the kiss. Just their own emotions.

Wordlessly, she nodded. She felt her cheeks flushing, but that was understandable. There were far too many things in the kiss to let it pass without the slightest blush, so she would let herself without having to explain. She had an inkling anyway, that whatever she said would make the situation worse, then again, she had to define “worse” first.

He smiled and she felt that “worse” was what would happen if she didn’t say something mean or off-putting. The romantic haze got sucked out of her and the pressing need to put things back in logical perspective clamored to burst out of her.

To hell with not saying something! I have plenty to say!

“Harry—“

“You’re about to say something that I probably don’t want to hear,” he said giddily. It was like he had gotten a shot of narcotics. Nothing was going to ruin his mood.

She scowled. “Well, can I say it, anyway?”

He made a gesture that somehow communicated, “Not like I could stop you.”

“You caught me completely off-guard and if I had my wits about me at all, I would not have let that happen,” she said loftily. “But it did, and it was one of those date-movie, squeal-with-your-girl-friends-as-you-tell-them-about-it kind of kiss.”

“You squeal?”

“Over my dead body, I do. But the point is, it was that kind of kiss. If you ever do that without my permission again—“

He laughed. “Permission?”

“Yes! Permission! I’ll clock you one! Do you understand, Harry? You can’t go around doing that to me!”

“Honest to God, it’s not like I planned it. You were just so… well, I had to. What you said needed a proper kiss. You should’ve told me about your issues with the prophecy before, you know. You told Ron about it. I remember it distinctly because I was upset you told him and not me.”

She felt heat rise in her cheeks again. “It was easier with Ron… you had enough problems with the prophecy being about you, and Ron sort of felt the same way I did.”

“He did?”

“Does. You don’t have to kiss him if you don’t want to, though.”

“So long as I can if I want to.”

“Well, of course. Totally your call.”

“Good to know! Can I kiss you again?”

She scowled. “I’m warning you, Harry!”

“Well, you said I could ask your permission!”

“No, I said—oh, forget it. Just stay away from me for a few hours. You’ve been in my personal space all night! Don’t think I haven’t noticed, Potter.”

“And here I was, thinking you didn’t. Ever the clever witch.”

She glared at him just before turning to leave.

“So—um—“ Harry called after her, “how many hours are we talking about here? Two? One? Half? Maybe a tenth of an hour?”

“A tenth of an hour is six minutes, Harry.”

“Semantics.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, not even bothering to look back at him. “I’ll let you know!” was all she said, and hurrying away, she went in search of Lucien.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One thing about meditation, Harry realized, was that it was terribly handy for relaxation. About an hour after trying to apply what Hermione had so far taught him, by himself, he was sprawled out on his bed, fast asleep.

He was perhaps more tired than he realized. After all, he hadn’t had a decent amount of sleep since before Hermione came back.

So it was a damn shame that right in the middle of a very, very pleasant dream, he was jolted out of sleep by the explosive opening of his bedroom door.

Harry sat up with practiced alertness, wand whipping out just as Hermione fell upon him, her eyes blazing with outrage and her fangs considerably elongated.

“Put your wand away,” she hissed as the holly’s tip pressed against her throat.

Harry drew back his wand with a gasp of relief. “D-Don’t do that! Incidentally, I’d ask you which wand you want me to put away—“

“This is no time for dirty jokes, Harry. It’s Lucien. He’s run away.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Hope that last bit made up for the boring stuff. Chapter 23 is well underway.

24. Chapter Twenty-Third: Betrayed

Author’s notes: Revelare. Updates to my LJ Vamp Verse entry has been made. Just teeny, tiny additions. If you’re OCD like me, you might consider reading the extra-info just because it’ll make you feel better. Lol.

This is the unbeta-ed version. ^_^

Chapter rating: R (kinda NC-17-ish, actually… but probably not in the way you’d particularly care about.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty-Third: Betrayed

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry apparated back to his room after flooing everyone and admitting them to Grimmauld Place. Taking a deep, calming breath, he threw open his armoire. Systematically, he slipped on the necessary holsters, potion packs and materials he would need. Without giving it much thought, he slipped on his sword. There was no telling if it would come in handy.

He and Hermione had decided that they would put off spreading the word about Lucien until they were sure he had left the perimeter of their reach. Harry knew he was risking much assuming that their small on-call group could find him, but Hermione begged to keep the search confined to his group for now.

“Less chance of miscommunication. Less chance that they’d try to kill him at first sight… you don’t want to lose people unnecessarily, Harry.”

He and the aurors only ever hunted down one vampire before, and while they had been successful in tracking it, catching it had been a murderous failure. They had lost three men to the hunt, and that vampire was nowhere near Coven caliber.

Harry shuddered at the thought of someone like Lucien, relatively old and competently trained, running scared, or worse, running guilty.

Properly armed with a coat to protect him from the cold, Harry rushed out of his room and bounded down the stairs to the living room.

Hermione stood amongst a solemn group. Remus, Tonks, Ron, Bill, Fleur, Charlie, George, Ginny, Dean, Seamus, Luna and Solomon. Sitting off to the side was Draco, watching it all with a bored expression.

Luna looked as spacey as ever, though she was steadily staring at Hermione, and Fleur was scowling, perhaps put off by the fact that there was someone else more interesting than her in the room.

Hermione turned at the sound of his heavy footfalls. “We’re ready, Harry.”

Harry nodded, approaching her. “Good. The sooner we could start the search, the better.”

“What exactly is he running away from?” asked Ron who had apparated all the way from Romania in a hurry, with Charlie.

Hermione shot Harry a pleading look. She didn’t want him to tell them; not yet, at least.

“I’ll explain later,” Harry said. “First, we get him back, so listen up…” He gave a brief but concise exposition of Lucien, telling them in no uncertain terms what Lucien was capable of.

“Humph,” said Draco from outside their circle. “Knew he was up to no good first time I laid eyes on him.”

Harry could see Hermione tensing at Draco’s words.

Waving his wand, Harry cast a detention charm on Draco’s anklet, preventing him from leaving Grimmauld Place by any magical and non-magical means. Draco’s other restrictions would apply as well except this time, Draco would not have his wand. It flew out of Draco’s sleeve and straight into Harry’s hand.

Draco complained, swearing viciously as Harry pocketed the wand.

“You will let me know immediately if he happens to come back to the house, understand?” Harry said.

“You can kiss my arse, Potter!” Draco hissed. “How dare you take my wand! I’ve done nothing in the last five years to deserve this kind of treatment and—“

Harry shot a pocket two-way mirror at Draco. Many of the Order members were issued two-way mirrors and it was understood that one must exercise extreme caution when using it. The mirror provided no magical means of security. It could easily be a tool of deception if one of it got into the wrong hands, and the best they could do was issue passwords to communicate from one mirror to another. Top-secret information was never communicated by mirror and there was a level of importance that one had to adhere to in order for a mirror-borne message to be acknowledged. Overall, the two-way mirrors were only used for fast-paced communication, like on missions and raids.

The mirror hit Draco square on the forehead. The fey man yelped as the mirror clattered to the floor, unbroken.

“If he shows up, use the mirror,” Harry said. Done with Draco, he turned back to the rest of the group. “Do you all have your mirrors with you?”

The humans nodded.

“Good. If you find him, don’t attempt to catch him. Use your mirrors. Call for back-up. Take no offensive action until Hermione and I arrive. Understood?” Harry paired everyone off and assigned the areas. He paired Solomon off with Charlie, knowing full well that Charlie wouldn’t have problems being paired with a vampire. As expected, Charlie nodded without the slightest hint of reservation. Remus and Tonks left first, followed by Charlie and Solomon, Bill and Fleur, Ron and George, and Dean and Seamus.

Luna tilted her gaze at Hermione. “I knew you weren’t dead.”

“McGonagall mentioned that,” said Hermione a tad impatiently. “Lucky guess?”

“Oh, no. The Crumple Horned Snorkacks—“

“Told you. Smart creatures, those,” Hermione finished for her.

Perhaps not wanting to risk Luna provoking Hermione’s ire, Ginny tugged Luna’s arm and said, “We have to go now.”

Luna didn’t insist on further conversation. Both women disapparated soon after, leaving Harry and Hermione for last.

“I don’t think Lucien betrayed us, Harry. He said he wouldn’t, anyway…” she said.

“Are you sure about that?”

Her brows knotted again, this time with pain. “It’s just a feeling. I can’t wrap my mind around it if he did!”

“Neither could I, but why is he running away? Why is he acting so guilty?”

“He said he didn’t. He wouldn’t out-rightly lie…”

“But why is he running away?” Harry insisted.

Hermione blinked back the misery threatening to set off her tears. “Because I doubted him and he felt it.”

“And why would you doubt him?”

“Because—because he’s hiding something. I know he is, but it doesn’t mean he’s hiding a betrayal. And—and even if he is… he said he was sorry.”

“Sorry? You don’t seriously think an apology is sufficient—“

“Yes! I mean—“ She looked miserable as she threw her hands up. “He said he was sorry, but I think it was about something else. I just—he looked scared and—“

“Hermione.” He held her by the shoulders, meeting her gaze intently. “Lucien’s running. Only he could tell us why.”

“We have to find him first,” Hermione told him.

“Agreed. Where do we begin?”

She gave it a quick thought and replied, “Tirgoviste.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Henry Dresler, without fail, looked pleased to see them. He welcomed them eagerly into his office as he moved behind his desk to sit on his chair.

If the situation weren’t so serious, Harry would’ve laughed and shook his head.

Hermione, understandably, was not in the mood. “Cut the bullcrap, Henry. Just tell me if Lucien contacted you or not. Whenever my boys do something naughty that they don’t want me to know about, they call you to clean their shite.”

Henry grinned, fangs and eyes turning intensely vampiric. Hermione was being aggressive and he wasn’t going to back down; he wasn’t ready to completely antagonize her, either, hence the smile. “Lucien and I… we haven’t been friends long, but it’s nice to know you think he trusts me.”

Hermione looked like she was ready to jump Henry’s throat.

Harry gripped her wrist to silence her. He’d played this game with Henry hundreds of times. There was no time like the present to start the tiresome ritual. “Just answer Hermione’s question.”

Henry shrugged. “Maybe I’m not at liberty to say anything. You know very well that I serve many masters.”

Hermione growled. “Henry…”

“Hush,” Harry said to her. “Dresler, we didn’t come here to wank you off. Either you give us answers or I’m going to have the Ministry of Magic revoke your legal license of business. When they do, I’m going to come down here every fecking night and raid your little establishment to round up every wizard and witch on that floor until they get it into their heads that it’s no longer fun to go to your bar—“

“Potter,” interrupted Henry through grit teeth, his smile becoming painfully strained. “You of all people know that I take my business seriously, and I never take your threats lightly because I know you’re not one for bluffing, you Gryffindor twat, so if I knew where Lucien went, I’d tell you. I swear to you, I would!”

Harry was not going to let Henry’s semantics fool him. “We’re not asking you to tell us where he is. We’re asking you if he contacted you.”

Henry’s smile finally disappeared, though he remained calm and composed as he said, “As a matter of fact, he did contact me. Called me from a payphone, I think. There was quite a bit of noise from his end.”

“Did he tell you where he was?”

“Of course not, Harry. Lucien’s no fool. He knows Hermione would know to come to me first, asking questions.”

“Which of your phones did he call?” Hermione asked.

Henry frowned. “What difference—“

“Just tell me!”

Henry’s jaw clenched but he replied. “My mobile.”

Hermione held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

“What—“

“Henry, give it to me now or I’ll slice off your limbs and cauterize the stumps just so you couldn’t grow them back sooner than you’d prefer.”

Scowling, Henry handed it over.

Hermione took it, flipped it open and fiddled with the buttons.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked.

“Calling a payphone,” she said, putting the mobile to her ear. “It’s registered in the mobile’s electronic call log.”

Henry looked displeased. “What, you expect Lucien to pick-up?”

“No, you blithering idiot. I expect some poor sod, who couldn’t stand to let a phone ring unanswered, to pick up!”

“Can’t you just call the phone company?”

“And get put on hold? Get told my call is important to them but they only have three customer service representatives to answer a bagillion bloody disgruntled customers?”

“Talk about disgruntled…” Harry said.

“Yes, well…” She pulled the phone back and dialed again. No one had picked up the first time. Seconds later, it seemed like someone finally did. “Hullo? Sir, can you tell me where this phone box is at? What’s in it for you? Well, today’s your lucky day. How about you wait for me there and I’ll give you the best shag you’ve ever—thank you, good sir, I’ll be right there.”

She flipped the phone closed. Harry was still trying to come to terms with the fact that she had promised to shag a complete stranger, even if he knew she didn’t mean it.

“He might still be in Brixton,” she said. “The phone box was along Blenheim Gardens, in front of the post office.”

Harry nodded before looking back at Henry. “We have to go, but don’t think we’re not coming back if we don’t find him.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “I’d be shock if you didn’t return with more grave threats.”

Hermione glared at him. “Depend upon it.” She pocketed Henry’s mobile.

“Oy!”

“I’ll owl this back to you when I’m done with it.”

Henry hissed and cursed, completely relinquishing his calm and unflappable persona. Anything but the mobile.

Harry and Hermione left the club to go to the nearest apparating point.

Once there, she grabbed the edge of his coat. He pretended he hadn’t noticed the contact and pulled her into the embrace of his arm. Her resistance was only minimal.

“Harry,” she began. “Do you still have it?”

Harry wasn’t able to resist the easy opportunity for repartee. “I should hope so.”

She frowned. “I mean—“

He chuckled. “I know what you mean. You’re asking me about the Finder.”

“Yes.”

“Of course I still have it, and I have it with me all the time, but I don’t think it could find vampire possessions…” He smiled rather sadly at that, knowing that vampirism had nothing to do with it.

“It could, too, find vampire possessions,” she said with more gentleness than he was wont to expect from her, considering the circumstances. “I just made sure you wouldn’t be able to use it finding my possessions.”

“You spelled my Finder while I was in a coma?”

“No. That would’ve been pointless. You could’ve just bought a new Finder. I warded my wand, and all the things I couldn’t bear to part with. Then I just… I just threw away my old things and bought new ones… I told you, the Finder’s brilliant, but it’s not a particularly infallible thingamajig.”

“Should’ve known better than to out-clever the cleverest witch I know.”

“Well, let’s just hope my cleverness finds Lucien before anyone else does.”

“We will. I promise.”

And with that, Harry apparated them to Brixton.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dean and Seamus met them at Brixton. Brixton was their designated area, and to Harry’s mind, four able-bodied people were better odds at tracking down a vampire, safely. It helped too that one of them was an alpha vamp.

They converged across the street from the post office. There were still a lot of people considering the hour.

The phone box, lit overhead by a dim lamp, had a stocky, unshaven, unappealing stranger loitering nearby. He looked like he hadn’t showered for days.

“Ugh. Thank God I don’t really have to shag him,” Hermione muttered. “I wouldn’t sleep with that bloke if he was the last man or earth; wouldn’t sleep with him even if the last battery operated vibrator died on me.”

This, of course, caused all heterosexual males present to gape just before they broke out in a sweat.

“Erm—“ Harry began, face flushed. He rifled through his pockets to get out the Finder. “We should start looking.”

Hermione nodded, taking the Finder from him but not yet activating it. “Follow me.”

They did without question. They were still a bit winded from her talk of vibrators.

Harry felt Seamus nudge him with an elbow.

“I take back what I said about Granger being frigid,” Seamus whispered.

Harry glared at him. “Easy, Seamus.”

“I’m just—“

“Shut it, you,” Dean said, butting into the conversation. “Don’t you get it, Seamus? Potter and Granger used to be together! Or maybe they still are. Ginny wasn’t clear… either way, you don’t go talking about Granger like that. That’s like you talking that way about Ginny, with me.”

“Didn’t Harry used to date Ginny, too?”

Harry reddened. “Now, let’s qualify that—“

Dean interrupted. “Seamus, you’re my best friend, but Merlin help me, I’m going to punch your face in if you don’t S-T-F-U.”

Hermione turned, hand to her hip, as she glared at them all ferociously. “It might benefit you to know that being a vampire, I could hear you loud and clear. And Seamus, I don’t appreciate the fact that you ever thought me frigid. I’m an intensely sexual person.”

Seamus promptly looked to Harry and was about to say something when Harry stared him into silence.

“And Dean?” Hermione continued. “Just so everything is clear, Harry and I used to be together. We aren’t anymore.”

Harry scowled. “We’re working on that!”

“Harry!”

Dean frowned. “Well, are you or aren’t you?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to keep walking. “There are a few places here in Brixton I can guess Lucien is at. If we get to the center of a certain perimeter, the Finder might be useful to us.”

Harry caught up with her. “How do you know where in Brixton he could be?”

“Talked about it a lot,” she muttered. “It’s where he used to get his drugs…”

He saw the flicker of hurt in her eyes at her own words and Harry realized just now how emotionally difficult this all was for her.

When she first burst into his room, she was furious, because Lucien had—it seemed—exploded a “light” bomb that distracted from his escape. Her anger wasn’t directed at Lucien, either, but at herself. She felt stupid for having reacted so slowly; she hadn’t expected Lucien to do such a thing; but it was the sort of surprise she should have been able to deflect, instead she had failed miserably, and had lost Lucien to boot. Harry then asked her what exactly she had said to set Lucien off, and Hermione replied, “I… I told him I was going to look into his mind.”

It did not bode well at all.

“Tell me the places. I’ll apparate us to the middle of it,” Harry told her.

She agreed to this plan and listed the places off. A few minutes later, Harry—grinning broadly—told her that her center point would be near the statue of Henry Tate. “In front of the library.”

“Of course,” Hermione muttered.

Giving instructions to Dean and Seamus, Harry apparated himself and Hermione to the designated place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione muttered the incantation to the Finder and it spun for a few seconds before settling on a direction. It pointed southwest of her.

There was a building directly in the arrow’s path, but it could be the building behind that, or the one beyond it. That was the thing about Finders.

“We start in that direction,” said Hermione, nodding towards it and setting off. Harry followed right beside her.

“Where are we going?” Dean asked, falling into step.

“That building over there, to start,” Hermione replied. “And let’s be considerate to the vampire, shall we? Step it up. I only have a few more hours until sunrise.”

“Hate to burst anyone’s bubble,” Seamus said. “But how do we know it’s that building and not the one behind it?”

“We go around it,” Harry replied.

“Okay, then. And if by some stroke of luck, it is that building, how do we know which floor he’s on?”

“More often than not, vamps only hang out in basements,” Hermione said.

“More often than not. So sometimes, they don’t?”

“Sometimes. What’s your point, Finnigan?” Hermione asked testily. If Seamus didn’t shut up soon, she was going to start being mean.

Perhaps seeing the impatience in her gaze, he hung back a bit. “Nothing. No point… just, erm, several floors to that building… twenty-something, I think…”

No one paid him much mind for saying that, mainly because they didn’t want to worry about it until they had to. It turned out that it wasn’t the high-rise that the Finder was pointing at, and it wasn’t the building behind it, either.

They did, however, happen on a nightclub spilling over with cyber-punkers sporting pink hair and five-inch platform boots. At least half of the crowd had glitter on their faces and men and women alike wore make-up, usually combined with elaborate body piercing.

The club, named Avatar, was the object of the Finder’s incantation, and considering Hermione’s estimate from the library, they had about reached the edge of the Finder’s perimeter.

“That it?” Harry asked her.

“Either he’s in there or his slave collar is.”

“Shite,” Seamus muttered. “Kinkier and kinkier.”

Harry frowned and Hermione shot him a glare. “I didn’t make him wear it, alright? That’s his thing.”

“Whatever you say, Mistress. Look, Harry and I could muscle our way in there with our auror badges. They look official enough for muggles to think they mean something, so—“

Hermione turned her nose up at Seamus. “I got it covered, thanks.”

She set off and she heard Harry sigh.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Dean grumbled, probably thinking that she couldn’t hear him.

Well, she couldn’t say Dean wasn’t perceptive. It was going to get ugly quite soon.

She walked past the lines and the angry cries from the queue assaulted them. The language was atrocious, and she could see Dean, from the corner of her eye, cringing. Harry and Seamus looked a bit more composed. She always believed aurors were made of tougher stuff.

A beer bottle came at them from the crowd and it would have smacked her right in the face if she hadn’t raised her hand to catch it. But then she hadn’t caught it. Harry had caught it first.

The cries died down and she looked at Harry in mild surprise.

He looked to the crowd and simply said, “Don’t do that again.” Calmly, he set the bottle on the ground and continued as if nothing happened. The complaints did not commence.

“Erm, good catch,” Hermione said.

“Yeah,” Seamus said. “Like a seeker.”

Hermione didn’t think seekers were ever that fast. Then again, this was Harry they were talking about, and she was slowly finding out that there were so many things about him that one just couldn’t explain.

They reached the front of the line where the bouncer, a very big man with a beard, a mullet and body odor, stood between Hermione and the entrance.

“Let us in,” she simply said.

“Get in line and maybe I’ll let you in,” said the bouncer.

“I have a friend inside. Let us in.”

“I don’t care if your mother’s on the dance floor getting gang banged. Get in line, y’ skirty bitch.”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched. She just didn’t have the patience for this, especially not when she had to find Lucien, and especially not when she got called a skirty bitch. She looked briefly at Harry who was probably just about to defend her honor when she decided she could very well defend herself. She turned back to the bouncer and went straight for his groin.

No such thing as a tough guy when one had a bloke’s balls in one’s vampirically-strong claws.

The bouncer gave a labored gasp, shock evident on his face at the initial pain. She twisted, and he gave a short scream, mouth hanging open in agony.

She could feel all three of her companions’ astonished stares behind her. They weren’t saying anything. They were probably beyond words.

“Listen to me, you rude, smelly, primate,” she hissed fiercely at his contorting face. “I need to get in there and find someone. The fact of the matter is, I could literally pick you up by your balls and toss you through the window, but I’m not going to, and why? Because it’s not worth it. Now I can keep doing this”—she wrenched none too gently and he gave a dry sob—“all night if you want and you can say goodbye to spawning your species, or you can let me, and my companions, into the club, thereby allowing you to keep your bollocks. Understand?”

He nodded, gasping and rasping. His eyes pleaded for mercy.

She let him go and he was about to stumble when she took a fist full of his shirt and held him up to her face.

“At any rate,” she whispered, showing him her vampiric eyes and fangs. His eyes widened, perhaps momentarily forgetting his pain. “If you didn’t, I could always make you understand.”

A sound trickled through the silence, like running drops of water. Hermione looked and saw that he was peeing his pants.

Disgusted, she let him go and shoved him to the ground with her boot.

He toppled over, hands between his legs as he curled over on the ground and soaked on his own bodily fluids.

The door was wide open, but no one was rushing through it. Everyone was staring at her.

She looked up at her companions. Their jaws were still hanging open as they stared at the incapacitated bouncer.

Willing herself not to roll her eyes, she motioned to grab Harry’s arm to drag him into the club.

Seamus and Dean stepped back and away from her in response.

She sneered at them. “I’m not going to grab either of you.”

Seamus swallowed. “Er… Harry, sure you like her grabbing you?”

That definitely broke Harry out of his stupor and he shot Seamus a glare. “Let’s go.” He moved towards the door without need of further prompting.

The front of the line shrank back as Hermione got near. They stumbled back on the ones behind them into a pile of frightened people. The tension broke and a great number in line scrambled away, changing their minds about wanting to go into Avatar.

“You sure know how to kill a party,” Dean said, casting the fleeing club-goers a sideward glance.

“I’ve killed worse things,” she replied just before they stepped through the threshold of blaring techno beats. The bass reverberated through them, carrying synthesized tunes and quickened melodies. Strobe lights struck the entire floor black and white in between flashes of bright color. Glow sticks danced with the frenzied movement of their bearers as the crowd responded to the disc jockey’s rallying.

The tables and sofa seats surrounding the dance floor were filled with bodies, many of them drinking and smoking. Some looked like they were consuming something else.

Hermione’s vampiric eyes spotted a few vamps here and there, though she noticed that the vamps weren’t quite showing what they were. This wasn’t a vamp club. At least not openly.

A boy, perhaps no older than Gabrielle, swayed in front of her. “Hey there—“

She barely spared him a glance. “No,” she said without pause, expression or the slightest bit of concern, after which she flipped the Finder back up to eye-level to emphasize the fact that she had no time for him.

The boy left, looking dejected.

Seamus shook his head. “Harsh.”

Without removing her eyes from the finder, she spoke. “That’s where we differ. I see it as kindness; swift and considerably less painful.”

“He’ll live. I did,” said Harry, tongue-in-cheek as he followed her.

She followed the Finder’s arrow, shoving through dancing bodies. The music blared louder. “I didn’t reject you, Harry.”

“What?” he yelled through the techno.

Dean nudged him, speaking into Harry’s ear. “She said she didn’t reject you!”

“Oh, right! She didn’t! She left me.”

“Well, mate, there is a difference,” Seamus said.

Another club-goer got in her way. This time, he didn’t bother with formalities. He just put his hand on her waist and started nudging himself on her. It looked like dancing. Rolling her eyes, she simply placed a careful hand on his chest and shoved him aside.

There was a “Whoa!” as he crashed through the nearby club goers. Nobody had bothered to catch him as they danced on, as if nothing was amiss.

“Unbelievable!” she hissed. “The boy had peach fuzz! Do I look like I’d fancy these teenagers? I mean I know I died at seventeen, but I know I project older than that. Arthur-fucking-Pendragon! You! Does your mother know you’re here?”

The unfortunate adolescent she had caught gawking at her out of the darkness scampered away.

“Blimey, Hermione! Give the poor sods a break! They just wanted to talk to the babe!” Seamus cried in appeal, ever the advocate of hitting on women.

“Babe? It baffles me that you even get laid, Finnigan. Anyway, they’re getting in the way. If I had any say in their being here, I’d tell them to go home and read a book.”

She could see all three of them rolling their eyes.

Checking the Finder, she saw that the pictures were standing still but the needle was turning. “Lucien’s below us. Come on! There should be a basement entrance somewhere around here.”

A few inquiries with the bartender confirmed the way and they were rushing down a short hallway and down a flight of stairs soon after, the sound of music fading behind them as they descended further. Hermione got to the landing first and what she saw provoked her temper.

Junkies.

There were junkies everywhere; muggles with their mascara running while they flopped about or hung off the couch. There were syringe needles, melting spoons, mirrors with powdered surfaces and rolled up pound notes, scattered Ecstasy, tiny packets of heroin, crack, absinthe and good, old-fashioned marijuana. There was so much money being snorted, shot-up, swallowed and smoked that Hermione wondered how the hell it was possible that there weren’t narcotics agents banging down the doors already.

“Where is he?” Harry asked. If he was bothered by the scene at all, he didn’t show it. Seamus and Dean were less discreet about their revulsion.

She scanned the room and couldn’t find Lucien anywhere. She raised the Finder. The arrow pointed and they raised their gaze in unison.

There was an alcove at the end of the room. It looked like the way to the bathrooms. She was almost sure he was in there.

“Did anyone happen to bring a holy wafer?” she asked.

Of course, Harry had a few.

Dean’s eyebrow arched. “I know you can throw holy water, but the wafer?”

Hermione smirked slightly. “They’re not like little ninja stars. Hosts are useful to trap vampires in a room.” She was quite sure Dean would know what ninjas were. He was half-muggle after all.

“Can I throw them like little ninja stars, anyway?” Dean asked.

“You’re going to have to put a considerable amount of wrist in it,” Harry said jokingly while he handed a few hosts to Dean. “Sticky it over the door.”

Hermione began to weave her way through the bodies and Harry followed her.

She reached the threshold of the men’s room and stopped.

Harry chuckled softly. “Surely your rule gods wouldn’t mind if you went into the boy’s loo just this once.”

She couldn’t find it in herself to take the joke in stride. She looked up at Harry and she must have looked miserable, because his eyes softened. “What if he did betray us, Harry?” she whispered. “What if… what if he’d been faking loving me all this time?”

“No one can fake something like that with you,” he said gently. “Anybody who does will fall in love with you anyway.”

His words did not soothe her. “And what if he does love me for real but somehow he did betray us. I’d have to—my society would expect me to kill him, Harry.”

“You don’t have to.”

“And what of the wizard that died on that train?”

She felt the gentle pressure of his grip on her arm.

“Do you think he did it?” he asked softly. “Do you think he betrayed us?”

“No.” She paused. “I don’t know. My heart tells me he didn’t, but my mind…” She closed her eyes, mimicking a sigh. Why was it that listening to one’s mind almost always resulted in the breaking of one’s heart?

“Then he didn’t betray us,” Harry said. “Come on, Hermione. You’d want to know the truth, anyway, whatever it is. Sooner is better than later.”

Opening her eyes, she nodded. “Should I kick the door in? It isn’t really locked…”

“Element of surprise always throws them.”

“Then kicking, it is.”

Composing herself, she stepped back before she kicked the men’s room door off its hinges.

She heard the scream as the door groaned off the jamb and crashed into the mop closet situated right across it.

There was an excessive amount of swearing while the screaming continued.

The pitch of the shriek was too high to belong to a man, but the profanity definitely spouted from a voice she knew well.

Hermione stalked right into the bathroom and Harry followed. She barely noticed Seamus and Dean scrambling to get the host in place.

Lucien was there, and he had his slave collar on. Blood was dripping from the girl’s wrist and she was kicking backwards on the floor to get away from them, pushing herself into the corner as her incessant screaming continued.

Lucien was up, a bit of the girl’s blood trickling from the corner of his lips.

“Lucien!” Hermione cried sternly. Her voice bounced off the bathroom walls, amplifying it. The bathroom had no windows big enough to fit an adult through and the only way out was through the door. She and Harry were standing in his way.

Lucien made a movement, like he was going to make a run for it anyway, but she caught him mid-run, slamming her shoulder against his and sending him crashing to the mirrors.

The mirror shattered on impact, causing shards to fly as the imprint of Lucien blossomed from its reflective center.

Harry cast the shields, protecting himself, Hermione and the screaming girl in the corner. Hermione could see the amber circles in her own eyes from what was left of the mirror. She was furious, and her fangs had elongated past her lips. She strode through Harry’s shields and grabbed Lucien by the neck, slamming him back against the wall once, then twice when he tried to get away from her again.

“Stop it!” Hermione hissed. “Just stop running!”

Lucien blinked, his hands clamped around her wrists. He looked like he was going to burst out in tears.

“I—I didn’t mean to lie,” Lucien gasped through the press of her fingers.

The screaming continued, and if everyone outside weren’t so drugged up, a bunch of people would be in that bathroom, asking what the hell was going on.

Hermione’s eyes turned to the hysterical girl in the corner.

The girl suddenly lost her voice. Harry had cast a silencio. The bathroom fell silent, and there was nothing but the sound of glass crunching underfoot and tiny pieces tinkling to the floor. The distant sound of bass thumped around them, rattling the heating vents ever so slightly.

“Um… you two alright in there?” Seamus cried from outside.

“Fine,” Harry replied. “Stand by.”

“I’m going to let you go,” Hermione said to Lucien slowly. “And don’t even think of trying to get out of that door. It’s barricaded with holy hosts. The two of us aren’t going anywhere.”

There was understanding in Lucien’s eyes.

She let him go and he crumpled to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest.

Hermione filled her lungs and let the sensations of air calm her. She stepped back a bit and collided slightly with Harry. He held her arm to steady her and found herself hoping he wouldn’t let go just yet.

After a moment, just watching Lucien, she spoke. “Are you high?”

“No!” cried Lucien, looking up at her in earnest. “I didn’t, alright! I… Jenny and I were just talking.”

“You were feeding off her.”

“Well… it got to that. I swear to you, Hermione, I haven’t snorted, shot-up, popped or rubbed anything on… I just—I just needed to be where… where I was better than everyone else. Been there, done that… you know?”

Hermione turned away to mull this over, glancing at Harry. He still had his wand out, and he was staring at Lucien intently; studying the vamp with auror-trained instincts.

She welcomed his objective evaluation of Lucien. They would need it because she was more than willing to acquit Lucien of everything about now. He looked so helpless and penitent, curled up beneath the sinks. He had lead nothing but a depraved life in the last one hundred fifty years; no one to care whether he was alive; no one to tell him that he was loved for who he was and not because he had, at one time, been filthy rich, or dead famous, or simply a riot to have around. She had taken him in when he was at his most useless; most repulsive. And that above everything else, seemed to humble him.

Kindness had changed him more than dungeons, and pain and misery. Love had made him better.

Now he had put all of it on the line. Why? What had been powerful enough to make him risk it?

Fear. It’s always fear.

She crouched down in front of him and held him by his shoulders. “Did someone threaten you, Lucien? Did someone tell you they’d kill you if you didn’t do as they said?”

He blinked in surprise. “Me? I’m not afraid to die, Hermione…”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

He laughed miserably, as if she should have known the answer to that. He looked up at Harry, as if to be wary of him, before reverting his gaze back to her. “Of being alone again, the way I used to be. Of losing you because you hated me. At least… if I ran away without you knowing why, you’d want to find me, and that’s something I could live with…”

It was difficult to harden her heart, even if she knew she had to. If she hadn’t known what Lucien was before—what he really was: alone and unloved but so capable of giving affection and so willing to offer companionship—she might have said he was full of bullcrap. But then she did know, only too well, and she couldn’t help but lose her heart to him. “You won’t lose me like that, Lucien. You won’t. But you have to tell me what made you run away. What was it you didn’t want me to see?”

“I swear, it was just harmless fun, the first time it happened…”

Hermione was instantly worried. Harmless fun… “What did you do, Lucien?”

He buried his head beneath his hands. “Yasmin…”

Her heart crashed. No. Please tell me she hasn’t been using you… please… She reached out and dug his face out of its burrow. “What did you do?”

He trembled slightly. “I mean, it’s not like she’s a Death Eater… at least she shouldn’t be. She’s your boss, for God’s sake!”

“What are you talking about?” she growled.

“I’ve been… I’ve been sleeping with her. I’ve been sleeping with Yasmin.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry wasn’t sure why he found that so shocking. After all, vampires were intensely sexual creatures, and for the most part, Yasmin was a woman made from the stuff of fantasies (if you liked that sort of thing). Lucien was no prude, either. In some twisted, demented way, it almost made sense that Yasmin and Lucien would be fucking each other on a regular basis. Harry was even willing to bet his wand arm that it had nothing to do with love for both of them, either.

But in retrospect, Harry realized that somewhere in this leather and lace scenario, there was something far more sinister going on. Lucien might have done it for sex, but Yasmin was definitely doing it for something infinitely more malicious. The woman was using Lucien, and that wasn’t so much shocking as it was horrifying, that Yasmin would take someone like Lucien, who probably had the potential to lose everything, and use him for whatever reason she deemed fit, just because Hermione trusted him and loved him.

“That bitch,” Harry hissed before he could stop himself.

Lucien looked up at him in astonishment.

Hermione grabbed Lucien’s chin to look at her again. “Have you been exchanging blood with her, Lucien?”

Lucien’s gaze lowered in shame. “Yes. Just a few times, really. I didn’t want to be her Blood Kin. Her blood… something in her blood—makes me feel like… like how the drugs used to make me feel.”

“How long have you been sleeping with her?” Hermione asked, her gaze intent.

“Since before she gave you this mission.”

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment. “Is that how you knew about the details of my mission? You saw it in her mind after the blood exchange?”

Lucien’s brows knotted. “I don’t know about all of it. She only let me see some. Reading minds isn’t my vamp power, so I have no control of it during blood exchanges—“

Hermione’s frown deepened. “I know that, Lucien. She only let you see what she wanted you to see. And so you saw her that night; before we left for Hogwarts?”

“I didn’t know it was her. Honestly, I didn’t! She did something. She—I was with someone and then suddenly it was her. God, I didn’t even know she was vampire!”

Harry looked at Hermione. She didn’t seem all that surprised about it. Perhaps Yasmin had done that sort of thing before. Perhaps Lucien’s muggle roots had made him particularly prone to Yasmin’s pheromones, or whatever magic she possessed.

Hermione lifted her gaze at Harry. “Hypnosis. It’s one of her quaint vampire powers. She’ll make you see what she wants you to see. She’d used that power many times to get information from her enemies and ‘friends’.”

Harry noted the scorn in which she had said the last word. He crouched down beside Lucien. “You exchanged blood with her that night, didn’t you?”

Ruefully, Lucien nodded. “I wasn’t going to, I swear! I knew I had secrets to keep, and I wasn’t going to risk anyone knowing about that trip to Hogwarts, but…”

“Why didn’t you tell us about it, after?”

“How was I supposed to know it would result in the train getting attacked?” Lucien cried. “It was Yasmin! Isn’t she supposed to be on Hermione’s side if not yours?”

Harry frowned. A man had died on that train; he couldn’t afford to be gentle. “It was relevant. You should have said something.”

“It’s not that simple!”

“It is.”

“It’s not! How old are you, Harry? Twenty-two? Even if you spent every moment of those twenty-two years miserable, you don’t know how it is to be without anyone for one hundred fifty years. You can’t possibly…”

If you’re not going to tell me, then I’m going to have to see it for myself…

Harry met Hermione’s eyes.

Will you let me look? He sent the thought out to her, and not a second later, she nodded.

“Don’t hold back,” she said, her eyes filling with sadness.

Lucien’s eyes widened. “What...?”

Harry closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, recalling what little of the focusing technique Hermione had taught him. If he wanted to know everything, he couldn’t be overly cautious the way he had been with the thugs who had set fire to Hermione’s house. Lucien was just going to have to bear with his barely-harnessed powers. He was going to see, and he was going to get to the bottom of this.

With a whoosh of parting mist, he was in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her blood washed over him in ripples of near blinding ecstasy, her hips moving to the rhythm of his climax as he held her tiny waist. All he could think about was how awesome it felt, and how unbelievably delicious her blood was, swimming in his body; swimming in his head.

He’d felt this high before. Those vamp drugs were nothing compared to this. This woman—this powerful woman… he couldn’t put a name to her; couldn’t tell who she was, but she was someone familiar, and lovely, and her blood was what he craved; what he wanted.

As it was, his prick was getting the best end of the deal. Sex with this enigmatic someone was amazing. She knew how to get him in the mood; knew how to coax his desire, and most of all, she knew how to get him off. She had to be gifted. She had to be a freaking genius.

On the other hand, he didn’t need to figure out how she did it; at the moment, he was too happy to care.

God, there’s nothing like great sex and good blood to make my day…

Lucien felt his head floating, as if it was unattached to his neck and he smiled drunkenly up at her; her svelte, high-cheek-boned delicacy; her slanted violet orbs and her ebony black hair, long and luscious. Her skin dark in an exotic sheen and her breasts round and full.

He loved beautiful things. He loved looking at them, and holding them, and making them his, even if it was just pretend, even for just a moment.

“Oh, Lucien…” she said in a breathy, Marilyn Monroe kind of way. “That was the best shag ever…”

“Well… I do try,” he slurred, grinning.

She smiled back. “And you never disappoint…” she said.

A shock of pheromones burst through his system and he gasped, unprepared for the onslaught. A predatory look gleamed in her eyes, and for a moment, he actually felt frightened.

The fear doubled, and like someone cracking open his skull, awareness got forced back into him. It was like snapping out of a daze, and suddenly, he was fully and utterly aware. Her eyes lost all humanity and she had fangs.

Oh, my God… OH, MY GOD!

Lucien couldn’t believe it. How was it possible? How could he not know? “Y-Yasmin?”

“Hello, lover. Missed me?”

“B-But how—“

“Practice, my dear. Practice. Now, hush. This will take but a moment.”

She was going to do something. Lucien saw it in her eyes, and he didn’t like it.

Instinct kicked in, his muscles bunching to push her off him, just before another shot of pheromones enveloped him in its comforting, wonderful haze. Her fangs sank into his neck and he was powerless to stop her. Her touch raised the hairs on his body, the sounds she made like silk to his senses. She began to thrust against him again, her movements sending him to instant readiness as if he hadn’t just been spent.

She pulled back, her teeth stained red with his blood. He blinked slowly, lost in her double-edged spell. She tossed her hair away from one shoulder and nudged her neck against his pliable lips.

“Drink some more,” she whispered.

He obeyed. He could do nothing, even as the voice inside him told him that Hermione wouldn’t be pleased, that he was letting her down somehow; that he was being weak and depraved and all those feelings he used to have when he had been addicted to all things hell.

He pulled his fangs back; cutting off the flow. Cutting off the connection, but the damage was done.

His thoughts and hers collided in an overwhelming flash of pleasure. The quick, revealing exchange left him boneless against the couch of their private room. Echoes of the club music wafted into his senses, but it was nothing to the shock of psychedelic thoughts and flashes Yasmin was feeding him.

It was groovy. There was just no other way to describe it, and whatever thoughts she was taking from him was lost to his awareness. He was just surfing the waves of five hundred year’s worth of jive.

And then it was over.

Slumped against the sofa, she stepped off him and stood naked on her heels, hand to her hip.

She was shaking her head, tutting disapprovingly. “Lucien, Lucien… always a puppy to your appetites…”

“Wh-What…”

“And here I thought you’d found someone you loved more than yourself! She, so kind to take you in, too, when NO ONE wanted you. Rather ungrateful of you, don’t you think? I always told Hermione, nothing good will come of you, but did she listen? Of course not.”

Slowly, her words began to make sense to him, and that voice in his head earlier; the one that was telling him to remember everything Hermione did for him, came back in full force. It was wailing, it was GUILTY, and it knew he had done something horribly wrong.

“Hermione…” he whispered thinly.

“Hermione,” Yasmin confirmed, sitting beside him and crossing her legs. “Her-my-own… Her-our-one-and-only, dear, sweet… loving Hermione. Don’t think I don’t know what drew you and Solomon to her. Don’t think I can’t see into your souls. The both of you are smarter than you look. You can feel her power, can’t you? You, just like any vampire, gravitates to that greatness like a Curious. Little. Moth. To. A. Flame.” She skipped her fingers upward over his chest at each word, ending it with an affectionate pinch of his nose. “Well, guess what? She could die by that greatness, and perhaps she would take everyone else down with her when that happens. I know, because it’s my job to know these things… at any rate, her importance shouldn’t come as a surprise. The Oracle only ever chooses the great ones, so if I were you, I would tread lightly, telling her anything about what happened tonight. You don’t know how your telling her would affect the fates. You’ve taken enough tonight, Lucien. Would you be so self-serving as to risk her future, as well?”

Lucien’s brows knotted as the words embedded itself deep into his heart; in his soul. Was Yasmin threatening him? Was Yasmin threatening Hermione? Or perhaps… she wasn’t threatening anyone at all. There was always that possibility that Yasmin was telling him the truth…

“Imagine the possibilities,” Yasmin continued, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “If you tell her about tonight, she’ll know that this wasn’t the first time we met this way, and she’d realize that everything she’s done, from the moment you woke up to greet her a good evening, up until the moment you parted, I saw the things she did through your eyes. And perhaps because of that sordid fact, she might have to look into your mind to find out just how much you’ve given away, and she would see… see the things we’ve done. See the things you’ve thought. See what I’ve seen every single time we FUCKED… it’s NOT pretty, Lucien. Not pretty at all. She has never peered into your soul like I have, and unlike Hermione, I can’t get repulsed by the blackness of it; by the darkness… how you used to find killing ORGASMIC.”

“Stop it…”

“Oh, she doesn’t know that about you, does she?”

“Twas the past… years ago… a hundred, in fact…”

“Do you think that dancing with the devil ends when the music stops, Lucien? The devil has your card and he could always call you back…”

“She won’t ever turn her back on me.”

Yasmin smirked, a glint in her eyes so malicious that she could’ve slain the pure of heart were she to gaze upon them with those eyes. “It wouldn’t be the first time she would turn her back on someone she loves…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry jerked his mind back forcefully, utterly revolted by what he’d just seen.

He stumbled back on the tiled and littered floor, cutting his hands on the shards of glass as he fell. He gasped. He felt like he’d been suffocating, and then he felt sick, like he wanted to vomit, and then take a nice, cleansing hot shower.

Hermione sat in place, shock evident on her face. She had her hand out, fingers curled around an imaginary something, and Harry realized, with pure horror, that she had seen it all, too, through him. Tears were running down her cheeks in rivulets.

She looked at Lucien. Blood was flowing out of his nose. His eyes were rolled back in his head. He didn’t look conscious slumped against the wall.

“Lucien?” Hermione whispered, edging towards him. “Lucien…” She gently took Lucien by the shoulders, cradling him in her arms as she closed her eyes, perhaps to still her tears.

After a few moments, Lucien began to stir, and Hermione looked up to meet Harry’s gaze.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

Harry swallowed the gorge rising in his throat and he nodded. “Are you?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I should be sick, but then I can’t be, so I just feel dirty all over… damn her, Harry… damn her.”

His head was still spinning, and right now, the implications of what he’d seen in Lucien’s mind was staggering.

He tried to think; tried to be rational. Pushing himself off the floor, he got to his feet. He made his way to the door.

Seamus and Dean looked at him expectantly.

“Dean, call off the search. Tell everyone we’ve got him.”

“Check.”

Seamus arched an eyebrow. “Are we detaining anyone at the ministry tonight?”

Harry looked at Hermione who knelt on the floor, speaking to Lucien in whispered tones while he let her hold him. Harry made a judgment call. “No. He’s going back to Grimmauld Place with us.”

Seamus leaned over to peek inside. His eyes widened. “Is that girl alright?”

Harry blinked. He had forgotten about the screaming girl.

She wasn’t screaming anymore. In fact, she sat reticent in the corner, watching everything with avid fascination while she held a hand around her wrist. She was pale, but she didn’t look like she was in danger of bleeding to death.

Harry sighed. “Seamus, can you—“

“Yeah. Want me to obliviate her?”

“That’d be wise. Do it.”

Seamus nodded, seeing to the girl. He walked by Hermione and Lucien as if they weren’t there, and Harry had to credit Seamus for taking many things in stride. The girl looked at ease with Seamus immediately, probably because of the Irishman’s good looks.

Dean was just finishing up with the communications, and when he was done, he pocketed his mirror. “What next?”

“We go back to Grimmauld Place. Dean, do you mind taking Hermione with you?”

Dean’s hesitation lasted a split heartbeat. “No. I’ll take her.”

“Thank you. I’ll take Lucien…” He let out a breath. “This has been a long day…”

“Knowing you, Potter, I bet it has.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lucien was reticent when they headed back to Grimmauld Place. He looked, to Harry, like a dog that had bit the hand that fed him and was regretting it horribly.

In a lot of ways, Harry couldn’t blame him for what happened, not after what he’d seen, but it was going to be difficult to sell the explanation to everybody else, even if Harry knew the Order would trust him if he simply told them Lucien was innocent of treachery. It was, however, regrettable that Lucien’s small mistake might have resulted in fatal consequences, and Harry wasn’t quite sure if Lucien should be made to answer for it.

Whether Harry should take it upon himself to demand some kind of reparation, Hermione had certainly been put between a rock and a hard place. Lucien had failed her in some way, and even if she was willing to forgive him unconditionally—something Harry could see her doing—her society would expect something else entirely, especially when it got around that Lucien had failed her because he let the vamp queen screw him over. It was especially tricky because the said vamp queen was Hermione’s boss and mentor. So Hermione had to punish Lucien, she had to punish Lucien’s defiler and yet his defiler was the one person nobody fucked with.

Harry couldn’t imagine what Hermione was going through.

Solomon anxiously helped them into the house after they apparated just outside of it.

Hermione did not meet Lucien’s pleading gaze as she told Solomon to take Lucien to the dungeons. Solomon complied, the gentlest of friends, it seemed, when the situation called for it.

Ron, upon meeting Harry’s eyes, looked to be brimming with questions, and Luna, looking frail and delicate beside Ron’s hulking form, had flashes of curiosity lurking behind her spacey gaze. She tugged at Ron’s sleeve, whispered something in his ear, which caused Ron to nod and look at Harry again, as if to say, “Heard that?”

Of course, Harry didn’t, but he had a pretty good idea just what Luna had told him. Not that Harry understood Luna better for being around her in the last five years, but Luna’s quirkiness wasn’t without its predictability. She had probably said something like, “Tell Harry that Wallachian Gorglepunks eat secrets and regurgitate them to turn them into spirit-eating Borkovian Chatterloons,” or something along those lines. It was Luna’s way of saying, “Better to come clean with what’s going on.”

Harry didn’t even want to meet Remus’s and Tonks’s gazes after that. He would deal with all of them in a while. Presently, he sent everybody home, telling them the situation was under control. Thankfully, none of those who left asked questions, and one by one, they disapparated. Harry then dealt with his housemates, plus Luna, since Ron was never inclined to tell the girl to “leave”. Luna was an excellent secret keeper, anyway. Harry promised them that he would tell them all about it, just not tonight. Tonight he was bone tired.

Draco had watched this all with barely veiled contempt. He simply snorted in disgust, threw the mirror back at Harry and retired to his room.

He’s not getting his wand back anytime soon, Harry remembered thinking.

It was an hour and a half yet until sunrise, and he had a nagging feeling Hermione wasn’t ready to rest just yet. So it was little surprise when Tonks, while he was just about to open a carton of pumpkin juice, came rushing into the kitchen demanding that he go after Hermione.

“She just stepped out of the house hopping mad, Harry. It’s barely two hours before sunrise,” Tonks said frantically, taking the pumpkin juice straight from his hands and putting it back in the chillbox. “That girl is going out to get in trouble! For god’s sake, go after her and make sure she comes back in one piece!”

Harry refrained from saying that Tonks should be more worried at whoever Hermione was after rather than the other way around, but he supposed Tonks would take it the wrong way.

And so Harry did go after Hermione.

His, “Can’t this wait ‘til tomorrow evening?” was met with Hermione hurriedly shoving him into the passenger seat of the Jaguar, after which she drove it like a maniac to Tirgoviste.

Harry swore that whoever gave Hermione a license to drive was drunk at the time.

And so cringing while Hermione recklessly avoided a crossing cat, Harry delicately reminded her of something he considered most relevant. “Hermione? Erm… in case you’ve forgotten, you’ve got a mortal on the death seat.”

Her only response was to yank at his seat belt to tighten it.

He thought it best to shut up so that she could put all her focus into driving, even if the blood flow to his legs had just been cut off temporarily.

When they reached Tirgoviste, she skidded to a halt right in front of the club (regardless of the “Loading and Unloading Only” sign, of course), cut the engine and stormed out of the Jag.

Harry had to scramble to follow her. However futile his “saving people thing” might be in this instance, he had promised Tonks due diligence, at least.

When they got through the bewildered bouncers, she went straight for Henry’s office and confronted him at his desk.

As per usual, Henry was pseudo-accommodating. He greeted them with his pearly-white smile, fangs and everything and, open-armed, said, “Hermione, dear. What can Henry do for you?” as if they hadn’t been there earlier, threatening his business. One had to credit Henry for his diplomacy.

“I know you know where Yasmin is,” Hermione said without indulging Henry’s niceties.

“And why do you think so?”

“We both have no time for this, Henry. The sun’s going to be up soon and we vamps like our beauty sleep. Tell me where she is.”

Henry rose from his seat, holding his hands up and tilting his head. “Hermione… you give me too much credit, I’m just—“

“Her fucking doll. Yes, I’ve heard that one before. I know you’re not just. She has much use for you, and you are indeed very useful. You know where she is. Tell me. I’d like to have a word with her.”

Henry’s eyebrow arched, though his smile remained. “I’ve never gotten called a Fucking Doll before—“

Harry sighed. “Look, Henry, it’s late. I’m tired. Could you please just tell Hermione what she needs to know without all these bullcrap acrobatics?”

Henry shrugged. “I can’t. I would if I could, but my hands are tied, you understand.”

“These vamp games,” Hermione growled, “are the bane of my existence—“

“Hey,” said Henry while checking his nails. “We all have to learn how to play, Hermione. I’m surprised you’re not better at this. You were, after all, taught by the best.”

Hermione’s eyes ringed and Harry decided he was going to step away just the tiniest bit…

“You’re absolutely right, Henry,” she said, shoulders tensing. “Yasmin did teach me, and you know what? Here’s what I learned.”

She grabbed Henry by the front of his crisp shirt and blazer and threw him through the glass of his office window. He went crashing to the dance floor.

What little people remained in the club for that evening ran screaming and Hermione, scrubbed to a rather thick lather, jumped after him, her booted feet landing on both sides of the astonished and winded Henry Dresler.

Harry knew Henry had it coming. The man provoked it, after all. He rushed down the stairs and immediately stood to guard Hermione’s back. Benjamine and Earl were already there with a bunch of other bouncers. They were staring at the scene like they couldn’t believe it, which was probably the case. Their boss was lovable and shrewd. He never got in trouble like this.

“This is between the two of them, Earl,” Harry had said, sticking his wand out and holding his hand up. “You don’t want to get between them!”

Nobody looked eager to cross Hermione, anyway. They were only too glad to have someone tell them to stay out of it.

She had Henry by the hair, speaking to him with amber-eyed outrage. “I know you communicate with her, Henry, so I’ll make this simple. You tell that bitch I didn’t appreciate what she did to Lucien, and that I don’t care if she fancies herself Queen of the Vampires. To me, she’s nothing but a cheap-arse, high-maintenance whore. Tell her that if she’s the least bit inclined to explain herself, she should know where to find me. Tell her that if she doesn’t show herself, she could very well rot in hell with whatever schemes for power she has cooked up. I was never hers. I never will be hers.”

Hermione had let Henry go, dropping him on the floor. The wounds he suffered being thrown through the glass were beginning to heal; shards embedded in his skin began to get pushed out of his body. “And, oh yes. Here’s your phone back.” She tossed the mobile back at him quite forcefully.

They left the club, and now they were back in Grimmauld Place, Hermione parking the Jaguar on the curb.

Considering how eventful his night was, he was pretty glad that so far, no one had gotten killed.

He was just about to get out of the car when Hermione leaned over the steering wheel and gave a miserable moan.

“God, Harry…”

He sighed, putting a hand on her shoulder. He was beyond shocked when she slipped into his embrace, burying her face in his chest.

“The things I have to do as alpha,” she said wearily. “I’m feeling the tiniest bit sympathetic of your objections to leading the Order. It’s just too much responsibility. And I haven’t even begun to wrap my mind around this situation. For once, I don’t want to think. I don’t want to puzzle out the implications, or the consequences, or anything. It’s a complete and utter mess.”

“Don’t think about it like that,” he said quietly. “You’ve always been rational and logical. And you always find answers in the most complex of situations. This time won’t be any different.”

They fell silent for a while before she spoke again.

“Yasmin… Merlin, has she been working for Voldemort all this time? Is that how she found out about the last horcrux? It makes sense in so many ways but makes so little sense in others. What the hell is going on?”

He decided he would go for the immediate answer and work their way through it. “She stole the information about our trip to Hogwarts from Lucien. She’s the mole.”

Hermione caught on and looked up at him. “I’ve considered that, of course, but it doesn’t make sense!”

“What doesn’t make sense?”

“Many things.” She bit her lip, looking quite unsure but still thinking. Always thinking. It was why she was Hermione. She thought, therefore, she was.

Harry tried a different tact. “Yasmin cares nothing about humans. Obviously, something in all this serves her purpose and she’s using everyone to get what she wants. Hell, she’s probably even using Voldemort.”

“I’d agree to that,” she said thoughtfully, “if I were irrational. First the obvious rebuttal: Why would she set up an agreement with us if she was with Voldemort?”

Harry filed away the fact that she had called them an “us”, like she was a member of the Order instead of the Coven. He would deal with that later. Right now, they had a more important discussion going on. “She set up the agreement so the lot of us humans could kill each other.”

“Sounds like her, at first blush, but the logic of it doesn’t hold up to tougher inspection. Why would she want to get rid of her food source? Why would she want to do away with her power hoard? Heck, why get rid of the humans, a great number of which are just dying to answer her beck and call?”

“So she doesn’t want all of the humans to die; just those who are threatening to usurp what power she has.”

“That would be Voldemort, then.”

“Like I said, maybe she’s playing Voldemort, too.”

“At the expense of other vampires?”

“Are you going to tell me Yasmin isn’t Machiavellian? It’s a means to an end.”

Hermione seemed to be filing this away in her mind. She wasn’t convinced. Not by a long-shot, but the arguments might later lead her to the answer, if it wasn’t the answer already.

She changed the direction of the discussion. “If Yasmin is the mole, and if she’s manipulating everyone to serve her interests, then why didn’t she tell Voldemort I was on the train? If she really wanted to help Voldemort, she would’ve reported that I was still alive, and Voldemort would’ve sent someone better to kidnap you, knowing I would be there to protect you.”

Harry pondered this. “If I’m interpreting Lucien’s memory correctly, I don’t think she wants you killed. She isn’t done using you for whatever purpose.”

“A rational assumption. But consider this: Voldemort seems to know things, but he obviously hasn’t been told enough to destroy us. He has a mole, but let’s consider the possibility that it isn’t Yasmin. Everyone that had been sent to get you always mentioned Bellatrix, and when Voldemort supposedly found out about the train, or even just about me being alive, he punished Bellatrix, which seems to imply that the spies go to her with their information and she conveys them to Voldemort. So here’s a new scenario, Harry… there’s a spy amongst us. Lucien got used. Yasmin wasn’t the one who ratted on us in the train and considering Yasmin’s total lack of sympathy for humans, she wouldn’t waste her time flushing out the mole on the Order’s side of the fence…”

Harry was getting a little lost. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we have a mole in our midst and she has a mole in her midst. The affairs of humans have only ever been her concern if it affects vampires. In this case, she has settled the matter of the human-vamp war by making the agreement. That concern has been packed, sealed and sent for shipping, but this mole that SHE has been talking about, has been stalking, really, is more vampire related than anything else. When she speaks of a mole, she’s not talking about a mole in the Order reporting to Voldemort. She doesn’t care about that. Even if that’s what the mole does anyway, the mole must be much more important than that for her to obsess. Because she has been obsessing about it, Harry. I can only wonder why.”

He paused to absorb the words and organize them in his head. “Alright then, so what if it’s like what you said: She’s trying to find this mole of hers that for some reason is important to her. Is it possible that she took the information from Lucien, told her suspects, of which I’m assuming she has more than one, some facts—in slight variation with one another—holding back some of the more relevant details like how you’re still alive, etcetera… and when one of the suspects passes on the information…”

“… she can tell by how Voldemort responds which of her suspects is the mole,” she finished. “Entirely possible!”

“Still speculation, though,” he finished rationally.

She nodded. “Of course. But I’ll certainly need all the ammunition I need for when she comes to me. It’s not going to be pretty, Harry. Even if we’re completely wrong about her; even if she didn’t rat on us… she used Lucien. She used my Shadow Kin. I can’t—I don’t know if I can still stand to take orders from her anymore…”

Harry stifled the catching of his breath. He understood Hermione’s plight, of course, and ordinarily, he would support her one hundred percent, but there was one teensy detail that she might be forgetting at the moment. “She still hasn’t told you where the last horcrux is.”

Hermione closed her eyes. “Yes. I’m constantly aware of that. I have to work some deal with her. See if I can make some kind of exchange without selling out.”

“In the meantime… do I still have to train with you?”

Her eyes flashed and she frowned. “Yes. You still must. Whatever Yasmin knows, she wants you trained for it. I’m not going to risk your life by letting you slack off.”

Harry laughed. “Alright, fine. Just checking…” His mirth dwindled as he stared at her troubled face. “Does all this mean you’re willing to leave the Coven?”

She stiffened. “I don’t know. Maybe. A handful have done that. The Coven isn’t the Mafioso. If you want to leave for your own personal reasons, Yasmin would have no objections to letting you go. Heck, she’d only be too glad to be rid of an uncommitted associate hiding under her protection. But… the thing is, the Coven isn’t just about Yasmin. I told you, we get rid of rogue vampires. It’s about as much as being on the side of ‘good’ as vampires are going to get… if I leave the service, what am I going to do? Research? I do that as a Coven associate, anyway, and… all books and no action doesn’t seem fulfilling anymore, is all. And Harry… I have an eternity ahead of me. I think I’d jump into a pit of fire if all I have ahead of me are endless days of… passive resistance.”

He smiled, a bit saddened by the fact that she had overlooked the obvious answer. He cupped her jaw, rubbing her cheek lightly. “You can take up with me. I’ll take care of you, and I promise you I’ll let you fight bad guys.”

She chuckled softly. “Real romantic, Harry.”

“Hey, a bloke does what he has to.”

She shook her head. “Seriously, Harry… have you ever, ever stopped to considered what it would be like being with me?”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I mean what it would be really like. No children… no sunsets… heck, no morning afters… don’t you find that—I don’t know—damning? For goodness’ sake… my heart breaks every time I remember I couldn’t have kids…”

“I know…”

She looked up, a flicker of realization in her gaze. She knew he understood the depth of what she said. She probably figured Solomon or Lucien had told him things. To his relief, she didn’t make a big deal of it.

“I just think you’re selling yourself short being with a vampire,” she said.

“You just don’t get it, Hermione. It’s not about me being with a vampire; it’s about me being with you. Just you. People go around tossing stuff about love and romance, and to them it’s about roses and champagne and picket fences…”

“Isn’t it?”

“No! You’re the logical one in this picture, Hermione. You going to tell me love is about what the movies and romance novels make them out to be?”

“But relationships are tough enough, Harry. Do we have to jump hoops and swallow fire to make it work?”

“Well, if that’s what it takes…”

“I refuse to accept that for you. It’s totally possible for you to be deliriously happy with the roses and champagne and picket fences. It was so easy with us before. You were happy and loving me held promise of nice things; those things. Now I’m just dark, angst, blood, whatever the heck you want to call it. You shouldn’t have to settle for me.”

He laughed incredulously. “Who’s settling? I was happy because it was you! I had a chance with Cho. She could’ve given me everything you want me to have, but I didn’t take it, because it doesn’t matter if I couldn’t feel for her more than I ever felt for you. If I—God, if I did something like marry her, that would be settling, and I would’ve been miserable…”

“You wouldn’t have…”

“I would have. And then she would’ve been miserable, and it would’ve been unfair to her, because she should’ve found a bloke who loved her the way I love you: unconditionally. So you see, I’ve tried it your way … it didn’t work…”

She fidgeted. She had that look on her face; one he’d ever rarely seen; the one that said, “Maybe I am wrong…”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise. Could it be? Could it be that he was finally getting through to her? It would seem to make sense. Creature of logic and observation that she was, it was only natural that she would finally consider his words after he had—in effect—“obliged” her so-called experiment: the one where he was placed in a controlled environment with a beautiful girlfriend who had every promise of giving him what a bloke “ought to” have in life. Wife. Kids. Picket fences.

He turned his gaze to the darkness outside. It wasn’t long before sunrise. He had to get her inside. “Come on. I have something to give you before you go to sleep.”

He stepped out of the car and she followed, too lost in thought to ask him any more questions. Taking her hand, he led her back into the house. He told her to go to the dungeons and that he’d be there in a while. He just had to get something in his room. She seemed puzzled, but she said she would be waiting for him in her chamber.

So he rushed to his bedroom, opened his armoire and stared at the one drawer inside it that he hadn’t opened in years. It was the smallest drawer there, barely noticeable, especially with the distracting weapons and anti-creature paraphernalia. There were only two items in that small drawer. Well… three, actually.

He opened it. There was a letter and a blue palm-sized velvet box. The letter was from Hermione; the one she gave him that night she left. The velvet box contained his birthday gift to her those years ago.

Taking a deep breath, he grabbed the box and headed to the dungeons.

She was seated on her dressing stool nervously, and she began to look frightened when she saw the box in his hand.

He chuckled. “I’m not going to ask you to marry me, Hermione.”

She blinked at that, tried to laugh and failed. “Um… good?”

He smirked, sitting on the edge of her dresser. He handed the box to her. “It was my birthday gift to you back then.” He knew he didn’t have to elaborate what birthday he was talking about.

She paused very briefly to look at him before opening the box. Inside it were two rings, both three-quarters of an inch thick in matted white and red gold. Each band was made of intricate knots that formed a kind of pleasing pattern.

“Celtic rings…” Hermione said.

He nodded. “Spelled Celtic rings. I’m not asking you to marry me now and I wasn’t going to ask you back then. We were only seventeen. Duh.”

She glanced at him with a small smirk.

“These are usually used as wedding bands, but I asked the jeweler to modify the spell. Instead of the ring telling one if the other was cheating…” He grinned at this when her smirk widened. “It tells us when the other’s… feelings have waned…”

Her eyebrow lifted and she looked amazed. “Seriously? It could do that?”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. The jeweler said it could. According to him, the knots on the ring unravel when that happens. When you think about it, it’s not complicated magic. Sometimes, we don’t have to be told that someone doesn’t love us anymore. We feel it, don’t we? Often, we see break-ups coming before they happen. It makes sense that magic would make it look… simpler…”

She nodded, looking at the rings.

One band was smaller than the other, of course. Hers would fit on her right ring finger, just as his would.

“How do you activate the spell?” she asked.

“I put your ring on you and you put my ring on me. Easy.”

“Just like in a wedding ceremony.”

He smirked. “You have to admit; for two kids in love, this would’ve been romantic and meaningful. Celtic knots hold meaning significant to the two of us.”

She nodded. “Interconnectedness of life. All things living for one another, whatever we may be, water or earth, wind or fire, human or vampire…”

“I thought you’d figure that out. It also means infinity, which supposedly tells you how long my feelings for you will last.” He chuckled at that. “Sappy, I know.”

She gave a noncommittal shrug, turning a little pink.

He continued. “You were also always going on about me not knowing what I’m getting myself into being in a relationship with you, and you thought you were a burden, and all those things… I thought a ring that told you just what I felt would at least settle the question, and if, somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, the feeling goes away… well, we’d know, and we’d be spared the awkward confession and just skip right to the post-break-up rituals, like returning the stuff we’ve lent each other… and you’d likely move out even if I didn’t want you to…”

“When you put it that way, it’s sounds a bit awful.”

“I thought that would appeal to your vampiric nature.”

“Oh, did you?”

“Yeah. Esoteric death, inevitable angst, emotional darkness, the end… that sort of thing.”

She stared at him, blinking, before she burst out in melodious laughter. He hadn’t heard her laugh like that in ages, and it was a really beautiful sound.

He smiled wanly. “Would you have liked the rings?”

Blushing, she nodded. “I would’ve…”

“Not anymore?”

“Harry—“

“Sorry. You don’t have to answer that now. I didn’t give them to you now to pressure you into anything. I’m just giving them to you.”

“Both of them?”

“I can’t wear mine if you don’t put it on me.”

“Well, in that case, I can’t wear mine either.”

“I’ll put it on you if you want…”

She fidgeted on her seat, staring at the rings at intervals. Finally, she looked up. “I’m not ready to give you yours.”

“But you want to wear your ring?”

“It’s pretty…” She fingered the box bashfully after she said it.

“I thought you’d like it.”

She held out the box for him and he took her ring, slipping it on her right ring finger. The ring glowed golden, once, then twice, like two heartbeats, and then it settled. She looked at her hand. “It feels warm.”

“Does it? Maybe it’s supposed to.”

“The knots are still there.”

“Of course they are. I still love you very much. You weren’t hoping the knots would unravel when I put the ring on you, were you?”

She shrugged, flushing slightly. “Might have settled matters…”

He laughed softly. “It might have. But the knots are still there. What are you going to do now?”

She gave him a contrite smile as she snapped the box shut, his ring in it. “Keep this ring. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll give it to you.”

He smirked. “After everything I did tonight, and after I give you a pretty ring, which, by the way, only opens my heart to you, thank you very much, all you’re going to give me is a lame-arse ‘maybe’?”

“Live with it, Potter. That’s all you’re going to get tonight.”

Which, of course, implied that she had been thinking of other things she could’ve given him.

She rose from her seat and ushered him out of her chamber.

He couldn’t help but laugh miserably. “No kiss? No grope? Don’t think I didn’t know you were doing just that while you were helping me into my shirt earlier.”

She frowned as she flushed a bright red, but she did not stop ushering him out. “Yes, well, a girl ought to be able to when she wants to. Thank you for the ring, Harry. It’s lovely. And thank you for helping me find Lucien. And thank you for going back with me to Tirgoviste. And thank you for—well, thank you.”

He turned to give her a snarky reply when she shut him up with her lips. He was a bit too surprised to respond properly, and it was a shame, too, considering it wasn’t really a “friendly” thank you kiss. He felt the slightest caress of her tongue, and the tender, but unhesitant press of her lips.

Another second and he would’ve grabbed her, but she turned, fled back into her chamber and extinguished all the torches, probably with her wand.

He stood in the darkness and saw that the only light there was came from the end of the long hallway, where the stairs to the dungeon exit began. It was her way of telling him where he should be headed.

Chuckling, he shook his head and did follow that brightly burning torch.

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A/N: Considering everything about this chapter has been filthy and disturbing, I thought ending it “kinda fluffy” would balance things out. It would torment you to know that I initially had a completely different ending that involves a Jaguar, two randy people and a car horn. Beep, beep!

Reference of the day: Laurell K. Hamilton’s “Bloody Bones” I don’t have the quote handy, but I’ll definitely fill it in when I get the chance.

25. Chapter Twenty-Fourth: Lull

Author’s note: Whole bunch of stuff…

Many, many thanks to tome_raider who was kind enough to fill in as beta while Lady Diamond’s been swamped with RL concerns. You must all thank her for getting these chapters out so quickly!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

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Chapter Twenty-Fourth: Lull

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Harry woke up to the sound of banging on his bedroom door.

His eyes ached from lack of sleep, and turning over on his bed, he shoved his glasses on so he could get a proper look at the time. It was almost nine in the morning, way too early for him to be awake. Way too early for anyone to be disturbing him, so it must be important.

Sighing, he padded to the door in his pajamas and t-shirt. When he opened it and found Draco, Harry grumbled a sleepy curse, turned, and shut the door at Draco’s face as he padded on back to bed.

“Potter! Get back here! Unlike some people, I have to go to work!”

There was something terribly fascinating about what Draco said that actually made Harry stop to consider it.

Malfoy, the spoiled rich prat, is lecturing me about work.

Harry laughed softly as he climbed back beneath his sheets. “Sod off, Malfoy. Unlike some people, I make it my business to save the wizarding world, so you can just kiss my arse.” He flopped back down and closed his eyes, utterly content by the fact that he was pissing Draco off.

“Dammit!” Draco growled. “You have my wand, and the detainment spell on my anklet’s still active. Potter, if I don’t go to work, I don’t get paid, and that’s just fucking fantastic, because it means I’m going to be very, very, annoying starting right about now.” He started singing “It’s A Small World” tunelessly and showed no signs of stopping.

Harry had to admit that Draco was just awful enough to drive anyone mad. He cast a silencio on the door which really did the trick, and Harry quite happily began to close his eyes when it occurred to him that Draco really did just want to get to his job and that Harry was actually keeping the bloke from an honest day’s work.

Damn my Gryffindor conscience. Damn!!!

Sighing, he got out of bed, wand in hand. He opened the door and Draco was seated beside it, still singing his arse off.

Draco stopped singing and rose to his feet, glaring at Harry. “Well?”

Harry waved his wand and removed the spell.

“And my wand?” Draco said, holding his hand out.

Harry levitated Draco’s wand from the coat hanging on his wall and darted it straight at Draco, like an arrow.

Draco had to duck to avoid it. It hit the wall behind Draco before clattering to the floor. “You’ve become a big, ugly bully, Potter.”

“Humph. And you’re still alive, thanks to me. Run along now.”

“Run along, indeed. Right good mood, you’re in. Granger still hasn’t put out?”

“Unlike you, Malfoy, I don’t go after easy women.”

“I never have to go after women, period. They go after me.”

“Right. Which is why you have to pay for sex. It’s nine o’ clock. You’re late for work.” He shut the door on Draco’s face a second time and climbed back into bed.

Draco didn’t bother him again.

Harry managed to find sleep again for another three hours, after which he woke, had a quick meal and spent a considerable amount of time practicing the meditative techniques Hermione had taught him. Loathe as he was to admit that Hermione’s fruity ex-boyfriend had benefited him somehow, he couldn’t help but think that the techniques did appear to be useful. He seemed to be gaining an understanding of manipulating his focus to suit his Legilimens, even if he couldn’t quite apply it the way he was supposed to. Not yet, at least. He knew he’d get it sooner or later. Sooner, likelier, than later. Even he couldn’t deny he had a weird knack for these things.

He had already decided that “Remedial Potions” with Snape didn’t count. Apart from Snape’s crappy teaching method, it was obvious that Snape had no intention of helping him learn Occlumency or Legilimens in the first place.

The traitor.

Harry pushed away thoughts of Snape and concentrated on Hermione who was so much more… well, promising to think about. The last few nights with her had been one revelation after another. Sometimes the revelations hurt him, sometimes the revelations were shocking, often she was confusing, but sometimes, he was just with her, was aware and thankful of her nearness, and those times made up for many things he’d had to contend with since her return.

Many things about her had changed, of that he was certain, but the foundation of her personality remained. She cared for people, and she defended them when they were being threatened. She could be rational and cold, but she was passionate, too, when the need arose. She was brilliant, and she read books, and she knew everything.

Well, almost everything. She can’t seem to figure out what to do about me.

Which, in a way, was something positive, because it meant she cared. She just had to figure out how much.

Of course, it was driving him up the wall that she was taking her time about it… and it has barely been a week.

Blowing a breath through his lips, he decided to put off thinking about it for the meantime. He readied for work and apparated to the Ministry phone box.

The box let off a stream of wizards and witches just before he got on it and he was quite put off when he saw Draco, yet again.

Draco gave only the slightest twitch to indicate that he had noticed Harry at all. Harry didn’t even give him a second glance, both acutely conscious about being seen “fraternizing” with each other. Neither of them wanted anyone thinking that they were in any way friends, even if quite a few people knew Draco was living in Harry’s house.

They passed each other like strangers.

Harry was too early to be at work, but Shaklebolt made no fuss about it. He did, however, call Harry to his office for something else.

“I received some of the files you requested for the investigation of the train attack,” said Shacklebolt, handing him a thick pile in a box.

Harry already felt weary with the workload, but he didn’t complain. He did, however, make a rather acute observation. “Some? You mean that’s not all of it?”

Shacklebolt nodded. “Not by a long shot, and it’s taking long because you requested secrecy. This is internal affairs stuff, Potter. It’s no easy thing to creep around without anyone noticing.”

“Understood, chief.”

“I’ll send the rest of the files straight to you the moment they get here.”

“I appreciate it.” Harry was just gathering his loot when he noticed that Shacklebolt didn’t look like he was through. “Something else…?”

“Tonks told me Dumbledore’s phoenix has taken up residence with you.”

Harry frowned. “And so?”

“Phoenixes don’t make random decisions, Potter.”

Harry sighed and turned to leave the office. “When I learn how to speak Phoenix, I’ll have a heart to heart with it. In the meantime, everyone’s questions have to wait.”

“I think it chose you.”

“Oh, Merlin, not you too. And I was counting on you to be the one to tell everyone that the bird’s bloomin’ daft!”

Shacklebolt remained grave. “Harry, there are many, many things I don’t subscribe to. I am, by nature, a realist and a cynic.”

“Some would claim the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Shacklebolt ignored his snark. “What I’m trying to say is I only usually believe in things that could be explained. Since you reemerged in the wizarding world from your Muggle life all those years ago, when you first went to Hogwarts, everyone has been harping about how special you were. As for me, I came to consider you as a celebrity with a penchant for surviving encounters with Dark Wizards. At best, I thought you were one lucky son-of-a-hex and at worse, a boy who had begun to believe what everyone was telling him, which, of course, would eventually lead to his horrible demise. But in the last five years, working with you and knowing what you’ve been through, I’ve seen you do things, heard you do things that made me realize that there is something very strange about you.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re spectacularly odd, and I’m actually beginning to believe all the shite about you, that you have some kind of extraordinary magic that can beat that creature. I don’t know if I’ve grown so tired in the last five years that I’m willing to grasp for straws, but the fact that I’ve realized you don’t always have to have things explained to make them exist is something to consider. There are a total of six people I respect in my life, Potter.”

“Six. Nice and specific.”

“Three of which are dead.”

“That’s horrible!”

“They’re my parents and Dumbledore. The other three are Remus, Arthur and Minerva, and for some reason, you inspire their trust. You inspired Dumbledore’s trust, too, during the last few weeks of his life. It’s uncanny, but it’s true. I figured that after all these years… what you do; what you are; what you seem to be… it’s not something you can fake. It’s true. You’re the real thing, Potter.”

“So this thing you’re talking about…”

“You’re going to beat Voldemort, and you’re going to do it leading the Order.”

There was a profound silence between them.

Harry was going to be sick. “Why are you telling me this? Because of that stupid bird?”

Shacklebolt arched an eyebrow. “It’s not just the phoenix, Potter. But yes, Fawkes did bring to my mind the inevitable reality. Consider this my way of saying I’m behind you. I am of the firm belief that this will only work if you have our full confidence. So there. I’ve said it. Lead me. Tell me what to do. I’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth, and so on and so forth and all that jazz. Now… get back to work.”

Not a moment too soon.

Harry was out of there, grumbling under his breath about mad bosses and crazy beasts who thought they knew everything.

He plopped down on his desk to sift through his material, taking out the list Shacklebolt had prepared containing the Aurors he had assigned to the train on that night and the train’s passenger roster. The list was long and the judging by a quick evaluation of the pile of folders in the box, Harry only had half the list to examine as of yet.

Sighing, he grabbed the first folder in the box. The folder was labeled “Ager, Gem: Train Engineer”

He had a long way to go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry left the Ministry a bit after sundown, which meant he hadn’t been at work that long. Seamus had offered to take half of the train files, of which Harry was only too glad to entrust to someone else. Whether it was Lucien who gave away their travel plans that night or not, Harry had filed an official request for investigation. A report would have to be filed to close it, and Shacklebolt was not going to accept hurried observation scribbled down on Auror department parchment.

Carrying his workload with him, Harry went to Shacklebolt’s office to inform his boss that he had some important things to attend to at home.

Before he could even start speaking, Shacklebolt had said, “Does it have anything to do with the Order?”

Harry paused briefly. “Well… yeah, but—“

“Go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry hesitated before turning to leave. “If there are any missions tonight—“

“I’ll call you if we need you, Potter.”

“Right.”

He procured a note from the Ministry healer stating that his shoulder was ready for rigorous activity. Of course, the fact that Harry had saved the healer’s life once before and that Harry called him on it didn’t taint the healer’s judgment in the least. He left for home with a legitimate doctor’s note in his pocket.

When Harry arrived at Grimmauld Place, he was surprised to find Lucien skulking in the shadows of the living room.

The house wasn’t really quiet. Harry could hear someone bustling about in the kitchen, probably Tonks or Remus or both, and Harry at least knew Draco was around.

“Where are Hermione and Solomon?” Harry asked him.

“Out.”

“Feeding?”

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t you with them?”

“Didn’t want to go. Anyway, I fed yesterday. I’m fine.”

“Are you sulking?” The question was a little inane. It wasn’t as if Lucien had been grounded for staying out too late on a school night, he wasn’t being punished in spite of the fact that he had far graver things to answer for, especially if Yasmin had caused the Hogwarts train to get attacked, but Harry had no other way to express what he thought Lucien was doing. Lucien loved being with Hermione. He loved spending time with Solomon. Why else would he stay away from their company?

“I’m not sulking,” Lucien said petulantly, stomping his foot in the dark.

Harry frowned. “Get over here where I could see you. Have you talked to Hermione since you woke up?”

Lucien padded into the light. “Yes.”

“What did she say to you?”

“She asked me if I was hungry.”

That seemed to settle that. “She doesn’t sound angry, so why are you sulking?”

“I’m not—shouldn’t she be angrier at me than that? She should be punishing me! Why isn’t she punishing me?”

“It… isn’t something you’re going to get off on, is it?”

“What? No! Get your mind out of the gutter!”

“Well, then, what do you want me to say? She isn’t punishing you. Maybe she will. Maybe she won’t. Five years ago I would’ve told you she would do no such thing, but things are different in your society. The only thing I can be sure of is that Hermione still cares for you very much.”

“Doesn’t mean she isn’t going to take my head off.”

Harry sighed. “Lucien, if you think I know what she’s going to do, I don’t, so you can just quit fishing for information. What I do know is that she’ll talk to you. She will. Just give her some time. She has a lot to deal with right now, one of which is Yasmin, because you couldn’t keep your prick in your trousers.”

“I said I was sorry about that!”

“Yes, well, we’re all sorry for something, aren’t we? You’re at the mercy of your alpha right now. Wait for her to come to you.” Harry left him to go to the kitchens.

He was surprised to find, instead of Remus and Tonks, Luna and Ron.

They were sharing a pumpkin pie. One piece for Luna and the rest for Ron.

“Well, hullo. You’re back early,” Harry said. “I thought you were going to head straight for France from Romania.”

Ron shrugged. “Gabrielle said she couldn’t see me this weekend. She has projects to finish.”

“Oh. So you come back here and floo Luna to have some pie with you. Interesting.”

A flash of irritation sparked Luna’s eyes. It was a rare thing to have Luna’s gaze so lucid.

Ron gave him an odd look. “Actually… she flooed me, but your guess was close.”

Luna eyed Harry sternly before reverting her spacey gaze back to Ron. “So I’ll see you and George tomorrow at the Leaky Cauldron?”

“Yeah, sure, Luna.”

She stood, taking a bit more of the pumpkin pie before leaving the rest of it to Ron. “I must go. I have an early day tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you out,” Harry said, following after her. He led her to the door of the house. “Listen, Luna… Ron’s a bit dense sometimes…”

“Harry Potter, what are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Just… ignore me.”

“Yes. I think I will. You could be so barmy, sometimes.”

It wasn’t everyday he got called crazy by Luna Lovegood. Hermione would have loved to be around for it.

“Er…” Harry shoved his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Get that all the time.”

“Goodbye, Harry. Don’t let the vampires bite… well, maybe you can let one of them get their fangs on you.”

Harry had no doubt that Luna knew what she was talking about.

She left and Harry sighed as he watched her go. He went back to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich as he and Ron talked about inane things.

It was halfway through Harry’s tomato, lettuce and cheese that Ron wasn’t able to hold back any longer. “For feck’s sake, Harry! Are you going to tell me what the hell last night was all about or not?”

Harry twisted the cap off a butterbeer and attempted to shoot the cap in the wastebasket. The cap bounced off the rim. There was a time when he would have kept many things from Ron, not because he believed that Ron couldn’t keep a secret, but because there were things he didn’t think Ron could take. But in the last five years, he had learned exactly the extent to which Ron had been his best friend, how when it came down to it, the two of them would take an avada kedavra for each other without a second thought. That and the fact that they were the only two people who would actually stay up late, groggy with sleep loss, just so the other wouldn’t have to spend the night sleeping on some street curb pissed out of their senses. A bloke just didn’t keep secrets from a best friend who would do that, especially not a secret that concerned their (once) common other best friend.

Harry could very well say that the best friend dynamic had changed considerably over the last five years when it came to him, Ron and Hermione. While Harry knew that he and Ron still looked at Hermione and remembered so affectionately that she was so deeply a part of them, now they had to redefine things with her, even if what was left of that bond from long ago was still struggling to right itself.

It still meant that Harry would tell Ron what happened last night, though. Hermione wouldn’t object to letting Ron know. Hermione, in her own way, seemed to think that when it came to the order of things, it was still Harry, and then Ron, first.

“I could, but you’ll have to promise me to reserve all judgment until we have all the facts,” Harry said by way of introduction.

“Yes, yes. Whatever. Get on with the telling already!” said Ron, as per his usual response to such things.

Harry told him. It took a while, but by the time Harry was done, Ron didn’t look the least bit pleased.

“Lucien should’ve kept his dick in his trousers,” Ron muttered, piercing his fork into the remains of the pumpkin pie.

Harry nodded. “’S what I told him.”

Draco waltzed in, heading straight for the pantry to haul out some bread, Italian salami, and brie. He plopped the food on the table, got some utensils and sat himself down, never minding that Ron and Harry were there.

Ron saw the food and honed in. “Say, Malfoy, what you got there?”

Draco gave him the finger without looking at him.

Ron rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Harry. “So how’s Hermione taking it?”

Harry shrugged. “A bit shaken. Angry as hell last night at Yasmin. Took it out on Henry.”

“I don’t envy him that. Even human, you never wanted to get on Hermione’s bad side.”

Draco snorted. “Mudbloods.”

“Oy, I’ll not have talk of that in my house,” Harry told him sternly. “Especially not about Hermione.”

Draco shook his head in disbelief as he slathered cheese on his bread. “Apart from the obvious hotness factor, I don’t know what you find so endearing about her, Potter.”

Harry gave him a wry smirk. “That’s because she never bothered to waste her affection on you, Malfoy.”

Hermione appeared at the archway, soundless in her vampiric grace with Solomon behind her. Harry was just about to greet her when Draco jabbed his cheese-smeared butter-knife in the air for emphasis, completely oblivious to Hermione’s presence.

“I’m telling you, Potter. Run and hide. I can see it in her eyes. She might have been sweet and tender and oh-so-innocent before, but I know it when I see an evil, manipulative and psychotic B-I-T-C-H…”

Harry wasn’t looking at Draco anymore, and Ron had grown terribly interested in his food again.

Draco likely noticed this, because he paused and sniffed. “She’s right behind me, isn’t she?”

Hermione arched an eyebrow calmly, planting a hand to her hip and drumming her fingers.

Harry drank his butterbeer. Draco seemed to be contemplating his bread and cheese.

“Well, I never,” she said with deadly calm.

Draco turned on his seat, face flushed. “You know it’s a compliment coming from me, right?”

“Nice try, Ferret Breath, but no go. You’re my ‘bitch’ now.” She whipped out her wand and smirked.

“Incoming!” Harry cried as he ducked for cover. Ron dove beneath the table just when a flock of cawing ravens shot out of Hermione’s wand and swarmed Draco.

Draco shrieked, shooting up from his chair as he waved and flailed to get the ravens away from him. He took out his wand, tried futilely to hex the ravens, and finally resorted to swinging it around like a stick to ward them off. He was out of that room in seconds, screaming for Tonks who, at the moment, wasn’t responding to his cries.

“Wicked spellwork, Hermione!” Solomon gushed. “Where’d you pick that up?”

“Made the spell myself,” she said haughtily. “They used to be canaries but I suppose that would seem silly coming from an evil, manipulative, and psychotic B-I-T-C-H like me. I seem to be getting called that a lot, lately. Where’s the love?”

When Harry figured it was safe to come out, he stuck his head out. “Erm… hullo.”

“There he is!” Solomon cried.

She shot Solomon a wry smirk.

“Back so soon?” Harry continued.

“Sooner than Draco would like,” Hermione replied.

Ron reappeared, clutching his plate of pumpkin pie still and, amazingly, eating from it with his fork. He was, after all, singular in his pursuit of food. “You’re still as mental as ever. I don’t know if even Malfoy deserved that.”

Solomon gave him a look of mild surprise.

“Ron was the first person I ever used the spell on,” Hermione explained. “He was the second, too.”

“Oh!”

Harry finally stood, straightening his shirt and pants. He couldn’t help but look at her hand. The ring was still there and it made him smile to himself.

“Shacklebolt let you off work early again?” Hermione said.

“I told him I had things to do for the Order. No lie, especially not after what he told me in his office…”

“Which is?”

“I’ll tell you later. We ought to start training now, don’t you think?” He handed her his healer’s note.

Hermione paused for a moment to read the note before arching her eyebrow at him suspiciously.

He gave a beatific smile. “It’s real. No forgery involved. Check it with charms. Heck, you can even check my wand.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’ll be in the gym. Give me a few minutes.”

“Alright.”

“Nice ring,” Ron told her all of a sudden.

She hesitated ever so slightly. “Thanks. It was a gift from someone quite special.” With that, she left with Solomon for the dungeons.

Ron glared at Harry, who was grinning like a fool. “I knew it. I remember the ring now. I went with you to buy it five years ago! And if I remember correctly, they came in a pair.”

Harry sighed, turning to leave. “As Malfoy likes to say: The Weasley intellect never ceases to amaze me.”

“You let her wear hers and she won’t let you wear yours! You’re a big, fat loser!”

“I am not big and fat.”

“Huh. You called that right.”

Harry frowned. “Believe it or not, I actually think she and I can work things out. You just haven’t been around in the last couple of days to notice it. What you’ve been doing is putting in overtime in Romania so you can get nookie in France.”

“Oy!”

“Hey, you started it!”

“Fine, but the fact remains, I don’t like that you’re putting yourself out there while she’s still being all cold and unreasonable.”

“Well… she hasn’t exactly been cold, cold.”

Ron groaned. “Let me guess, you’ve slept together.”

“We haven’t, but if we had, what’s wrong with it?”

“Hey, far be it I’d rag a bloke for getting a good shag. There’s nothing better in the world than having it with the woman you want. But you know very well what’s wrong with it when it concerns you and Hermione.”

“It’d be wrong if her feelings were still in limbo, but what if we’d slept together because—well, we were ready in that way?”

“Well then that way better be the way she wants to go, too. Look, Harry, you know I’d be the Harry-Hermione one-man cheering squad if this ‘ship of yours sails smoothly, but if you’re sailing at half-mast and you have to row the boat by yourself the rest of the way—“

“What’s with all the nautical terms?”

“Gabrielle’s fault. She calls it a ‘ship instead of a relationship and I’m rather liking the whole metaphor… anyway, don’t change the subject.”

“Yes, yes… go on.”

“You see what I’m telling you? Hermione has to be in this as much as you are, or else you’ll end up—“

“Without a paddle?”

Ron shot him a wry sneer. “Hurt. You’ll end up really hurt, Harry. And I just know that you’ll try to get yourself so drunk, for however long it’s going to take you to get over it, that I might as well capitalize on your misery. I’ll open a new pub for you: The Jilted Fool. Least the galleons you’d waste buying your alcohol will go to my bank account.”

“And you don’t have to run all over London to try and find me. You’ll know exactly where I am.”

“It’s not funny, Potter.”

Harry had to agree, in spite of himself. “Well, of course I know it isn’t funny. Listen, Ron, you always said I had good instincts.”

“I meant that ‘as a kick-arse Auror and fighter of evil’ you’ve got good instincts. We still don’t know if ‘as a blithering idiot in love with our gorgeous best friend’ has good instincts.”

“Those instincts are perfectly fine.”

“I’m not talking about the mating instinct, fool.”

Harry laughed. “No, no, that’s not what I meant, either. Well, not entirely, at least… anyway”—at this interval, Ron was glaring so very fiercely—“there have been moments when she actually seemed like she and I could be somewhere we’d both like to be.”

“Is there a name for this place?”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”

“And if in the end you find out this place doesn’t exist?”

“It exists.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

“Ron!”

“It’s a reasonable question! Well, at least as far as metaphorical places go.”

“Like metaphorical boats?”

“Er, yeah. Harry, if you think you’re working things out, then hell, just keep doing what you’re doing, then. But you better make sure that this metaphorical girlfriend of yours comprehends what kind of metaphorical effect she has on you. I’m getting tired of hauling your metaphorical arse from seedy pubs… understand what I’m saying?”

“Metaphorically speaking?”

“At least.”

“That if I don’t find this Land of Promise soon, I’d drown in my sea of misery alone?”

“Twenty points for Gryffindor.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione found it just a bit harder to concentrate with Ron’s presence bearing down on her from his side of the meditative group. She had decided to include him, hoping that a little adjustment in the mental vibes would give Harry some kind of epiphany on how better to control his mind magic. It was a bit of trial and error at this point, but she was enthused by the fact that Harry was doing the meditation on his own when he had the time, and his admitting that he felt that it was helping had her going full-S.P.E.W.

Ron, however, was making it hard for her to focus. And perhaps Lucien, who was training with Solomon at the practice mats, was messing with her focus, too. She had resolved not to think about what Lucien did, with any great detail, until she got to talk to Yasmin. It would be useless to consider the matter properly when she didn’t have all the facts. She would make a decision on how best to deal with Lucien when she knew everything there was to know. In the meantime, she treated Lucien as normal as he would let her. So far, he was very tense with her, and she wasn’t without feeling a bit uncomfortable herself. It was just worse because of his sulking, but she couldn’t blame him entirely for that either, because she hadn’t exactly been her normal self with him. It was difficult to pretend and be all affectionate with him when they had this thing hanging over their heads.

Hermione…

His mind’s voice slipped into her consciousness and she opened her eyes to find Harry staring at her inquisitively.

Ron still had his eyes closed, and his fingers were twirling the Mala beads in a most un-meditative fashion.

She flushed with embarrassment. Some instructor she was turning out to be.

“Hey Ron,” said Harry. “Mind giving us a minute?”

Ron opened his eyes, shifted his gaze between them and sighed. “Fine. I think I’ll chat up Lucien and Solomon.” He left them to go to the practice mats.

“Is Ron’s presence helping?” she asked. Best to try and salvage the situation with productive discussion.

Harry shrugged. “He hasn’t made it worse for me, but I don’t think he’s done anything to affect my focus positively, either. Your vibes have been tumultuous, though.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’m useless today. Why don’t you try this by yourself for the meantime and I’ll just be over there to warm up. I can at least help you with physical training today—“

He held her hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Her immediate response was no, but seeing the concern in his gaze, it was difficult not to relent. “I suppose I’m not everyone’s favorite person right now. I’m all weird with Lucien, Ron hates me and just the thought that I’ve teed Yasmin off by bullying her boy toy puts me on edge. Even Solomon thinks he should be treating me with kid gloves right now. ‘Can I do anything for you right now, Hermione?’ ‘Is it too bright in the dungeon, luv? Should I extinguish some of the torches?’ ‘Draco bothering you again?’ ‘Everything alright with you and Harry?’”

His eyebrow lifted in mild surprise. “He asks about us?”

She flushed even more but didn’t deny it. “Yes. All of it is driving me spare, but I’ll get over it. It’s just today. So I’ll just be over there—“

“Stop. Relax.”

She frowned. “Harry…”

He smiled, taking her other hand so he was holding both in his. “Why don’t we try something, then. A Legilimens exercise, if you will. You just have to fight me off, which should be manageable for you considering you’re all strung and wound up. It’ll be good for you.”

She inhaled and blew the air through her lips. Why not? There were worse things she could do with her time. Might as well try to help Harry, whatever it was he wanted to do. “Fine. Nothing to lose.”

“Good. Now just do what you usually do when you don’t want me to get through your barriers.”

She closed her eyes and the walls were up in an instant. Agitated as she was, it was easy to close herself off. It was, after all, as natural a defense for her as raising her arms when someone made for her throat. It was instinctive, and then it became a formidable defense when backed by conscious will.

Harry’s ‘noisy’ mental powers lumbered towards her initially, but she was pleased to note that he managed to level off the clamor and actually calm down the onslaught. She still knew he was there, but she could tell he was gaining better control. It was, of course, uncanny that he had gotten the hang of it so soon. Then again, he had merely lacked proper instruction then, and he never, until now, had the opportunity to try his powers without fear of killing his practice partner.

Harry’s magic came nearer, testing her walls here and there, pressing every so slightly in some parts then trying brute force in others. The brute force would’ve done it, of course, but it seemed that Harry wasn’t going for that, now. He was trying something else.

And then she felt it. A pleasant ripple through her mind. It was soothing, and Hermione couldn’t be entirely sure if it was Harry who was doing it, or whether he was doing it deliberately. But then she gave something of a mental shudder which seemed to please him immensely, so he did it again, and she realized that this second time was even more pleasant than the last, as if he had learned something in the process. It got better, the touch becoming tantalizing like the feel of cold silk on a warm day, or like soft, downy fur rubbing against the small of one’s back. It was almost as if it was hitting the point of…

Sexual…

As soon as the thought formed, she became boneless and nonresistant. Her walls slid off and Harry’s mental magic swam into her senses, like pliable fingers working the knots off her tensions. His magic seeped into the tender crevices of her mind that needed easing and relief, pulsing warmth and yearning where it touched.

It was as if he had retransformed his Legilimens from the sturdy, destructive battering ram that it was to a flood. Still powerful, but somehow he could control this one, like he was coaxing the magic to go one way or another, instead of just full-speed ahead.

The magic flowed from her mind down to her spine, and her entire body began to respond to the sensations. She sighed, a soft moan escaping her lips, and the only thing she wanted more right now was his physical touch.

Suddenly, he pulled back, a whisper of melancholy at its wake, and when she opened his eyes, he was smiling, but sadly.

She understood in an instant that while it had been wonderful for her, it wasn’t exactly the way he wanted to please her.

Still, it was only polite to praise him for it. “Harry…” she breathed, blinking languorously. “That was… about as Tantric as I’ve ever gotten.”

That seemed to brighten something. “Really?”

“Really… goodness, did you just learn that, or—“

He was smiling bashfully now, the way he did when he knew he’d done something brilliant but was too modest to make a big deal about it. “Well, I’ve always sort of… I do it sometimes to ease the headaches Voldemort causes me. I’ve never tried to do it for anyone else, of course… might—you know…”

“Kill them?”

“Yeah… but after all these years I know a thing or two about regulating it in myself. I figured I could try it on you since you’ve more or less given me a good start on focusing the mental magic on particular paths. It’s not as if I had to use stealth or anything. I was more of… persuading you… anyway, I guess it worked…”

She nodded enthusiastically and he grinned.

It was perhaps about that time, seeing him smiling, eyes shining, that she was struck with a new thought. “I have to think. Keep practicing, Harry, and in a little while, we’ll do your physical training.”

“Well, that worked rather differently than I expected. I was hoping to relax you.”

“No chance. I’ll be over there.” She pointed to the punching bag. “Check up with me in thirty minutes.”

“Can I hang out with those guys?” Harry jerked his thumb in the direction of Ron and her Shadow Kin. Presently, Ron was being pinned to the ground by Solomon and Ron was tapping the mat like crazy in submission.

“Sure. Do some warm-ups.” She rose and went to the punching bag while Harry headed to the boys.

She watched them stealthily from her corner of the room, starting her onslaught on the bag while making acute observations.

Lucien was with them, but he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t saying much, either. He only spoke when he was spoken to and much of the light in his eyes, the one of pure happiness he had cultivated in the last five years, had waned to a dull, unenthusiastic gleam.

Harry, Solomon and Ron were more animated. Harry and Solomon seemed to be exchanging takedown techniques while using Ron to demonstrate. The huge, broad-shouldered Weasley was a natural choice. Ron had always been quite strong, but the last five years had turned him into some kind of physical force to be reckoned with. No human with half his senses would dare to tee Ron off.

He looks like he could knock a dragon out with one swing. Probably how he’s so good at his job.

Harry did an arm lock and flipped Ron over easily, sending the redhead’s hulking form sprawling on the mat.

Then again, there’s Harry, who looks gorgeous in combat.

She thought maybe Harry need only flash that grin of his if he ever came face to face with Bellatrix. If she were in any way heterosexual, she’d have her knickers in a twist so fast that Harry would be able to hex her straight to Azkaban.

Hermione saw Bellatrix’s name on the bag and landed her shin right on it.

Harry’s inherent charm brought her thoughts right where she wanted.

Sentient beings and living things were conduits of magic. Which is why humans, and vampires and elves and all sorts of creatures could harness it. Each person, creature or life form used magic in their own unique way. Plants and herbs used it by nature. Beasts used it by instinct; creatures and humans by will and emotion. So it was natural to suppose that creatures and humans would optimize will and emotion differently to wield their magic.

Voldemort, for instance, was most driven by his need for power. He was singular in his purpose, which is probably part of the reason why he was so good at what he did. Harry was driven by all things honorable, like his “saving people thing”, which is also probably part of the reason he was so good at what he did. Interestingly enough, what made both wizards so strong also made them vulnerable to failure.

Harry’s “saving people thing” had been used against him numerous times, and given that it wasn’t a habit he was going to kick anytime soon, it would get him one of these days. Fortunately, there were people surrounding Harry who were more than dedicated to save him.

Now, Voldemort… the need for power was just as intoxicating as any other desire, and just like all things intoxicating, it could cloud one’s judgment. The worse thing about wanting power was its tendency to make their wielders intensely possessive of it. The greater the power, the more repulsive the idea of sharing became.

Perhaps this was something Harry could use to get past Voldemort’s ironclad mental blocks. Harry only needed a teeny-tiny opening, after all. He had enough power to swim his way in there, if only for a brief moment. It might make a huge difference. It might reveal something important.

She mulled this over, wondering how she could turn this idea into something feasible and finding someone to practice it with.

Hermione stopped punching the bag, the beginnings of another idea implanting itself in her mind. Her brows furrowed.

Could it be?

“Thirty minutes,” Harry suddenly said from behind the punching bag. His brow was moist with the sweat of his warm-up, his cheeks aglow.

The thread of her brand-new thought dissipated at the face of such an appealing summons.

“Went by fast,” she said. “Come on.”

She joined them on the practice mat.

The best thing about instructing a learned student was being able to skip the basics and get right to the heart of training.

Harry was, by human standards, very skilled. A quick hand-to-hand spar with Ron showed that Harry wasn’t just quick with his limbs, he took the optimum route to victory. He wasn’t flashy and he had no unnecessary movements. She knew this already, but it was different watching it from outside the fight. From her perspective, she could see the split-second openings he could have kept closed; saw that he could have spread his stance out wider to give a more painful kick; realized that he was almost unnoticeably twitchy about the left side of his midriff.

Hermione pondered that last bit and realized that it was where Janus had skewered him all those years ago. It pained her to realize that the injury was not only a constant reminder of the worse point of their relationship, but it was also limiting his offensive strategy.

Of course, all of these weaknesses were only apparent to her because she had been trained to spot and exploit them. To humans, and perhaps to the many dark creatures, he was formidable; pretty damn spectacular, actually. He might have a mere six vamps under his belt, but she was half certain he had scared off twice as many by sheer show of skill.

She knew now, of course, that Harry was capable of so much more.

“Take a breather, Harry,” she said, stopping the spar just after he had Ron eating the mat, yet again. “You too, Ron.”

“Blimey…” gasped Ron, pushing himself off the ground. “That was getting humiliating.”

“You were fine,” Hermione told him. “Harry’s just really good.”

“Th-Thanks,” Harry said through his gasps. Ron might have been easy for him to beat, but it still took a considerable amount of strength to knock the man from his feet.

She gave Solomon and Lucien a quick glance.

“Solomon,” she said. “Get on the mat. Take a stance.”

He did and she stood with him.

“This is your stance, Harry,” she said, copying him. “When you do this…” she made a mock motion to hit Solomon. “You leave your right side open for a split second that a vamp can take advantage of. It would be alright if you get the hit in, but what if the vamp dodges it? He can catch you totally unawares. So this is how you deflect it. Sol, attack.”

She threw the perfect strike, just the way Harry would do it. Solomon dodged and his leg came for her open ribs. She twisted her hips, turned her body counter-clockwise while round-housing both her legs to fly over his. She landed right behind him with her arms already locked around his head. She twisted it only slightly, just so she wouldn’t really break Solomon’s neck. It was, of course, more difficult to hold back when one knew it wouldn’t kill him anyway.

There was a slight snap and Solomon went down yowling.

“Jesus feckin’ Christ, Hermione! Easy!” Solomon yelled.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

She looked up and saw Ron gaping. Harry was less surprised. He’d seen her fight. This wasn’t new to him. Harry didn’t look pleased, though.

“I’d have to go as fast as you,” he said. “I don’t think—“

“You can be that fast.”

“Yes, but only if the magic will let me, remember?”

“Of course, so we’re going to have to bully that magic into doing it for you when you want it to. Up you go. Sol? You’re up against Harry this time. Nix the vamp amp until I tell you to use it.”

“Got it,” Solomon said.

“He’s got a trick left shoulder right now,” she added.

Harry sighed in exasperation. “Hermione!”

“And his left midriff’s bothering him, too,” she said mercilessly.

Harry glared at her. “You hoping to get me killed?”

“The exact opposite. Your survival instincts trigger a lot of your magic. If you can catch the patterns of magic at the exact moment it lets you use it, you can summon the magic at will. It’s like hitting random keys on a piano. Every once in a while, you get a combination that’s pleasing; most times it’s just noise. If you actually take a moment to observe the position of your fingers, know what notes you’re hitting, you can duplicate the melody. It’s the same with this one. Know the patterns that call the magic and you can summon it.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried to do that?”

“With whom? The only time it happens for you is on the field, when you really are fighting for your life, and there’s hardly any time for scholarly observations there, and then you couldn’t manage it in practice because you’re better than everyone else. Who’s going to call your survival instinct? You’re even better than your golem.” She gestured to the practice dummy. “Mainly because you wouldn’t ever program it to have a killer instinct. Why would you? It would be positively humiliating to get killed by a dummy in practice.”

Harry grumbled something unintelligible.

“I managed to call it out of you twice in a spar,” she continued. “Because I’m a vamp. It’s your innate fear of vamps, as dark creatures, that triggers the instinct. You might not manifest the fear, but your wizard genes carry that fear. It’s enough to summon your basest instincts. We can provide the stimuli in a controlled environment. If we work hard enough tonight, you just might be able to make sense of the patterns required to summon the powers you need.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Harry said.

And she saw that this particular fact was important to him. “Not of me, no,” she said gently. “But of my kind. It’s not something you could help entirely. Shall we begin this experiment?”

He paused a moment before nodding.

She stepped back and told them to begin.

It was not an easy process.

Without the vamp-amp, Solomon and Harry were evenly matched.

Hermione realized, with a bit of disdain, that Harry had held back when he was sparring with her. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, and she figured that the only reason he managed to take her down then was out of sheer frustration of getting beat by a woman. And even when he did manage to win rounds with her, he still hadn’t really hurt her. He had stopped her by sheer submission.

The only advantage Solomon had without the vamp-amp was endurance. Solomon wasn’t going to get tired anytime soon. Harry was already sweating profusely.

Very nice… She frowned at herself disapprovingly. Focus.

Swing, block, strike, kick.

Solomon went for Harry’s shoulder and connected. Harry gave a growl of pain.

Ron and Lucien cringed while Solomon stepped back.

“You’re not following through, Sol,” Hermione said, hardening her heart. “You should’ve taken advantage of his downtime.”

Solomon winced. “Ever heard of mercy?”

“Not for this. Go.”

Harry glared at her a moment before he met Solomon’s attack. This time, Solomon went for his side. Harry crumpled to the mat but Solomon didn’t stop. Harry had to act quickly to deflect Solomon’s kicks and roll out of Solomon’s reach.

It was while Solomon was trying to reach Harry, and Harry dodged, that Hermione saw it.

Solomon hadn’t noticed, but a part of his knuckle actually grazed Harry’s forehead and passed right through, as if Harry was phantasmal instead of real.

It’s working.

“Amp it and go for his shoulder again, Sol,” she instructed. Which means you have to go for his ribs. Don’t fail me, Sol.

Solomon didn’t. He vamped his speed, eyes and fangs responding to his will. Solomon’s fist barreled towards Harry’s kidney. He was going to absolutely and painfully connect.

Hermione, for the first time, saw it. Something in his eyes sparked, like white fire, and it lasted for only a heartbeat, but it was enough.

Solomon simply froze. It only lasted two seconds, like someone had pressed the “pause” button on a Muggle disc player, and then he was moving again, but the two seconds had been enough. Harry had twisted out of the fist’s path. Solomon’s knuckle went wild and Harry was able to grasp Solomon’s wrist. With Solomon’s own momentum, Harry pulled while slamming his elbow backwards, ramming it right into Solomon’s throat.

Solomon fell to the mat, gagging. Harry stepped back, still in stance.

“Brilliant!” Ron cried, grinning.

Ron didn’t see it, she thought. She looked at Lucien. He was gaping. He had seen it. Solomon might not have, mainly because he had been in the magic.

“Sol, take a break,” she said, containing her excitement. “Harry, you called it. Did you know?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, but I still—I’m not quite sure…”

“Then we do it again,” she said. “Lucien, on the mat. Same rules. Don’t amp it until I tell you to.”

Lucien scrambled to get into stance.

Hermione gave Harry a quick assessment. He was exhausted, but that was a good thing. The better to call his survival instinct with. “Begin.”

Lucien and Harry exchanged attacks and parries. Solomon had always been a better fighter than Lucien, but Lucien knew how to play dirty, and yes, Lucien was not adverse to kicking a man between the legs.

Hermione thought Lucien would get Harry there, but surprisingly enough, Harry knew how to deflect it and he had a countermove that sent Lucien sprawling to the mat.

“Wow,” Lucien said from the ground, sounding like his normal self for a brief moment. “You must get that all the time. That was an expert move!”

“More times that I’d like,” Harry replied.

Lucien attacked again. He was barely getting through Harry’s defenses. Hermione had Lucien amp it and the scale tilted exponentially. Something always awakened in Lucien when he vamped; something primal. He became more vicious; utterly without mercy. Simply put, he became frightening and savage. It wasn’t until last night that Hermione traced its roots, and perhaps because Harry knew this too, he managed to summon his magic almost instantly.

He disapparated mid-turn in his round-house, just before Lucien blocked it, and re-appeared a heartbeat later with a swoosh in the air behind Lucien’s head, his body still in motion as if he’d never been interrupted mid-kick.

Harry’s foot connected with the side of Lucien’s head. It knocked Lucien to the floor soundly and he actually needed a few seconds to recover.

“Wicked!” Ron cried.

Lucien was just about to get up when Hermione called another time out.

“You did it again, Harry,” she said. “Ron, how many times have you seen him do that?”

“Only twice in the last five years! Wasn’t sure if my eyes were playing tricks on me, but—“

“They weren’t,” she said, steadying the excitement in her tone. “Harry, did you catch the pattern now?”

Harry frowned. “Maybe, but…”

It was a better response than before. It was progress.

“Take a breather then. We’ll do it again. Lucien, you called it soonest. You’re up after recess. Ron, get up. You’re up against me.”

Ron laughed dryly. “Ah, no.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Don’t want to hit a woman, blah, blah, blah… just get up here. I’ll go easy on you.”

It wasn’t any easier getting Ron to fight her than Harry was, but just to be fair, she gave him the one-handed stance too, which he predictably objected to, and which he (predictably, also) fell victim to, several times. In fact, more times than Harry just because Harry was a better fighter.

Harry seemed to find great amusement in it all.

After a particularly humiliating takedown, Ron crawled to his feet, gasping, “Who the hell are you and what have you done to Hermione?”

She helped him get up and figured he needed a break. She was just about to call Harry and Lucien again when Draco appeared at the door looking immensely agitated.

“Something’s happening out front that has Remus all wolfy,” Draco said sounding very irritated. He had his house robes pulled loosely over his silk pajamas, like he had been dragged out of bed.

Harry was quickly alert. “What kind of disturbance?”

“The weird kind. Mists and werewolves. The Obliviators have their work cut out for them.”

Harry looked to Hermione.

She felt her stomach knot. “Where’s Remus now?”

Draco scowled. “Do I look like his keeper?”

She rolled her eyes, making for the door and walking past Draco. Everyone scrambled to follow her, except for Harry, who walked right up beside her and demanded answers.

“Is it Yasmin?”

“Not her, exactly, but yeah, it’s her messengers.”

“Are they going to hurt you?”

“No telling if they would or wouldn’t.”

“Are you going to let them into the house?”

She frowned. “Of course not, and she knows this. It’s likely that they’re just here to negotiate a venue with me, for when I do meet with her.”

Harry frowned. “And what venue are we pushing for here?”

She arched an eyebrow. “We?”

He seemed mildly surprised. “You didn’t think I was going to let you go alone, did you?”

She didn’t think so, but it had been worth a try, anyway. It’s not that she didn’t want Harry around; in fact, his presence, of late, was slowly becoming reassuring, but if Harry went, there was every possibility that Ron would want to come, and therefore she would have no reason to say that Remus shouldn’t be there, which meant there was no way in hell Tonks was going to let her husband go without her… and all those humans who weren’t anybody’s flunkies just tended to grate on Yasmin’s sense of elitism.

Not that Hermione had any reason to be polite to Yasmin, but she preferred not to antagonize the woman, mainly because Yasmin was difficult enough when she was in a good mood. Yasmin in a bad mood was just downright vicious. Hermione would be lucky if Yasmin let her off with a physical pain, because when Yasmin got it in her head that she was teed off with you, she liked serving humiliation, and Hermione naturally didn’t like getting humiliated in front of her friends… or anybody else, for that matter.

“I would prefer to be alone, actually,” Hermione said.

Harry laughed. It didn’t sound like a happy laugh, though.

“Umm… Hermione?”

She was surprised to hear Lucien initiate conversation. “Yes?”

“Are you going to let Yasmin kill me?”

Hermione sighed. Lucien could be such an idiot sometimes. “Of course not, Lucien. I’m still trying to figure out what to do about your spectacular faux pas, but it doesn’t mean I’ll let her have the offing of you. She’ll have to go through me, first.”

“But—erm—she’s… umm… she taught you everything you know…”

“Not everything.”

“Oh, God, I’m going to get you killed, aren’t I? It’s going to be all my fault!”

Harry scowled. “I’m not going to let her get killed.”

“Alright, that’s enough talk about killing!” Ron cried. “It’s seriously unnerving me!”

Draco sneered. “What do you want them to call it? Sending Granger to ‘a farm’?”

“Was I talking to you?” Ron growled, advancing to Malfoy.

Solomon got between them. “Not now, you two…”

Hermione made a sound of disgust and she separated herself from the group, which seemed to collect itself the moment they realized she had proceeded without them.

Remus and Tonks were waiting at the foot of the stairs, wands out. Remus did, indeed, look a bit wolfy. His eyebrows were the tiniest bit thicker and his pupils were just a hint more feral. There was a bit of a snarl to his lips too, but he was still, by all accounts, human. Wolfsbane potion was a powerful antidote to lycanthropy, but perhaps agitated by the many werewolves outside and the sheer need to protect his “master”, Hermione, and his lupa, Tonks, was nulling some of the Wolfsbane’s effects.

“There are at least six werewolves outside,” Remus said gravely. “Two vamps.”

“Just two?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, but they’re ‘ancient’.”

“Proper ancient?”

“No, but significantly enough.”

Some vampires, though not older than five hundred, were called "ancient", because they were older than most and because they already exuded a kind of “older” aura which vamps and werewolves could pick up on. Their ages could be between three hundred to below five hundred. This was a very casual use of the term "ancient", and most “properly” ancient vampires frowned upon such use, as one might imagine.

“Want to wager she sent Isidore and Mari?” Solomon said with a grin.

“Who are Isidore and Mari?” Harry asked.

“Mari,” Hermione began, “short for Maricanchi, and Isidore, have spent the last four hundred years with stakes shoved up their arses.”

“That has to hurt,” said Ron

“Well, not literally, genius. What I meant was they managed to live as long as they have because they’re dreadfully by-the-book.”

“I know what it means, you intellectual snob,” Ron muttered. “I was just—oh, forget it.”

“They’re not very dangerous unless you get on the bad side of the Rule Book,” Solomon said. “However, when they’re not in the killing mood, they’re really handy for a few laughs, ‘specially when Hermione gets it in her head to make fun of them.”

“They’re quite bothersome when they suspect you’re doing something wrong, though,” said Lucien, frowning. “Those two are always on my case.”

“Seems to me they called that right,” Draco gleefully pointed out.

Lucien hissed at him like a cat, fangs and all.

“Hermione,” began Tonks, her agitation showing at the slight darkening of her pink hair. “How worried should we be?”

She thought about it. “Well, I wouldn’t worry yet, if I were you. Hard to tell what they want, which is probably why you should all stay here while I go out there and talk to them.” She tried to walk past Harry who didn’t quite budge.

“Wait a second,” Harry said in a very calm tone. “So you want all of us—one, two, three... let’s say six, not including Malfoy—to wait in here, in the safety of Grimmauld Place, while you—by yourself—go out there, in the presence of six werewolves and two significantly older vampires?”

Hermione’s brows knotted. “Well… yes?”

Everyone stood there just staring at her for a few heartbeats.

Harry just shook his head and rolled his eyes. He put his hand out, and Hermione could tell he had cast a spell. She had a vague idea of what spell it was.

She put a hand to her hip as Harry’s katana and vamp paraphernalia zoomed into his waiting hands. “Fine. It’s not as if I didn’t expect this from you, Harry, so I’ve already figured some ground rules. Number one, I’ll do all the talking. Number two, I’ll do all the talking.”

Ron, who had been Accio-ing his weapons and things with less grace, had Tonks, Draco and himself diving to the ground when his knives came at him with their sharp ends. Tonks actually threw a Contego, a rather handy variation of Protego when solid objects, and not a spell, were heading one’s way. Fortunately, Ron’s summoning spell knew enough not to kill him, and the knives clattered to the floor even before it reached Tonks’s shield.

Harry, ignoring the relative chaos around him, was not going to be deterred. “That’s perfectly fine with me. I’m not coming along for the talking, anyway.”

“Humph,” she muttered, turning to head on out. “Mr. Tough Guy over here… never mind if I’m immortal…”

“You’re only as immortal as your head’s attached to your shoulders, Hermione,” he pointed out.

She ignored this as she headed the troupe to the front of the house. Predictably, Draco wasn’t going anywhere and he stayed behind, snorting at all of them in disgust as he left to go back to his room.

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A/N: No, you’re not seeing things. The next chapter is available. ::Click!::

26. Chapter Twenty-Fifth: Truth

Author’s note: First thing’s first… did you read Chapter 24: Lull yet? I released two chapters, so you might have missed reading the chapter before this one.

Once again, thanks to tome_raider for her mad beta skilz. ~_*

Chapter Rating: R

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Chapter Twenty-Fifth: Truth

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Hermione did not hesitate even as a werewolf roared at her in his semi-human state.

Solomon hissed at the werewolf fiercely. Three responded to his threats with low, guttural growls.

Hermione assessed her entourage.

Tonks wasn’t about to be scared away by restless werewolves; she had married one, but her shoulders were tense. She was completely aware that she was no one’s lupa but Remus’s, but she hadn’t lasted so long as an Auror for being a wilting flower. She was a very tough woman.

Ron had likely seen a lot in the last five years, and he didn’t look frightened, either. There was tension to his shoulders, too, but Ron looked so physically strong that it was difficult to think that he was the least bit nervous. He was, in fact, quite intimidating.

Remus, Solomon and Lucien were dark creatures. They would respond according to their instincts, which could be between fierce to ferocious. She had very little to worry about when it came to them.

Now Harry… if he was the least bit apprehensive, he didn’t show a speck of it; nothing in his gait, shoulders or face conveyed unease. Even when he adjusted the set of his glasses on his nose, it did not seem like a nervous tick. It looked more like he was securing it, making sure that the sticking spell would hold just in case he had to—say—jump around and slice vamp head off.

Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat that had formed on account of thinking of Harry in full battle. This was definitely not the time to be having fantasies about him, so she focused on the situation at hand and assessed their visitors.

The vampires were indeed Isidore and Mari. Their faces remained stoic as she approached them. The werewolves running about converged behind their respective masters. Three behind Isidore and three behind Mari.

Isidore, his dark Spanish features the delight of Yasmin and many a vampire women between the ages of seventeen to five hundred, showed displeasure. He only liked humans when they were beautiful. Hermione and her posse were decidedly a bit scruffy. Tonks and Remus had house robes thrown over their pajamas and the rest of them were in gym clothes.

Not exactly tres mod, Hermione thought with a smirk.

Mari’s handsome face was adorned with art of Incan totems. The tattoos on his face did not mar his pleasant features, it did, in fact, give it the character it would have lacked if he had left his face bare. He wore multiple earrings on both ears, but his left ear had a feathered and beaded earring hanging from the lobe. He had a scimitar attached to his hip and he had his fangs tipped silver.

Many a vamp had had their limbs lopped off when they told him the old “armed to the teeth” joke. Hermione couldn’t blame him. Hearing the same joke told over and over again, probably in the last four hundred years, would definitely make it seem un-funny as hell.

“Hermione, of the clan Granger,” Isidore said in his honeyed, even voice. “You have been summoned by Yasmin ibna Omar al-Khwarizm in civil conference at a venue of your choosing.”

Hermione met eyes with Solomon at “clan Granger”. It was just so typical of Isidore to say it that way. “Well, seeing as I’m the only member of my vast and expansive clan present because, as you might know, the rest of them are holed up in our keep at the highlands…”

Solomon bit his lower lip. Lucien emitted a series of coughs.

“You mock me,” Isidore said flatly.

“It’s just a joke. No need to panic. You know one of those things? Usually invokes laughter.”

“Impertinence amounts to nothing but delays. A venue, Hermione of the—Hermione Granger.”

“Hermione of the Hermione Granger? Now that just sounds weird.”

Isidore, and now Mari, was beginning to look mightily peeved. It didn’t help that Solomon and Lucien had developed to snickering while nudging each other with their elbows. If the rest thought it funny at all, they weren’t making a show of it. It was a good Rule of Thumb not to laugh at vampires, after all, even if it was because of another vampire making fun of them.

Mari glared at her. “You would do well to take this issue seriously, Miss Granger—“

“That’s Ms. Granger to you, Tinsel Teeth. You both might be older than me, but you were still the ones sent to fetch me. So it looks to me like you two are the monkeys in this picture. Now go tell your mistress that I’ll meet her at La Señorita so we can talk about where she got the idea that I wouldn’t mind if she fucked with my Shadow Kin so she could use him to spy on me. Because trust me… I mind. Serious enough for you?”

Isidore frowned and Mari looked visibly outraged. They weren’t about to get intimidated by someone so young, but they weren’t about to hurt the most powerful of Vampire’s protégé, either.

That’s me… always the teacher’s pet.

Mari’s hand twitched on the hilt of his scimitar and at that same moment, a pale-blue filmy field of light gleamed between her and Mari.

Contego, she thought, recognizing the spell.

She looked to Harry who was too busy glaring at Mari to notice her looking.

Isidore placed a gentle hand on Mari’s arm. Mari dropped his hand from his weapon. After a few heartbeats, the force field dissipated.

There was a moment of silence before talk resumed.

“La Señorita is a place of entertainment,” said Mari. “This issue is serious. The place is inappropriate for holding such mee—“

“I thought you said the venue would be my choice,” Hermione said with a glare. “I didn’t recall you telling me you’re authorized to negotiate.”

“La Señorita will do,” Isidore interjected in his calm tone. “If Elena would have no objections—“

“She won’t. Elena’s an angel, and she’ll do this for me. She’s only unfriendly to you because you take yourself too seriously, Chuckles."

Chuckles, predictably, did not think it funny. He lifted his eyebrow and turned up his nose. “I would advise that you and your… entourage dress appropriately for a meeting with the Master of the Coven. It’s only polite.”

“Polite? I think we’re agreed that what Yasmin did was already well beyond rude, so excuse me if I’m feeling a bit rebellious.”

He paused briefly. “My opinion of this issue does not matter—“

“Aww… just because Yasmin says so, it doesn’t mean you have to agree.” She gave him a saccharine smile.

“Just look presentable, Hermione Granger,” said Isidore with a barely discernable sneer.

She smirked and flicked her fingers at him stiffly in a stingy wave goodbye. “Buh-bye, now.”

Glaring at her, the mist thickened around them, werewolves and vampires, before they disappeared.

Solomon doubled over laughing when the mist cleared. “I think Mari had a stroke when you called him Tinsel Teeth.”

Ron was not laughing. “I thought he was going to kill you…”

“Like I would let him,” Harry said grumpily. “Is it wise to antagonize them like that?”

“It’s wiser than showing them I’m afraid,” Hermione said.

“Are you?”

She scoffed. “They wish.”

“I better go and floo some Obliviators,” Tonks said wearily, heading back to the house.

They all followed.

“Shall I send a message to Elena telling her about the meeting?” Remus asked.

Hermione looked at him pleadingly. “Remus, please don’t think you have to do these things for me. I mean, really…”

Remus shrugged. “It’s an instinct. It can’t be helped.”

“Fine,” she muttered. “Notify Elena. You do know who she is, don’t you?”

He chuckled. “Every dark creature knows who she is.”

“Great. Umm… thank you, Remus.” She knew that the werewolf instinct didn’t require her to thank him, but her sense of decency demanded it. She was absolutely not going to treat him like a servant.

“You’re welcome.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze before heading to his study, probably to compose the message already.

Solomon grinned as they reentered Grimmauld Place, dancing giddily. “We’re going to see Elena! I am so excited! Lucien, aren’t you excited? Look alive, mon ami.”

“Well, I’d normally be having an erection about now, but the fact that Hermione and Yasmin will be talking about me in a most negative manner somewhat steals my mojo.”

“Who is Elena and why does Lucien have ‘uh-hmms’ for her?” Ron asked, censoring himself. Hermione was more inclined to believe that Ron just didn’t want to be mentioning male unmentionables so casually lest anyone began to think he was comfortable about it.

“Elena,” Harry began seriously, “Is the vampire world’s sweetheart. She runs a very classy ‘escort service’ and she provides hard-to-find goods, usually art, artifacts and antiques to anyone who could pay for it. She’s supposedly very sweet and lovely. I haven’t met her myself, but Henry’s all in love with her.”

Hermione arched an eyebrow in his direction. She wasn’t that surprised Harry knew.

“And she surrounds herself with phenomenally beautiful women, human and vampire alike,” Solomon added. “Mainly because she’s of the female persuasion, if you get my drift. Did I mention that she’s fancied Hermione for ages? I’m just waiting for Elena to jump her.”

Hermione shot him a glare. “Elena does not fancy me. I saved her life that one time and she’s been rather fond of me ever since. You boys and your girl-on-girl fantasies… contrary to pop culture lore, it’s not something all of us indulge in, and while we’re at it, it’s not true that we as young girls ran around in skimpy night things during slumber parties while having pillow fights, either.”

Solomon, Ron and Harry all gasped in unison. They looked utterly crestfallen.

Lucien pouted, stomping his foot. “Thanks a lot, Hermione!”

“What?” she cried, laughing.

“Try and remember the time you were told Santa Clause didn’t exist! That’s how we feel now!” Solomon said.

She threw up her hands. “I knew he didn’t exist before my parents told me! I mean, those Santa legends were stupid. How does a man of girth like him slide down chimneys? He’d get stuck down the flue. And then he’s supposed to fly all over the world in one night to deliver toys made by elves? If I believed any of that crap, I’d be over at the North Pole shoving a S.P.E.W. button down Santa’s throat!”

Lucien scoffed. “Humph. What a fucked-up child. She probably asked for a Newscaster Barbie and got something she really hated, like a Ballerina Ken or something.”

Hermione frowned. “It was nothing like that, and for your information, I never asked for a Barbie or Ken whatever. I asked for a microscope and a telescope and—well, perhaps I asked for roller-skates that one time they got so popular… went barreling down the slope of Pleasant Hill wearing them and I’ve never gotten on free-wheeling things ever since.”

“Ah, so that’s why you hated getting on a broom,” Harry remarked, grinning.

“Who’s Santa?” Ron asked.

“A big, fat man in a red suit who doesn’t shave and goes around the world at Christmas to deliver toys to Muggle children on his reindeer-drawn sled. He was a legend Muggle parents came up with to keep the little Muggle and Mudblood snots behaved all year, because Santa makes a list, checks ‘em twice and leaves the naughty out of his Christmas list altogether.” It was Draco and he was leaning against one of the receiving hall arches. “When you think about it, he’s rather ruthless.”

Harry scoffed. “For someone who hates Muggles and half-bloods, you sure have a firm grasp of their legends.”

“I’m racist, Potter, not stupid.”

“And here I always thought ‘racist’ and ‘stupid’ weren’t mutually exclusive. What are you doing here, anyway? You’re supposed to be cowering in your room.”

“I heard talk about beautiful women, lesbians and girls in skimpy night things. I found the courage.”

“Huh. And here I thought you were gay,” Solomon said.

Draco looked at his nails. “Just because I’m cleaner and nicer to look at than those two scruffy plebes, it doesn’t mean I suck dick. And considering the circumstances, I’m not the one who hasn’t gotten laid in months.”

Ron, Harry and Hermione glared at him in unison.

Hermione didn’t even bother to ask him how in hell he managed to get laid being guarded all the time. “Paid sex doesn’t count, Malfoy.”

“Wanna pay for me, Sunshine? I’ll give you a special price.”

“What’s it called, the Three-inch Discount? Or maybe the Two-minute Rebate?”

Harry and Ron loved that. They doubled over laughing like a couple of teenagers.

Draco seemed unbothered. “Well, we can always work out a warranty. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back.”

“Either you actually have been He-Bitching on the side or you’ve been spending too much time selling used brooms to compensate for your… measly Ministry salary.”

“Your loss, Granger.”

“Boo bloody hoo for me,” she said, turning to the others. “We better get ready for this meeting. Are Tonks and Remus coming?”

Harry was still grinning when he replied. “Tonks would be busy with the Obliviators. I’m not sure if Remus could come with us.”

“Well then in that case…” She looked to Draco. “I might as well make the most of you blokes being with me. Draco, you’re going to take Remus’s place.”

Naturally, Harry and Ron stared at her, dumbfounded.

Draco scowled. “That’s right classy of you. After grinding my manhood to bits, you’re now asking me to go with you?”

“Asking? Ridiculous. More like ordering you,” she replied with an acidic smile.

He snorted. “Unlike some weirdos, I don’t like getting my throat punctured, thank you very much.”

“You’re coming with us even if I have to tie your ankles to the fender of the Jag and drag you all the way to the club.”

“Why? What the hell do you want me there for?”

“I’m one man short of a proper entourage,” she explained haughtily, beginning to make her way to the shadowy halls to the dungeons. “I want you cleaned up and ready in an hour, Malfoy, or the boys and I are going to consider eating in from hereon.”

She didn’t even stick around to find out anybody’s reaction to it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to wear to a formally arranged meeting with a Coven Master, especially when the meeting was being held in a nightclub.

He had to admit that this was one instance where he was a bit out of his depth. It wasn’t as if he went to clubs. He was a pub-person, and nobody really went to pubs all dressed up, especially not him, who only went to pubs to get pissed.

The main thing was not to look like an idiot, so he didn’t “glam up”, as Lucien had so emphatically told them. Harry developed a headache just thinking that he could ever be anything remotely stylish. So he pulled on his nicest pair of black charcoal-wash jeans, a light-green shirt and a striped dark-green button-up long sleeve shirt-blouse that fit a little better than his usual fare. The outfit bore a striking resemblance to his work wear, actually, except this time, he had the buttons closed-up and the clothes fit him better. He closed his eyes to his battered grey trainers and moved on to one of his nicer black loafers.

Do this for Hermione. Do this for Hermione…

He didn’t know why he thought he had to, but it made wearing the loafers easier. He stared at his socked feet. They were both black but he realized that they weren’t exactly matched. He wondered if Hermione would notice and cursed at himself for realizing that it would bother him all night anyway if he didn’t match the socks.

It took him another few minutes of rummaging before he managed a real pair, slipped them on and finally got in his shoes. After all that he began to arm himself, hiding the weapons as best he could.

The sword would be a bit obvious, but he had a nice leather jacket that would cover most of it nicely.

He realized that he’d been carrying the sword a lot, lately. It didn’t bode too well.

After one last look in the mirror and running his hand through his impossibly unruly hair, he headed on out and down to the living room. Lucien, Solomon, Ron and Draco were already there.

Ron looked—well, better dressed than usual. He had on a relatively nice short-sleeved button-up grey shirt. Instead of jeans, he had gone with black pants and loafers. Harry had to wonder what it took for Ron to ditch the work-boots for the fancy footwear.

Of course, Lucien, Solomon and Draco were all dapper and chic.

Solomon went charcoal-grey pinstripe with a white blouse. The pants and blazer fit so well that Harry didn’t doubt that it was tailor-made for him.

Draco went all black, blazered, poised and polished, like a gentleman with his hair pushed neatly back. Apparently, he had either gotten over his reluctance to come or he was determined to do it correctly, if not entirely willingly. He sneered at Harry’s messy locks. Harry sneered right back.

As for Lucien… well, the man was just runway perfect. His black boot-cut pants and form-fitting blue silk dress-shirt draped free of his pants made him look like an actor. He wore fancy rings and—of course—his slave collar. He had boots on that looked normal enough at first glance, until one noticed that there were bits of leopard stripes here and there.

“I told you he’d wear jeans,” Ron hissed.

“Well, at least now you can see there’s a shape to him,” Lucien said generously, looking Harry over critically.

Draco scoffed. “The color of his shirt isn’t working for me and I’m not sure about his glasses. Well… I never was, actually.”

“He didn’t wear it for you, stupid,” Ron said.

“Oh, leave him alone,” said Solomon. “I think Harry looks alright.”

“He’s casual chic,” Lucien pointed out. “I’m kind of liking the striped shirt.”

Ron frowned. “I feel like a dick in these pants.”

Harry frowned, trying to fathom how a room full of grown men could talk so excessively about clothes.

“You seemed to have cleaned up pretty good, Potter,” said a voice behind him.

He turned and saw Hermione all covered in a rather nice black coat. He could see some of her legs, though, and her pretty feet wore the sexiest pair of black strappy-jeweled shoes he had ever seen. Her brown hair waved and curled in sexy ringlets. She wore the barest hint of make-up and he could see a lace-trim choker against the pale skin of her throat. And aside from all those little glimpses of how fantastic she must look, he could smell her wonderful perfume. “Well, you look positively lovely.”

She smirked and winked, cocking a shoulder as she walked past him. “You ain’t seen nothing, yet, handsome.”

Harry thought that little shoulder tilt and the accompanying wink so becoming that he actually had to resist the urge to—well, growl, not to mention pant after her and bark like a dog. The only thing that kept him dignified was her little compliment at the end. It could do wonders to a bloke’s ego.

He poked her sleeve. “Is that fur?”

“Yes. Don’t hate me. It’s my vamp nature. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.”

He chuckled. “Well, if it’s your nature…”

She smiled. It was genuine. No mockery, no disdain, not even a hint of a tease. It made Harry feel good.

“Well, my pretties,” she said to the rest of them. “Are we ready?”

“Can I change into jeans? It’ll take me one second,” Ron said.

She rolled her eyes. “You look perfectly fine, Ron. And I don’t think you would look half-as-good in jeans as Harry does. You’re a big boy. No bulky clothes for you.”

Ron scowled but didn’t insist.

“Remus?” she asked.

“Tonks took him with her to the Ministry,” Harry replied. “They sent a whole bunch of Obliviators over and she now has a ton of paperwork to do. She dragged Remus to help her finish it all… I think she wasn’t too keen on sending Remus off to a club filled with women and lesbians.”

“Oh,” she said lightly. “Well, that rather works for us. We should be heading out, then. Come along. I think we’ll all fit in the Jaguar. Kind of tight, but hey, if it’s too uncomfortable we can always stuff Draco in the boot.”

Draco scowled. “Sure, get rid of the littlest one so you can have a fantastically significant amount of space freed up. When a boat is sinking, the first things you get rid of are the heavier loads, I’ll have you know.” He looked at Ron pointedly.

“I can think of other more compelling reasons to get rid of the lighter load,” Ron said.

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Or better yet, Sunshine, you can ditch Potter and I can show you a better time.”

“Stuffing Draco in the boot is one of Hermione’s more brilliant ideas,” Harry said.

“Oh, stop it, all of you,” Hermione said. “Draco, shut up. Sometimes I think you want to get abused… you should take up with Lucien in fifty years. That’s usually around the time women go out of fashion, for him.”

“Oh, sure, stick me with the white, racist, supremacist because I get off on bad, bad behavior… hmm, I’m actually getting a semi…”

Harry discreetly moved away from him. So did Ron.

The Jaguar was big enough to accommodate them. Lucien sat in the driver’s seat while Solomon sat up front with him.

Draco swiftly went around to the other side and hopped in.

“Ron, get in first,” Harry muttered. “Hermione can’t sit beside Draco. He’d have his filthy hands all over her.”

“Why do I have to sit beside him?” Ron hissed.

“Because he wouldn’t touch you with a ten foot pole! Go!”

Sighing, Ron somewhat squeezed himself between Hermione and the door of the car, actually cutting her off.

“Pardon me,” he muttered, sliding into the seat.

“Well, chivalry is certainly dead in this joint,” Hermione muttered.

Poor Ron, thought Harry as she climbed in. He went in after her and slammed the door shut.

The fit in the back was snug, but not terribly uncomfortable. Ron, in an effort to not press against Draco, draped his arm on the headrest behind Hermione and Harry.

Sighing, Hermione crossed her legs to adjust and some of her coat fell away from her knee, exposing more skin.

Harry swallowed. He pretended to scratch as his eyebrow to wipe away the moisture that was suddenly there. He turned his head slightly, so that he could look out the window, but his eyes kept roving to that tantalizing patch of skin.

The car moved and Solomon began to fiddle with the CD player. Solomon was all about hip-hop.

Lucien swerved to the right, sending all of them lurching to the left.

Ron, Draco and Solomon complained loudly.

“Sorry!” Lucien cried out.

Harry was not complaining. Hermione was half-draped on him and she was giggling softly as she tried to smoothen imaginary rumples from the front of his blouse.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be,” he whispered back, grinning.

She began readjusting herself on the seat and just when Harry was praying she would forget to throw her coat over her exposed leg, she caught him staring.

She arched an eyebrow and he blushed scarlet. He wondered what he found so embarrassing. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her naked.

That image in his mind, combined with her scent, her flirty hair and that leg made a potent mix. He began to feel a tad stiff. Not tense: Stiff. Oh, Merlin… PLEASE, for the love of all things decent, not now!

She cocked an ever so tiny smile as she sat back, leaving her leg uncovered.

She’s evil.

Harry stifled a sigh, clamping his hand over his lips and leaning his elbow against the car window as he took calming breaths.

It felt like forever but Lucien eventually pulled up the curb of what looked like salsa night. People standing in line to get into the club were moving their hips where they stood. From the outside, the club was tinted black with lava-orange lighting glowing from hanging corners and sexy décor.

Lucien and Solomon left the car.

“Should we go?” Harry asked.

Hermione checked her nicely manicured nails. “Not yet. Wait a while.”

“Hot club,” Draco said. “Hadn’t been in one for ages, you understand. When you’re being detained in a house full of Neanderthals, you don’t get fancy outings like this.”

Ron frowned. “This isn’t an outing, Malfoy. It’s a meeting between vamps.”

“Humph, like I care about Hermione and her precious Shadow Kin. As long as I’ve been commandeered to be here, I might as well get laid.”

“I don’t think you can afford the whores in there, Draco, Malfoy-heir though you may be. I’m thinking daddy Lucius isn’t as eager to give you the fortune now that you’re a member of the Order of the Phoenix.” Hermione said silkily.

Draco scowled and Harry wanted her so badly right then.

Moments later, Harry’s side of the car was opened from the outside. Lucien was there, grinning. “Show time.”

Harry wasn’t sure what that meant, but he stepped out anyway. He now noticed there was a red carpet, and where he walked, not everyone was allowed to tread.

At a bit of a loss, he held his hand out for Hermione. She primly took his offered assistance and stepped out, her fur coming loose the slightest bit from her shoulder.

He could see a blood-red halter-top that showed off her décolletage nicely. She held her hand out to Lucien who gave her—of all things—a sword. It was her usual katana, Harry realized, except now it was polished and cleaned, and it looked much prettier. It was only then, beyond the heat of battle, that he realized the sheer detail, the feminine quality of what was often perceived as a masculine weapon. Its sheathe gleamed with a black-lacquer quality, a frightening but beautiful kabuki worked into it with shells, semi-precious stones and perhaps jade. The hilt, serviceable and perhaps wrapped for optimum gripping had dark-red strips of leather crisscrossed around it. The sword and sheathe had been made for her, no doubt, and it was startlingly becoming.

That flash of shoulder, fur, heels and sword; she was breathtaking and Harry forgot for an instant why they were here.

Lucien and Solomon began to walk and she followed, the rest of them flanking her as they made their way down the red carpet.

Her Shadow Kin confidently strode up to the bouncers, carefully filling bouncer pockets with hefty wads of pound notes as they walked by. The bouncers nodded their thanks with stoic dignity, saying “Miz Granger” with such respect that Harry couldn’t help but stare at them, wondering whether money was as magical to them as wizard magic was to him. They passed more club personnel, all of them getting a handshake or a pat in the pocket from either Lucien or Solomon. They never forgot to acknowledge Hermione, even if Harry could tell by their searching eyes that they’d never seen her before.

She walked by all of them without sparing them so much as a brief glance; without breaking stride. It was as if she knew, without hesitation, that Lucien and Solomon would pave the way, working the obstacles with fluid grace, and that all she had to do was walk and look important.

She’s used to this, Harry thought in amazement.

They reached another door and a perky young woman only a bit older than Hermione smiled and said, “Coat check?”

Yet another bouncer appeared beside her. “Take good care of their coats, Gema. And don’t charge them.”

“Oh!” Gema said, eyes taking on a knowing look. “Of course! That’s a gorgeous coat, ma’am. Do you want me to brush it down for you? Some conditioner?”

“Sounds perfect, luv,” said Solomon, looking to Hermione and taking her sword from her for the meantime.

Harry felt Ron kick him and he stifled a grimace as he recognized his cue, taking the edges of Hermione’s fur coat to help her out of it.

She looked over her shoulder at him and gave him a smoky smile, rendering him speechless as he slipped the coat from off her shoulders.

There was skin, and then back, and an oh-so-wonderful slit.

The dress was a rich blood red, a halter top with small accents of black, like the lovely little bow low on her bare back that pretended to hold the back of the dress together, just where the small of her spine was. The dress clung to her curves, reaching her knees. But then there was that slit on one side that left him with a perfect view of that awesome holster that held a gun and her wand, this one with black lace trimmings, around her perfectly shaped thigh. He looked down her front.

Lovely… He swallowed. “Merlin…”

She laughed ever so softly. “You like?”

There were no words to express how much “he like”.

Solomon handed her back her sword and she held it with practiced grace as they finally walked into the club.

Lively salsa beats had people dancing and swaying all over the club. There were ladies drinks glowing on standing tables, neon colors against the dark, sultry shades of the club and its patrons.

The lights and sounds were as hot as the music and if the bouncers weren’t clearing a path for them, it would have been impossible to walk through without getting bumped.

Harry’s quick eyes roved the floor and he could see them; the vamps. There were many because this was definitely a vamp-human club mix.

Ron was gaping at everything. If Harry didn’t go to clubs, Ron went to them even less. They were pub-folks, he and Ron, and clubs were just boxes filled with sweating bodies, cigarette smoke and drunk people.

Well, pubs had those too, but at least in a pub, they were comfortably dressed. Clubs required their attendants to pretty up, something Harry and Ron didn’t feel like wasting their energy on.

Draco, however, was grinning from ear to ear, his eyes following a scantily clad woman who was happily bobbing her arse. “Very nice.”

They were led up a flight of stairs and further through a steadily quieting hallway. It was still as dark as the rest of the club, but they didn’t need to shout to hear each other anymore.

“Senorita Elena is in here,” said the bouncer, opening ornately carved double-doors.

They stood at the threshold, and as the bouncer moved out of the way, Harry saw just what the fuss about Elena was all about.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The room looked like a lovely Spanish villa on a tropical island. The spelled balconies on one side of the room reflected a nighttime beach, with sea birds and palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze.

It fascinated Harry that with the place housing vampires, it was likely that there would be no daytime incorporated in those spells. Then again, what were these technical matters when faced with a bevy of some of the most beautiful women Harry had ever seen?

The women were lounging. It was the only way to describe them. They were draped on rugs, pillows and lounge chairs looking so utterly relaxed in their club finery. They came in all shapes and colors, vampire, human and werewolf. They looked happy; content… it was captivating.

At the center of them all was a woman in a white, strapless, ankle-length dress. Her bare shoulders showed an interesting tinge in spite of her pale, vampire skin. Her straight brown hair was wavy in places, reaching her waist. She wore gold bangles and beads. Her nails were painted with glitter.

Seeing Hermione, she smiled and stood. She was tall and svelte, but her statuesque form exuded warmth and welcome. Her eyes sparkled with true affection, as if she was Mother Nature instead of Death’s Madame.

“Hermione…” She breathed the name so lovingly. “I’ve missed you horribly since we last parted in Albania and that’s been ages. How have you been, my dear?”

“Smashing, considering the circumstances,” Hermione replied, grinning.

Elena approached her, kissing one cheek, and then the other, but she didn’t quite step away after that. In fact, she took Hermione’s hand and began to caress it in both her own.

The intimate closeness was making Harry a bit sweaty but he most definitely could not look away.

“I feel for you,” Elena said softly, her enchanting Spanish accent a pleasing melody. “Even if I know not the details of this meeting, it is safe to guess that Yasmin has been very… naughty. She has wronged you in some way, no doubt.”

“In one of the worse ways,” Hermione said, nodding. “You know how she gets… but this time, I don’t know if I can forgive her. Worse comes to worse, I might have to kill her.”

Elena’s eyebrow arched. “You know I admire your skill, dearest. It was that skill which saved my life, but Yasmin… is not easy to kill. I cannot bear it if something… should happen to you.”

Her words provoked Harry’s instincts and he frowned. “I won’t let anything happen to her.”

It was as if Elena noticed him for the first time. She gave Harry a brief once over before smiling at him sympathetically. “You are Harry Potter. I recognize you from the wizarding papers, and in my society, there are some who fear you, but one of them is not Yasmin. She fears no one. She will not let anyone get in the way of her whims. Hermione has always ever been her concern, and if Hermione plays her cards right, she will not have to defend herself against Yasmin’s wrath.”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m not her flunkie. I won’t turn a blind eye to her transgressions just because she’s the master of the Coven.”

“She knows the extent of your will. She will come into this meeting knowing your mindset, but remember this… she does not want to lose you.”

“I’m not hers.”

Elena smiled wanly, pushing some hair tenderly away from Hermione’s face. “Whatever web she has woven, you’re already in it. You will only entangle yourself more you if you resist. Play her game, chica, and you will not have to shed anyone’s blood to resolve this situation.” She looked pointedly at Harry after this and Hermione looked over her shoulder at him.

Harry stared back curiously, wondering if Elena had just used him to sway Hermione’s thoughts on the matter.

A moment later, Hermione nodded. “I understand. Should we head to the board room, now, Elena?”

“No. Yasmin is yet to arrive, and when she does, I wish to soften her up a bit for you. It will hurt no one, yes? Carmelita, see to it that Hermione and her gentlemen are comfortable while they wait. Serve them anything they want from the menu.”

Harry had a feeling the “menu” had more than food and drink in it.

Carmelita, a black-haired beauty wearing a beige dress that was relatively more conservative but no less attractive, began gesturing to the girls and whispering to the ones nearest her. The girls grinned and got to work.

Elena leaned into Hermione, whispering something in her ear before she kissed Hermione’s cheek tenderly and left the room.

The eager smile on Draco’s lips showed that he knew just what was coming.

Lucien and Solomon most enthusiastically made themselves comfortable among the groups of women, falling back on pillows and couches. Draco and Ron were promptly accosted, though Ron looked mightily uncomfortable, stuttering and muttering as he gently pushed the women’s wandering hands away. He slowly got backed into a corner and he looked up helplessly at Harry.

Harry shrugged just before three astoundingly beautiful ladies made their way towards him, grabbing his attention. They shot him coquettish smiles just as his eyes widened in realization. He was just about to come to terms with the fact that he was going to suffer the same fate as Ron when a wall of sultry brown curls got between him and the women.

“Back, the fuck, off,” Hermione hissed fiercely at them. No uncertain terms, there.

Without even waiting for their reaction, she spun and took his hand, dragging him to the nearest balcony and pulling the curtains free of the ties holding them. The curtains fell between them and the rest of the party.

Harry was certainly beginning to like this. “Well, that wasn’t very nice of you,” he said charmingly.

She glared at him, cocking her hip to one side and planting one hand on it while the other gripped the sheathed sword with whitening knuckles. He saw the ring on her finger glinting against the black lacquered surface of the sheathe and wondered if it was merely a trick of the eye or whether some form of magic was making it act that way. “You didn’t seem very eager to tell them off, so I told them off for you. Do you have a problem with that?”

It was painful stifling his grin. He could watch her being in this jealous mood all night. It was, after all, downright sexy. As lovely as she looked to begin with, it was absolutely nothing compared to seeing her riled up this way. “No. No problem. I’m glad you were there to take action. Why was I supposed to tell them off, again?”

She frowned then she looked haughty. “Because you’re with me, or at least that’s the way it should look. I can’t very well walk into a place crawling with vampires without a proper escort.”

“Oh, Merlin forbid.”

“And what was I supposed to do while waiting? Watch you all get wanked off while I sit in the shadows alone? No thank you.”

He leaned back against the balcony, cocking a grin as he gently took her hand and pulled her to him. She resisted for a heartbeat before letting him pull her closer. Testing the boundaries, he let his hand rest on the small of her back, caressing ever so slightly. She didn’t object, though she kept frowning, and she still had her sword in her grip.

“Like I would ever let you sit around in the shadows alone,” he said.

“Humph,” she said quietly, turning slightly away, though she did not widen the proximity between them. She began to tap her sword with the ring.

He pushed some hair away from her eyes with a delicate nudge of his fingers. “Nervous about Yasmin?”

“No,” she replied automatically before sniffing and saying, “Yes. She’s over five hundred years old and ruthless. I’m twenty-three and confused. What am I doing here, Harry?”

“Old vampire traditions: marking your territory. And then there’s defending the honor of someone you care about… natural responses.” He rubbed her spine gently. “What are you confused about, exactly?”

“I’m in the middle of something I could barely comprehend and my personal life, which seemed so satisfyingly devoid of romantic relationships, is suddenly wrought with complex choices that I feel compelled to make.”

He smiled. “So we’ve progressed from having an ‘arrangement’ to being in a ‘romantic relationship?’ About bloody time.”

She flushed. “A complicated-yet-undefined romantic relationship, but yes… I figured that with the ring and all, I’ve lost all credibility on the matter of being a cold, unfeeling bitch.”

Now both his hands were pressed to her back, pulling her closer. Her arm snaked around his shoulders just when his lips brushed hers, but she instantly pulled her lips away, pressing against him so that she would be too close for him to pursue their kiss.

With a frustrated sigh, he put his lips to her ear. “You’re not going to let me kiss you, are you?”

“No. This isn’t the time. I shouldn’t have even brought it up, what with Coven matters being so grave, but it slipped out of me, just like my jealousy did a while ago.”

He smiled and planted soft kisses on her neck. “Well, isn’t that funny… Ron was right, after all.”

“About what?”

“Nothing. So this complicated, undefined romantic relationship we have…” He pressed his lips to the hollow just behind her ear, closing his eyes. He could smell her perfume and he let it wrap around his senses. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shifted in his embrace. He could feel the graceful movement of her back against his hands, how she seemed to be fitting herself against him. He smiled, putting a bit of tongue to his kisses.

“Hmm?” She said in response. “I mean… sure. That’s… nice.”

“Talking or necking?” he whispered, rasping his teeth against the skin of her neck.

She sighed, her fingers running through his hair. “I am in absolutely no position to answer that right now. Oh my, Harry…”

He obliged her more of the same because it was intoxicating to hear her say his name that way, and then he pulled back, looking into her eyes to see if maybe he could graduate to the touch of her lips. Her gaze was most welcoming.

It would have been easy to take her lips, and he would have, most eagerly, but he saw the rustling of curtains at the corner of his eye, and his distracted gaze alerted Hermione to the disturbance.

She turned to look over her shoulder just when Ron appeared through the drapes looking decidedly winded, but relieved, as if he had just gotten away from something.

“Whatever I interrupted, I don’t want to know,” said Ron. “But Elena’s back. She said Yasmin’s in the board room.”

Hermione nodded, extricating herself from Harry’s arms and tapping Ron’s shoulder gratefully as she walked past him.

Ron cast him an apologetic look. “Sorry.”

Harry sighed. “Let’s go.”

Together, they followed after Hermione.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The boardroom wasn’t brightly lit. The walls were marble black, the conference table long and massive, the décor Zen-inspired and geometric. The lighting allowed for all of them to see one another, but not with any stark detail.

Yasmin sat on one end of the table, dressed in a very business-like suit, but as was her wont, the suit was made of pure leather, clinging desperately to her curves and pushing her breasts up to make a most pleasing cleavage. She had her hair tied up in an upsweep, a jeweled choker wrapped around her svelte neck. She flicked around a riding crop, and seated cross-legged, they could see that her stiletto-heeled footwear could seriously injure a person should it ever be used as a weapon.

Sitting on the chairs to her left and right were Isidore and Mari, their werewolves and perhaps hers standing behind Yasmin’s chair.

Hermione leaned back on her seat at the opposite end, staring at her with barely veiled contempt. Hermione looked relaxed, even if Harry could see her gripping her sword tightly under the table. He wished he could put his hand on her shoulder to give her comfort, but it was hardly the kind of thing that would do any good.

Solomon sat to one side of her while Lucien sat on the other. Harry had preferred to stand, knowing that he could protect her better that way. Ron did so, too, probably for the same reason. Draco just wanted to be directly behind all of them. It was safer for him that way.

“So,” Yasmin said, slapping her riding crop lightly against her palm. “What’s the big idea throwing Henry through his office window? Didn’t like the décor?”

Hermione sneered. “Well, there’s that. But mostly, I’d had enough of his nauseating bullcrap. I thought maybe throwing him through a window would make my message to you sound more eloquent.”

“It was unnecessary.”

“It got you here, didn’t it? Besides… it was fun to do.”

Yasmin glared at her. “You know I’m jealous about my toys, Hermione. I don’t recall giving you permission to play with him.”

“I didn’t give you permission to play with my Shadow Kin, either.”

“I’m Coven Master, I don’t need your permission.”

“Even Coven Masters have rules to follow, and you of all people should know that my Shadow Kin answer to me first before they answer to you.”

“Humph,” Yasmin said. “Lucien was certainly answering to something else when I was fucking his brains out.”

Lucien looked like he wanted to melt through the floor.

“Let me explain something to you, Yasmin,” Hermione said in a greatly annoyed tone. “Where they put their dicks is no concern of mine, and I could care less to whom you peddle that joke you call your Virtue, but when you use my Shadow Kin to spy on me, I can very well take all your toys, human or vampire, and make them my bitch. You can very well take your coven protocol and shove it up your arse. Step over my territory and the gloves come off.”

Harry valiantly resisted the urge to gulp. He had a feeling that Yasmin hadn’t been talked to that way for quite some time now, and she might not take kindly to Hermione’s rather—well, fearless approach. It was, however, a slightly wiser approach than cowering under the mantle of Yasmin’s power. Only slightly. It could still get Hermione killed—for sheer impudence.

Color rose to Yasmin’s cheeks and she looked about ready to explode. For several seconds, she said nothing, but the sound of her riding crop slapping against her palm became distinctly louder during that moment of silence.

The sound thundered in Harry’s ears and the air was tense with anticipation of the worse.

“I ought to kill you for speaking to me like that,” Yasmin said quietly.

Harry’s hand tightened on his wand.

Elena coughed, shooting Yasmin a warning glare.

Hermione—amazingly—managed to look unconcerned. “You won’t. You need me. And if not me, you need Harry. He’ll do shite for you if I come to any harm by your hand.”

“Presumptuous little—“

“Am I? Then you should’ve told Voldemort that I was on the train to Hogwarts, then maybe I could’ve gotten killed, and Voldie would’ve gotten his hands on Harry.”

Yasmin blinked, surprised, before she frowned. “Honestly, Hermione… I might have merited your wrath shagging your Shadow Kin, but don’t insult me. Work for a human and his scraps? The idea…”

At that, Hermione fell silent. She was, perhaps, not as astonished as she should be, even if Harry was reeling from this revelation. Yasmin was, it seemed, denying involvement with Voldemort, and she was denying having told Voldemort of their train trip to Hogwarts.

“Doesn’t change the fact that you don’t want me dead,” Hermione said after a while. “And that you need Harry. Give me a reason why I shouldn’t just quit your stupid Coven and stop taking orders from you.”

True annoyance knotted Yasmin’s eyebrows. “Because you need to know where that last Horcrux is.”

Harry was afraid she would use that as a trump card.

Hermione didn’t bat an eyelash. “Too true. Seems to put us in a bit of a stalemate, doesn’t it? But here’s what I think. You need to tell us where that last horcrux is, anyway. And do you know why I think this? Because whether or not you work for Voldemort, you’d want him dead just as much as Harry does.”

Harry stiffened. When had Hermione come up with that? And more importantly, was it relevant enough for Yasmin to get muscled into telling them what they wanted to know?

“Voldemort is a human and I could care less—“

“Voldemort is gathering vampires to serve him, one of which used to be your brother. To your credit, I don’t think you’re after Voldemort for seducing Janus. You’re simply bound by the principles of your legacy; that no vampire should seek to tip the dark balance of nature as we know it.”

The words rung in Harry’s ears. Janus was Yasmin’s brother? Surely they weren’t really related! No, probably not. In vamp-speak that could mean they were turned by the same vamp; the same master.

Yasmin’s eyebrow arched before the faintest of smiles lifted the corner of her lip. “My, my, my… I seemed to have taught you well.”

“I’ve been an apt pupil. I’ve learned more from you than you were willing to teach me. Voldemort and the uproar he’s causing in vampire society is a nuisance you can’t afford to have, but rather than get your hands filthy concerning yourself with a human, you get another human to do away with him. You want Voldemort dead; you want Harry to do it; ergo, you’re going to give him the last horcrux.”

“Or I can kill Voldemort myself. Would certainly save me all this trouble.”

Hermione snorted. “Please… if you could do it, you would’ve done it already. That’s the trouble with listening to Oracles and soothsayers… it taints your judgment. Instead of doing what you would naturally do, you feel compelled to follow a bleeding ancient instrument.”

Yasmin’s riding cropped whistled as she slapped the surface of the table.

Isidore and Mari jumped in their seats.

She looked to be on the limits of her patience. “That bleeding ancient instrument has served our society for millennia. Do not dare mock it.”

Even Hermione was surprised by this show of temper. Who knew that Yasmin heeded the Oracle with near-religious belief? Or maybe there was something more to it? At any rate, it seemed like an opening Hermione was most willing to exploit.

“Then don’t test the fates,” Hermione hissed. “So maybe you didn’t tell anybody about the train trip to Hogwarts, but too bad for you, it led to me finding out what you did to Lucien, and I’m not going to sit back and let it all be for naught. Tell me where Gryffindor’s staff is and we can forget this little altercation of ours. Elena will see to it that you don’t get bad press for any of this and I don’t have to worry about being called a simpering alpha who couldn’t take care of her Shadow Kin.”

Harry’s eyes roved to Lucien and saw no trace of surprise. This was something Hermione and Lucien had talked about; it was something Lucien was expecting: That he would be used as a bargaining chip in order to keep the status quo.

It was just as well, Harry supposed. Lucien owed Hermione that much in this matter. He had made Hermione vulnerable through his vices, and while letting her use his situation for their benefit might not nearly be enough to right the wrong, it was a useful start.

Yasmin leaned back on her seat, lips pressed into a thin line. “If I tell you where the staff is, you will proceed with your mission and you will continue to be an affiliate of the Coven.”

Harry relaxed. These were conditions Hermione was willing to do, anyway, whether or not she got things straightened out with Yasmin. Hermione had, at least, made that much clear to him when they talked in the Jag the night before.

“If you throw in safeguarding both Lucien and Solomon from retaliation concerning this debacle—which is your fault, by the way—, then yes,” Hermione replied. “At the risk of getting shot right to hell, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll just have to take comfort in the fact that my priorities aren’t as screwed up as yours.”

“Fine. Done.” Yasmin nodded crisply before she shot Hermione a rather ambiguous look. “Incidentally, Granger, I would have been… impressed by the way you manipulated this if I didn’t know where you learned how to do it.”

“I’ll owl you your Teacher of the Year certificate, now get on with the telling.”

Yasmin snorted. “Very well… Gryffindor’s staff is hidden deep in the mountains of Bulgaria, hanging on one of the walls of your ex-boyfriend’s castle. You remember that ex, don’t you? You were together for almost six months.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. Ex… boyfriend in Bulgaria… SIX MONTHS?

“You filthy, good for nothing bitch,” Hermione growled, red with rage.

Yasmin smiled, finally happy to get in the last laugh. “Say hello to Viktor Krum for me, won’t you?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry didn’t know why he was positively incensed by the fact that Hermione had—

--had BOYFRIENDED that Wonky Fainting son of a fucking—

“Umm, Harry?” Hermione squeaked as they made their way home in the Jag.

He put a hand between them. “Don’t talk to me right now. Just don’t.”

She backed off, and he noticed that she was staring at her ring, twisting it in her fingers as she bit her lower lip.

She must be checking to see if the knots weren’t unraveling.

Somehow, that only made him more teed off. His feelings for her were true. Did she think something like this could wipe it away so easily? He wanted to think that his emotional range was better than the length of a teaspoon.

So he still loved her; there was no question about that, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t hate her right now.

He couldn’t believe how angry he was, and he wasn’t even sure why. Surely, he should’ve been angrier before, when she pranced back into his life out of nowhere, treating him like dirt. Surely, this was not something he should be getting angry about, especially considering he had no say in who Hermione dated when they were separated, but he was. He was furious and for the first time since she returned, he didn’t want to look at her.

The tension was so palpable that even Draco knew enough not to say anything.

Solomon coughed. “Erm… anybody up for chocolate? Ice cream for the humans?”

“Ice cream!” Ron said with an obviously forced smile.

Harry was not in the mood. “You blokes go on ahead. You can just drop me off at Grimmauld Place, thanks.”

Silence followed, and Harry had a feeling none of them really felt like chocolates and ice cream, just that now, they had to go, because it wouldn’t do to have been so obviously conspiring to distract from the awful atmosphere in the car.

As soon as the Jaguar pulled up in the curb, Harry stepped out of the car and headed straight for Grimmauld Place’s front porch.

He only became aware that Hermione had followed after him when he turned to close the door. He frowned and continued inside, leaving her to close the door behind them.

“Harry, wait!” she cried after the door was shut.

He didn’t even pause as he spoke through grit teeth. “You were brilliant in that board room, Hermione. And really, whatever implications arose out of it needs talking about. I am completely and utterly aware of that fact, but at this time, I think it would be best if you leave me the hell alone!”

“Harry!” she gasped, shocked that he would ever talk to her that way. “Please tell me what you’re so angry about. Was it something I said? Because whatever it was, I didn’t mean it! Or you got it all wrong! Or—“

“It was nothing like that,” he said through grit teeth. “It was—God! I’m so teed off at you right now I can’t even express it!” The sound of shattering vases sounded through the halls and Harry cursed his accidental magic.

“Harry—“

“I can’t—,” Harry growled. “How could you do that? How could you—“

“How could I what, Harry?” she said, sounding frustrated. “I don’t even know—“

“You shacked up with Viktor Krum for six fucking months, that’s what! God, Hermione, how can you stay with him for that long and walk out on me barely a month through—Merlin fuck me! It’s just so blooming wrong! I’d demand an explanation, but right now, nothing you can say would make me feel better about any of it, so just leave me the fuck alone, alright? Just—did you love him more? Did he love you better than I did? Did he—you know what? I don’t need to know. I. Don’t. Need. To. Know!”

He turned to keep walking.

She followed after him. “H-Harry! It was nothing like that! It was—“

“Don’t you dare tell me it was just sex.”

“Of course it wasn’t just sex!” she gasped. “Can you stop for one second and—“

He shook his head. “Right now, there’s a buzzing in my ears. So no, you don’t get one second. I think after all the slack I’ve cut you, you can give me this time alone, don’t you think?”

She didn’t look as if she was going to argue the point.

“Great,” he said, making his way to his room and shut himself in with a great big bang of his door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione heard the door to his room slamming shut and her shoulders sagged miserably.

Wonderful. Since when have I ever been this relationship-challenged?

Oh, yes, since I was turned…

It was so damn frustrating when one thought things were finally going in a nice and easy direction then have it all crash down like a house of cards.

Now what am I going to do with this silly dress? she thought. She had been hoping some time during their interlude in the balcony that he would maybe venture to—oh, remove it from her when they got back to Grimmauld Place.

That’s not happening tonight… or perhaps any other night…

The thought struck her as terrible. It was more frightening than the thought of facing Yasmin and impending humiliation. It was more frightening than death, this possibility that she had finally succeeded in chasing Harry away.

She blinked back tears as she plopped down on the stairs, shocked by the awful possibilities and the fact that it was scaring her. Her musings, however, were interrupted when she realized that she wasn’t alone on the stairwell.

There stood Ron, staring up at her from the foot of the steps.

It’s just as well…

Ron was probably going to pick up where Harry ended and finish her off altogether.

Gravely, he climbed the steps and sat beside her. “Alright, Hermione?”

It was a bit of a surprise that he hadn’t started yelling at her.

Sniffing to control her emotions, she looked at him warily. “Relatively. Yasmin hadn’t tried to kill me, and she didn’t go for humiliation, either. Of course, that doesn’t mean what she said wasn’t vicious in the extreme, or that I don’t think she’s a demonic bitch…” She tried to laugh but failed at the effort. “Still… I resolved the bigger issues, eh? And now all I have to do is worry about how I’m going to punish Lucien for his indulgences…”

“I was asking about you with regard to Harry, but I suppose all that works as well if you want to talk about it.”

Hermione stared at him a moment, perplexed. “You’re being nice to me. This is weird.”

His brows knotted just before he chuckled. “What are you on about, Granger? You’re my best friend too, you know… or at least that’s how it used to be. At any rate, Harry cares for you, so I care for you.”

“You do?”

“Don’t be stupid. Of course I care. So I was teed off with you, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to step on your heart when the Brooding Hero up there had already given you a hard time of it. I’ve never kicked a man while he was down, and I’m certainly not going to abandon you at a time like this.”

Hermione was really surprised now. “Well that’s… that’s right decent of you, Ron. Thank you. Frankly, I don’t know what to say…”

“Well, I know how to cure that. So… you dated Viktor Krum. For six months even. You understand why Harry’s so teed off, don’t you?”

She grimaced, leaning her head against the banister of the stairway. “I think so, but I’m not going to hazard anymore guesses, educated or otherwise. I’ve found that when it comes to relationships, I’m the stupidest person in all of England. I’m a relationship-squib.”

He grinned. “Well, you can’t be good at everything, you know.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“So do you want me to tell you what I think, or not?”

“Sure. What’s the harm in it?”

He nodded, holding up his hand and counting off each finger as he spoke. “Fact one: your biggest issue with Harry was his being human and therefore incompatible with you. Fact two: you leave him without so much as a goodbye a month through your vampirism; give or take. Fact three: you had a relationship with Viktor Krum, human. Fact four: you had a relationship with Viktor Krum for six months. Conclusion: That’s fucked up. How can you stay that long with Krum after you gave up on Harry so quickly? I’m pretty sure Krum never loved you the way Harry did.”

Hermione sighed, looking down at her hands. She thought it was something like that. “It wasn’t… Viktor never came close to what Harry was to me, and I don’t think he loved me better, either, but Viktor was… he was easy. It wasn’t passionate or dramatic or… well, I guess you can say he was comfortable. Good company when he was there… he was mostly absent, you see. He’s a Quidditch player. He travels the world for games and such, and I couldn’t even watch him. Never did, actually. My excuse was I couldn’t go out in the day, but it was a big relief that I didn’t have to go to his games. So in those six months… you can say we were together for an accumulative time of a month and a half. Besides that, Viktor wasn’t going to give up his dreams for me. That was… a weight off my conscience. I wasn’t depriving him of anything. He wanted to have children so… he had them.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “With other women?”

“No, with me. His mojo is supercharged so I bore him children in spite of my vampirism. I’ve left all four of our children with him… of course with other women! Two, in fact.”

He frowned. “Well, I was just saying… you let him have these affairs?”

She shrugged. “Things were already rather iffy some time around the fifth month, and it just sort of fizzled out around the sixth. There was no awkward break up or anything. We just stopped seeing each other and then I heard he had children with two willing women. The fact that it doesn’t really bother me… well, says something, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, that he’s a git.”

Hermione frowned. “Don’t be harsh, Ron. The man wanted children, I couldn’t give it to him, so he sought it from someone… well, others.”

Ron shrugged. “Harry would never do it that way. If he wanted children, he’d want them with you, so maybe he’d adopt. He won’t go and have ‘em with other women.”

“Yes, well… Harry’s affection for me right now is a bit shaky, at best, so we won’t be comparing him with anybody tonight.”

“You’re upset. That he’s angry at you.”

“And so what if I am?”

“I more than expected that you’d pretend not to care.”

“Pretend… that’s a funny way of calling it.”

“Well, you don’t expect me to believe that you’re as cold as you wanted to seem, do you?”

She shrugged, finding it in herself to smile for him a bit. “I don’t know. Maybe I did. Even the human Hermione was capable of being cold and calculating.”

“Is it easier for you that way?”

“For all of us, don’t you think?”

“Nope. I think just for you.”

She sighed. “I don’t want to hurt anybody unnecessarily, Ron. It’s not a vamp trait that developed very well in me. And I certainly meant no offense to Harry when I dated Viktor. I’ve done loads of other things he could be angry about… why this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he just finally snapped. You’ve provoked him an awful lot, already.”

“But I thought we’d gotten all that out of the way…”

“In Hogwarts? That hardly counts. You were angry together and then you fooled around as a result of it.”

Her jaw dropped. “He told you about that?”

“Well, he didn’t go into details, and he only told me because he needed advice, but yeah, he told me. We tell each other things, you know. It’s this pesky ‘best friend’ thing we have going.”

Her brows knotted at her own shortsightedness, then she cocked a weary smile. “Can I tell you something, then?”

“You can tell me anything.”

She appreciated him for saying that. She placed her hands on his arm and squeezed gratefully. “I don’t like it that he’s angry at me. It’s making me feel… lost.”

He nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Go on.”

“I’m afraid that he won’t speak to me ever again. Makes my stomach feel all leaden and knotted.”

“Classic symptoms. Shortness of breath? Sleepless nights?”

She chuckled. “I’ve practically stopped breathing and I haven’t been sleeping at night at all.”

He laughed softly, draping his arm over her shoulders and squeezing her in his great big embrace. “I’m afraid you’ve got it bad, then.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, liking the security of Ron’s all-encompassing arms as she gazed at nothing in particular. “Do I? Then I’m in deep shite. He hates me.”

“Oh, just give ‘im some space. He’ll get over it. I did.”

She looked up and exchanged tired grins with him before they finally settling into an easy, comfortable silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Aaaaand I’m writing Chapter 26 as you read. ^_^

Thanks! Come again!

27. Chapter Twenty-Sixth: Ghosts

Author’s Notes: I’m just utterly and absolutely amazed at the response this story has received. I love this baby; you all know that, but you just can’t imagine how unbelievably astonished (and grateful. Yes, very much so!) I am that so many readers are writing in. How in heck does one get 1000+ reviews? How?!? By having awesome readers, that’s how! Still, I can’t begin to comprehend what aspect of this entire story compels readers to leave reviews, so I’m just going to pray that I keep doing whatever it is I’m doing. Thank you so much for the overwhelming response. ^_^

And, of course, special thanks to tome_raider who has been an awesome beta for Chapters 26 and 27. ^_^ Lady Diamond, too, who—in spite of very pressing matters in real life, beta-ed Chapter 24! Yes, betas are the angels of the writing world.

Chapter rating: R

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Chapter Twenty-Sixth: Ghosts

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Considering that there was a great possibility that Yasmin hadn’t had any part in the attack of the Hogwarts Express, Harry upped the priority of the Auror Department-sanctioned investigation of it. It very well meant that there was a mole in the Order, possibly completely independent of Yasmin’s influence.

In truth, he was getting a bit paranoid, and he began to understand why Mad-Eye acted the way he did. Harry could only take comfort in the fact that he wasn’t so far gone on paranoia that he would suspect just anybody. Of course, that didn’t mean Draco got to keep his memories of that night in La Senorita, but that was another story altogether.

He was now going through the file rather meticulously, making notes and marking pages as he went. There wasn’t anything compelling, and his few interviews of the passengers contributed very little, but the fact that he was doing something obsessively was welcome at the moment.

Shacklebolt had asked for three days for him to procure an off-the-record Portkey to Bulgaria. The head of the Auror Department had accomplished such a feat once before already, but having experience didn’t make it any easier the second time around. Still, Shacklebolt was dependable, and Harry patiently gave him the three days, now he just needed to focus all his attentions on the investigation so that he didn’t have to deal with the issue about Hermione.

He still hadn’t talked to Hermione about her relationship with Viktor Krum. He wasn’t acting angry anymore. He didn’t snub her or treat her badly, but he had been distant, and evasive. Every time she brought up something remotely personal, or even intimate, he would change the subject, tell her he had something to do or turn to talk to someone else. He just didn’t feel like dealing with the angst right now.

Every so often, whenever he would look at her and forget for a few seconds why he had blown his top, he felt the urge to give her a grin and maybe a snog, but then the revelations in the board room would rush back to memory and he’d be annoyed all over again.

“Annoyed” was putting it mildly, but that’s what he liked to call it, anyway. He got particularly “annoyed” whenever he remembered what happened in the balcony of Elena’s lounge room. It had been foreplay, and they could have very well picked up from where they left off once they got back to Grimmauld Place.

And then Yasmin… ARGH! That bitch!

He’d stabbed quite a few sandwiches, dotted and slashed holes in his parchment, and beat the punching bag out of shape during the many times he’d thought about it.

At least Hermione didn’t look too happy about any of it, either. While she didn’t make a big fuss out of his evasions, she wasn’t her usual pleasant self. Of course, “pleasant” was relative to her vampirism, but she seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time un-smiling, which to Harry was partly reassuring. It helped too that she kept wearing the ring, even when it made her an easy target for Draco’s mockery.

Now if only Harry could get over his anger.

He was dying to ask Ron if he’d been talking to Hermione about it. After all, Ron seemed to have become chummy with her again. They weren’t getting all kissy-faced with each other, because that would have been terribly strange, but their little spats weren’t bitter anymore, if they even fought at all, and they seemed to have grown comfortable around each other again, like she could quite casually request Ron to hold the punching bag for her while they talked idly of little matters, probably to catch up on the things they should have talked about when Ron was being snappy and mean to her.

Harry would probably ask Ron about it when Ron’s schedule permitted it.

Lucien, in the meantime, had been reduced to groveling. Now that the issue with Yasmin had gotten sorted in its own, gut-wrenching way, Hermione was slowly, but surely, applying punishment, which was, it seemed, in the form of damning kindness. She was so kind to Lucien that Lucien, in his devotion, punished himself. This was particularly vicious, because Hermione was doing it to make him feel horribly sorry. She made it perfectly clear that she was being extra nice to him so that he could very well drown in his guilt. Solomon, who was probably party to Hermione’s schemes, ensured that Lucien remembered just how much Lucien owed her, and that she hadn’t deserved his carelessness in the least. So Lucien, wrought with remorse, did everything he could to make up for his transgressions. He cleaned even when he hadn’t been asked to. He polished her boots, and Solomon’s, and even Harry’s. He fetched take-away for the humans; told Draco off when he abused the others and let Draco abuse him, even if it was obvious he wanted to rip into Draco’s throat. The only reason he didn’t go ahead and kill Draco was because Hermione would always say, “Oh, stop teasing him, Draco. Lucien, you know you won’t stoop to his level, yes? You’re too much of a sweetheart for that.”

Harry had to admit, this punishment was far more effective than any physical pain Hermione could have dealt.

So really, Harry had quite a bit to fill the void that once was the pleasure of being in Hermione’s company. When he wasn’t investigating Hogwarts and when he wasn’t evading intimate talks with her, he practiced his Legilimens and did fight training. She was—it seemed—a most dependable instructor. And perhaps having realized that he wasn’t going to let his personal feelings get in the way of Order matters, she taught him without bringing up the details of their rather shaky relationship.

If anything, this separation of emotions from work seemed to have done his training good. His Legilimens was seemed to have gained an improved accuracy, even if he was still making a lot of mental noise. His focus in his physical training had grown sharp and he was fast learning new fighting moves even if he still couldn’t clearly make out the patterns to call the magic. At the third day, they were working with wooden swords, and in this, Hermione sparred with him herself.

She was brilliant with a sword; disciplined and methodical, and she moved with perfect grace. Her technique flowed like water, her sword going one way, then another, undeterred by blocks or deflections. Her body moved with her weapon, like a well-practiced dance. She showed him how, then she told him how, adding useful pointers and explaining why it hadn’t worked for him when it had worked so well for her. She was stern, but patient; frank, but encouraging. He could have used a teacher like her at the Auror academy. Maybe he would’ve become a far better swordsman.

It was in that same night that the portkey’s location was delivered by Shacklebolt himself.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was ushered into Grimmauld Place and he walked in with his usual, business-like briskness. He took one cursory look at Fawkes who had settled on the nearby coat rack, upon which the Phoenix began to preen his horribly clumpy feathers. He was probably about ready to burst into flames any day.

Shacklebolt then told Harry where the portkey could be found. “The Leaky Cauldron.” He gave Harry the room number. “The portkey will work until ten tomorrow evening, after which its effect will wane and Tom would let the room again. You will make your own portkey in Bulgaria using this tin can.” At this, Shacklebolt handed Harry a disgustingly grimy can in a box. “The tin can has a security spell on it. You should be able to set your place of destination without fear of getting ambushed. Safe enough for you?”

Harry nodded. “Thank you, Kingsley. I promise you, this is worth risking your rank for. I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t important.”

Shacklebolt arched an eyebrow. “I don’t doubt that in the least. The general meeting of the Order is coming up in a week or so. I hope you make it worth our while.”

Harry shrugged. “We’ll see. Care to stay for tea, Kingsley? Dobby made scones.”

Probably realizing that Harry had blatantly tried to change the subject, Shacklebolt didn’t insist, and he humbly refused tea, telling Harry that he looked rather busy, anyway, wielding a wooden sword and looking winded from a work-out.

Shacklebolt had said his goodbyes and left.

Harry went back to training and quite calmly told everyone present that he had the portkey to Bulgaria ready.

“Oh,” Ron said, looking just a tad uncomfortable. “That’s good. When are we going to use it?”

“We’ll head out tomorrow night,” Harry said, not really meeting Hermione’s gaze. “I don’t think we should stay in Bulgaria long. We should try to return on the same night. That’s not going to be a problem for Viktor, is it?”

For a moment, Hermione didn’t reply, and Harry realized it was because she didn’t know he was asking her.

“Hermione?”

She blinked. “O-Oh! You’re asking me if Vik—erm, I don’t think… well, Harry, the truth is, I don’t really know. I haven’t seen him in a while…”

“Well, you were with him for six months. How could you not know?” It was the closest he’d gotten to in three days to bringing it up again, and now she looked at him, probably wondering if she should make a big deal out of it. He didn’t really feel like talking about it yet, but the mean-spirited words tumbled out of him before he could think better of it.

She exchanged a very brief glance with Ron, who shrugged.

“I don’t think he’s going to be a problem,” she said, going to the bokken mounts to hang the wooden sword she was holding. “I think I’ve had enough sword training for tonight. You should get some rest, Harry. Busy night, tomorrow. I’ll be in the library if anyone needs me.”

Solomon and Lucien scampered to follow her, casting Harry weary glances as they went.

Harry watched her go, feeling only the slightest twitch of regret that he had been a tad nasty.

Ron sighed, seating himself on one of the benches and chilling the contents of his water bottle with a wave of his wand. “Feel better for what you said?”

Harry stared at the closed door a moment and scowled. “No. I feel horrible. I miss her, but it’s like I have to be angry at her, or else I’d have to consider that distinct possibility that circumstance hadn’t caused her to leave, that there was something wrong with me—“

“Harry, I never thought I’d say this to you, but here goes: Sometimes, you over-think things. It’s simple, really. You love her but you’re angry. Happens to couples all the time. I suppose you just need time to get over this. Sure, accepting what she did is like trying to have one’s tooth yanked out with a wrench, but I think I believe her when she said she didn’t do it to hurt you.”

“She was dating Viktor Krum, international quidditch player. Did she think I wouldn’t find out?”

“Well, you didn’t, did you? Not until Yasmin dropped the bomb herself. Hermione did say that she specifically asked Krum to keep a low profile of their relationship…”

“I commend her for her success,” Harry muttered, dropping on the bench next to Ron. “Honestly, mate, how can she even—she doesn’t even like quidditch!”

“Now that just sounds like something I would say. She never liked Viktor Krum for being a quidditch star. She liked him because he… well, fancied her for who she was; before any of us noticed her at all…”

“That was way back in fourth year, Ron. I don’t think she pulled that incident out of her memories and said to herself, ‘I think I’ll totally forget about the profound but embattled relationship I had with Harry and take up with Vicky. He was really nice to me in fourth year, after all.’ I’m just not seeing it that way.”

Ron cocked a smile. “You know you’re my best friend, right? And I’ll take your side against Krum’s any day. Heck, I’ve even taken your side against Hermione, but let’s just say for this one moment I’m trying to make you rethink what you said. What do you think I’ll say?”

“Screw love, have sex?”

“Inspired, but no. I’d say, ‘Potter, maybe it was about you for all the wrong reasons and not about you for the right ones.’”

Harry stared at him, eyes widening. “Holy crap, Ron… that’s some deep shite, mate. I mean, quite perceptive, if you’re not just spewing out Agony Aunt drivel. Did you really come up with that based on what you and Hermione have been talking about?”

“Actually, I got it from a Muggle movie Ginny made me watch. I thought it was stupid when I heard it, but looking into this situation you have with Hermione, I realized that it really can apply to real life. Clever movie, that…”

Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head, even if he was secretly intrigued by the complexities of Ron’s opportune quote. “So explain it to me, then. What were her wrong reasons and her right reasons?”

“I can only guess, Harry. Right reasons, first. She went with Viktor because he was a friend and she desperately needed one. He knew something about her background, because she and Viktor were constant pen pals up until she died, so he has an idea about you and me, which was probably important given her situation. She knew he cared about her because he went to her memorial all the way from Bulgaria just to pay his last respects. He’s relatively quiet, undemanding and perhaps comfortably boring. The only connection you had with Viktor, really, was your being in the Triwizards Tournament with him, and while you were competitors, it wasn’t as if the two of you were bitter rivals. You and Viktor have no common friends that would subject either of you to uncomfortable run-ins or awkward situations. You and Viktor weren’t friends enough to make anyone think that her dating him would be inappropriate. And most importantly—lets face it—you didn’t exactly begin to dislike Viktor until you started going out with Hermione. You were perfectly fine with Viktor before you started shagging her—“

“Oy!”

“Er, sorry. As I was saying, Krum was A-OK with you, and the fact that she chose to date him after you and she had broken up—so to speak—means her affair with Krum has no bearing whatsoever on your relationship. She didn’t cheat. She didn’t lie. It just happened to be Krum.”

Harry sighed. “That’s not the issue here, mate…”

“Let me finish. Now… the wrong reasons are these: She needed to forget her heartbreak. She was on the rebound. She was likely still heartsick when she started seeing Viktor. Viktor was safe. Viktor was easy. Her word, not mine. Viktor wasn’t someone she could devastate and he wasn’t someone who had to worry about the world first before he worried about himself. Viktor wasn’t a real healing potion; he just numbed the pain. Viktor was the guy who wanted to have children, and since she couldn’t give him that, she let him have other women…”

That startled Harry. He didn’t know that. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Ron gave a noncommittal shrug. “It wasn’t a spoken arrangement between her and Viktor, and he probably didn’t talk about the women, either, but I find it hard to believe that Hermione didn’t know about them when he was—well, sleeping with them. The fact that the affairs didn’t seem to bother her all that much… well, maybe she decided she wouldn’t make a big fuss over it. According to her, their relationship just sort of—“

“Withered away…” Harry finished, remembering Solomon’s description of it.

“Something like that. Six months may seem like a long time, Potter, but maybe… maybe that’s just it. There was hardly anything there to make it matter the way your relationship with her mattered, so it was just six months of companionship. It’s not that she gave up on you so soon, Harry. It’s just that with Viktor, it never got to a point where she really tried with him because she probably thought he wasn’t worth much of the effort. He was just… there.”

Harry had to admit that what Ron said made him feel slightly better. “And you figured all this from talking to her these last few days?”

Ron made a noncommittal gesture. “Luna worked it out with me.”

“Interesting, that,” remarked Harry, purposely keeping it vague that he found the idea of Luna and Ron talking just as intriguing as the theories they formed together. “So you think I should try to talk to Hermione now?”

Ron thought about it a moment. “Well, maybe not now. Give her a bit of a hard time. Teach her a lesson.”

Harry had to laugh at that. “Lesson… yeah, that ought to turn Ms. Books and Cleverness on.”

“Well, if you wanna get all kinky about it…”

Harry shot him a wry smirk.

They were just about agreeing to do some more sword sparring when Remus walked into the gym looking slightly agitated.

Harry was at immediate alert. “Something wrong?”

Remus blinked in surprise. “What? Oh, no. Nothing really wrong. Just… erm, Tonks and I were having dinner at the Leaky Cauldron, see…”

Harry’s eyebrow arched and he looked at Ron questioningly. Ron shrugged, just as perplexed as he was.

“That’s… nice,” Harry replied uncertainly.

Remus reddened and Harry began to worry. “Yes, well… we ran into somebody. Or rather, she ran into us… she had questions and she sounded quite upset… Tonks didn’t want to leave her there considering her condition…”

“Remus, what are you talking about?”

Remus muttered something under his breath. Harry didn’t catch it.

“What?”

Remus’s brows furrowed and he took a deep breath to speak louder. “Cho Chang. She’s downstairs.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry wondered what in the world brought Cho all the way from Hong Kong to London to being in his drawing room. Everyone had known she had gone to Hong Kong, of course, and every once in a while, Harry would hear that she had been in town, usually when she was back in Hong Kong again.

“I wasn’t too keen on the idea of Tonks bringing her here but I did feel bad for Cho,” Remus said as they headed down the stairs.

“Blimey, Harry. Your women have perfect timing, it seems,” Ron contributed.

Harry frowned at him. “Could you please stop calling them my women?”

“Sorry.”

Remus continued. “She was crying and we didn’t want to leave her there, what with the baby and…”

Harry stopped on the stairs and Ron barreled right into his back. Harry felt his stomach drop; like a feeling of impending doom had clunked in his stomach. “W-What?”

“Harry, you dog,” Ron hissed. He did not look the least bit amused.

“Oy, we were careful!” Harry cried. “I think…”

Remus seemed surprised then he seemed to realize what he said. “Oh! But the baby isn’t Harry’s. It’s the first thing we asked her when we saw her…”

Harry felt a bit weak-kneed from relief. He released a breath. “Christ, don’t be saying stuff like that without warning, Remus! Bloody hell… for a moment there I seriously—anyway, does she even want to see me?”

“Actually, that’s… she seemed to have come upon the news of—erm—Hermione. About, um, the fact that she isn’t—you know, dead.”

“Oh, dear,” Ron whispered. “This is a rather interesting situation.”

Harry winced. “No shit.”

They reached the first floor and hastily made for the drawing room.

Upon throwing open the drawing room doors, he was struck by a somewhat astonishing picture. Sitting side by side on the couch was Tonks and Cho, the younger of the two weeping into a handkerchief while the older rubbed her back.

To the side of them was an elegant baby carriage with a blue-eyed, dark-haired infant gurgling happily amidst all the angst.

What was surprising was that Cho appeared to be—well, quite pregnant. She wasn’t huge by any means. She had always been an athletic person, to begin with, and she probably hadn’t been pregnant long, either, but it was because she was long-legged and slim that it was so obvious that she was with child.

To say that watching a pregnant weeping woman with a baby was disconcerting was about the biggest understatement since Hagrid once called Aragog a “wee eight-legged critter”.

“Harry!” Tonks cried, as if mightily relieved to finally have him there.

Harry saw it coming in an instant. Tonks had every intention of leaving him with Cho. He shot Ron a warning glance.

“Leave me with her and you’re dead,” Harry muttered to Ron from the corner of his mouth.

Ron seemed to be thinking about it, probably looking back on any favors he could call Harry on. There weren’t any at the moment, mainly because Harry had saved his life more times than Ron had saved him. Ron spewed a soft oath but stayed put.

Tonks promptly stood from the couch and ushered him to sit beside Cho. “Harry, Cho here has some questions for you. Cho? You can address Harry directly and… well, Remus and I will be in the kitchen if you need us, alright?”

Harry glared at her murderously while Tonks forced a reluctant Remus out of the drawing room. Ron sighed and sat himself on a nearby sofa-chair just when they were closed in.

“Erm… cute baby,” Harry said.

Cho looked up at him, teary-eyed and miserable. She still looked heart-wrenchingly sweet in spite of it all, with her glossy hair combed to perfection and her exotic almond eyes brimming with the damsel-in-distress look that seemed to drive all the blokes crazy. It was perhaps why Harry decided to give their relationship a second chance back then. He did, after all, have a “saving people thing.”

“His name is Jie-rui. His father gave him his name. It means ‘quick-minded’, and when you shorten his name to Jie, it means ‘outstanding’.”

“I—er, can practically hear the Sorting Hat yelling, ‘Ravenclaw!’”

Harry saw Ron rolling his eyes at the inanity of what he’d said.

Cho didn’t seem to think it was very clever, either. She began to cry again with a pitiful wail.

“Ch-Cho!” Harry gasped, hesitantly draping an arm over her shoulders. “H-Hey, don’t cry. What’s the matter? Go on, you can tell us, right, Ron?”

“Yeah.” It didn’t sound very encouraging, the way Ron said it, but thankfully, Cho didn’t seem to notice.

Harry glared at him for it but said nothing.

Cho cried for a quite a bit before she looked up again. Her eyes were suddenly blazing with anger, and the target of it was suddenly clear in the next few seconds. She swung and her palm connected with Harry’s cheek just before she pulled away from his embrace. “You git!” She kept swinging, hitting his shoulder repeatedly at each word. “You good for nothing git! You lied, you bloody bastard! MEN! GRR!”

“O-Ouch! Ow! Cho, what the hell!”

Ron, for his part, seemed a lot more interested now. He was however, staring slack-jawed at the scene; that is, until Cho took up a pillow and threw it right at Ron’s face.

“O-Oy!” Ron cried, getting a mouth-full of tassel.

Harry grappled with her to hold her by the arms, trying to be careful not to hurt her. She was pregnant, and she simply shouldn’t be this upset. She had, however, picked up a vase and looked about ready to hurl it at him, or at Ron. No sense in finding out whose name was on the ammo.

“Ron, take the vase!” Harry cried.

“Lemme go!” Cho cried, struggling. “You’re all the same, the lot of you!”

Ron scrambled to pry the vase from her grip and he mostly succeeded, but she kicked and caught Ron right where it hurt the most.

Ron dropped for the count and the vase rolled a safe distance away.

Harry gasped. “Shite! Ron! Mate, are you al—“

“No, you blithering idiot!” Ron rasped from the ground.

The baby started to cry.

Harry sighed as he grunted to keep Cho from swinging. “Jun’s—“

“Jie!” Cho hissed. “I swear, you are so thoughtless! You lied to me, you great big git! You told me Hermione was dead! And now I hear she’s been a vampire all this time and—were you seeing her while we were dating?”

“W-What? No! I never cheated on you!”

“Good for nothing, the lot of you! See this moron over here? He couldn’t see a good thing if it hit him in the face!”

“I don’t think it’s his face he’s worried about now.”

“Don’t get smart with me Harry Potter!”

“I’m not—Cho, for feck’s sake, calm down! You can’t be this upset in your condition!”

“You stupid—and you never called me back after I left you in the café, Harry Potter! You—“

“Blimey, that happened two years ago, Cho! Shouldn’t you have—I don’t know, brought this up then? Besides, I could’ve sworn your dumping of that hot tea on my lap meant you didn’t want to have anything to do with me from thereon…”

“L-Lemme go!”

“Not until you calm down!”

She growled, swung her foot again and grazed Ron’s ear rather viciously.

“OW! MERLIN DAMN IT, HARRY! Control you woman for feck’s sake!”

“Stop calling them my women!”

“Oh, so there’s lots of us, are there?” shrieked Cho.

Harry sighed with great exasperation. “That’s not—Cho, please!”

“What the hell is going on here?”

The deadly voice cut through the chaos and all three of them looked up to find Hermione standing at the drawing room threshold, Solomon and Lucien watching the scene with shocked fascination, and Draco obviously stifling a grin.

Cho was the first to recover, glaring at Hermione malevolently. “You!”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched in mild surprise, just before her gaze roved to the dark-haired baby and Harry’s arms around Cho, stopping just where Cho’s stomach protruded with obvious pregnancy.

Harry’s mouth dropped and the words, “I can explain!” was drowned by Cho’s fury.

“It’s always you, isn’t it?” Cho cried, tears brimming in her eyes. “You bitch!” She managed to wrench herself away from Harry, but she didn’t attack anyone. She simply dropped back to the couch and wept.

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered from the floor, sounding relieved that they had at least gotten through the first leg of the storm, because Harry was quite sure they were up for a second one.

“Erm, cute baby!” Lucien squeaked. “What do you, um, call it, Harry?”

“First of all,” Harry said hastily. “He’s not an ‘it’. Second of all, why are you asking me?”

“You know his name!” Cho moaned.

Harry bit back the urge to yell, “Shut up!” It was all so very wrong.

Hermione looked to Draco, hatred glinting in her gaze. “Well, Malfoy, obviously you were right. Harry is in trouble. It’s just most unfortunate that this is a problem I couldn’t help him fix. Harry, we’ll be in the dungeons if you need us.” She left, Solomon and Lucien following after her as they shot Harry indignant glares.

Harry’s eyes widened. “Her—“

Draco grinned. “That was for all the abuses I suffered from the lot of you in the last—“

“Malfoy!” Harry growled, whipping out his wand. A beam shot out of its tip and caught Draco right in the face.

The transformation was instantaneous. Draco, the ferret, squeaked with rage, heading straight for Ron with fangs bared.

“Imobulus! Imobulus!” Ron screamed as he waved his wand.

Draco froze in mid-air, twirling idly as he blinked and made squeaking sounds.

“My God!” Harry yelled. “Did you all conspire to ruin my life? Where are Tonks and Remus? They started this! God help me, I have the deepest affection for them both, but right now, they are not on my favorite people list!”

Fawkes flew into the drawing room, alighted on his newly-installed phoenix perch and promptly incinerated himself to ashes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry wanted nothing more than to go to Hermione and explain to her everything that’s happened, but Cho was miserable, Draco was a ferret and Ron was not going to be left alone with either.

He thought it best to settle it one at a time.

After dumping the rodent in the Mrs. Black “viewing” room and locking it in, Harry attended to Cho, who tearfully told him exactly what had brought her to Grimmauld Place.

She had started dating one Gilbert Fevers, Muggle, shortly after she and Harry broke up. Gilbert fathered Jie, but Cho had refused his offer of marriage, saying that she didn’t want him feeling trapped in their relationship just because they had accidentally conceived. It was all fine and well until she gave birth, after which things seemed to have gone downhill. In a most unfortunate (and perhaps irresponsible) twist, she became pregnant again barely a month after Jie was born, still with Gilbert.

When Tonks and Remus caught Cho at the Leaky Cauldron, it was because she had taken herself and her baby out of their shared flat in Hong Kong. She had, apparently, answered his forgotten mobile phone and had, consequently, gotten told off by his other girlfriend. Being that her parents were out of town for the next couple of days, she had to take a room at an inn, thus her current plight.

Tonks, in her usual accommodating and tactless way, spilled the beans about Hermione somehow and Cho found that she needed to lash out at someone, preferably a man, and perhaps most appropriately the ex who had (she felt) led her into the arms of the man who would knock her up and cheat on her with another woman.

Harry felt so horrible for Cho that he very kindly offered to let her stay at Grimmauld Place until her parents could come over and pick her up the day after next.

She sniffled and gave him a grateful smile. “Really, Harry? You mean it? That’s so kind of you…”

Ron had, at that moment, looked about ready to explode. “Excuse us, Cho. Give us one minute.” He then took Harry by the arm and dragged him out of the drawing room. After he closed the doors, he turned to Harry and began to whisper fiercely, “Are you mad?”

Harry frowned. “What are you on about? She needs help! And it’s only for a couple of days! Are you going to tell me you can coldly turn away a pregnant mother in need?”

Ron scowled then sighed. “Oh, fuck me. Alright! But I’m telling you… Cho and Hermione in the same house… you’re playing with fire, Potter!”

“Oh, shut it, Ron. You know damn well that I have no more feelings for Cho! I just… I just have to explain that to Hermione, is all…”

“Ho, boy.”

“Look, I… why don’t you go and talk to Hermione for a while. See if she’ll listen to you. I’ll be down in twenty minutes after I get Cho settled into one of the rooms. Okay?”

Ron looked skeptical.

“Please?” Harry said.

Sighing, Ron nodded.

Harry thanked him and went back to dealing with Cho. He carried the baby things and magically pushed the baby carriage as he told her where to go. He settled her into a second floor bedroom and left her there to get comfortable, after which he flooed the Leaky Cauldron to send over Cho’s luggage. Tom made no issue of the bill and neither did Harry, even knowing that Tom would probably send the bill to him.

With the Cho matter settled for the time being, Harry hurried to the dungeons where Ron met him a few caverns shy of Hermione’s.

Solomon and Lucien were waiting with him and they seemed to have been briefed by Ron of the situation, as they didn’t seem angry with him anymore.

“Hermione’s in her coffin and she doesn’t want to come out,” Ron told him.

Harry groaned, resolving to push past them.

Solomon stopped him. “Maybe not, Harry.”

“Well, could someone at least try to explain to her that I’m not the baby’s father and that I haven’t knocked up Cho?”

“I already tried that,” Ron said. “She’s not budging. Frankly, I think she’s just asleep.”

Harry shot Ron a look.

“She’s not going to talk to you,” Lucien said. “We’ve seen her in this mood. I don’t think she’s angry with you, Harry. In fact, she just said she was very tired and that she needed to get some shut-eye.”

“But she’s a vampire—“

“Hence the conclusion that she just needs to be left alone. She’ll be okay. She already knows you haven’t fathered anything.”

“Anything?”

“Well, what else are you going to call the bleedin’ critters?”

“How about children?”

“Whatever.”

Harry sighed, feeling like the proverbial mortal being toyed-with by the Gods. “I suppose this isn’t a good time to tell her that Cho’s going to stay in Grimmauld Place in the next couple of days.”

“Ho, boy,” Solomon said.

Ron nodded. “My words, exactly.”

“Harry’s Harem,” Lucien said. “I rather like the sound of that.”

Harry scowled. “You’re all bastards. She’s got a child and she’s pregnant. What is wrong with you people? What if it had been Hermione in her situation? Would you want her turned away? My heart breaks just imagining it!”

Solomon motioned to speak. “Well, Hermione can’t have babies—“

“Nor will she let anyone knock her up if she can. Girl’s too clever for that,” Lucien added.

“That’s not the point and it was a hypothetical question!” He sighed and turned to leave. “You know what? There is no point. This is, indeed, pointless. I think I’m just going to lock myself in the bathroom and drown myself.”

“I tried that when I was human!” Lucien cried after him. “It’s impossible. One just doesn’t want to drown!”

The gods must have been playing with him, because it was the only way Harry could explain how he could have two ex-girlfriends (one of which was pregnant and the other undead), a ferret from hell, a suicidally-challenged vampire, and a werewolf whipped by his morphmagus-lupa all living in his grim old house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The following day, Harry walked into his kitchen to the sound of a screaming baby and a mother who was trying to ignore the racket.

Cho was cooking, and since it was some time after noon, Harry had to guess it was a late lunch. It smelled quite good.

“Harry!” Cho said, smiling widely. Her mood from the previous night had certainly changed. “Have a seat! I’ve almost got lunch ready.”

He resisted the urge to lift his eyebrow. “Erm… you do? Wow, Cho, you really didn’t have—“

“I wanted to,” she said in a more subdued tone. “I mean… I feel bad about—I lashed out at you last night, and I kicked poor Ron twice… I made Shepherd’s pie for him. I promised him I would, this morning, and well… it’s very kind of you to take me in until my parents get back in town…”

Harry sighed, transforming his surprised frown into a smile. She really was a very sweet woman. When she’s not kicking Ron between the legs and throwing vases at us… “It’s nothing, Cho. You know you’re always welcome here.”

He waved his wand and began to set the table. The baby shrieked and Harry peeked into the carriage of little Jie. “Won’t his crying… I don’t know, give him gas?”

Cho laughed, waving her wand at the miniature mobile hanging above the baby. The toy tinkled and turned with a soothing melody. Jie’s cries dwindled to gurgles.

“Smart sprog,” Harry muttered.

“At least!” She grinned and took the lamb chops from the pan, setting them on plates. She poured some sauce over the chops artfully and began to garnish the plates. “So… this thing with Hermione… you knew all this time that she was—you know.”

“A vampire? Yeah. She did die, but she… well, she rose back up. We had to keep her secret, even after she exiled herself from the wizarding world.”

Cho set the plates down on the table and unfolded the table napkin to put on her lap. “Exile? What did she do? Hide in Mexico?”

“Albania, actually.”

She looked up, saw he was serious and winced. “Oh. So you really haven’t been seeing her in the last five years?”

“I told you already, Cho. I never cheated on you, alright?”

She paused for a moment, looking ready to deny that she had been thinking along those lines before she sighed and nodded. “I suppose I believe you. It’s just hard for me right now to think that not all men cheat.” She sounded very depressed. “But for what it’s worth, while we were dating, it was never my fear that you would cheat on me. Whether it was because I was horribly afraid that you would die on me to worry about anything else or because I actually thought you were that honorable, I’m not sure.”

“That’s—erm—nice to know, I think…”

She sighed, mustering a smile as she began to slice into her lamb chops. “Or maybe I just thought that with Hermione gone I had nothing to worry about.”

“Now, do you really mean that?”

Cho nodded. “Yes. She was always around and she’s so much a part of you. When she was your best friend, you listened to her first. Even when she was supposed to be dead, I contended with her ghost. And I suppose while she was your girlfriend, you dropped everything at a flick of her finger.”

“Oy…”

“I’m just saying… it was always her. It would always be her. Natural order of things, I suppose, so when either of you resists it, nature seeks to restore the balance, or something like that.”

He began to slice his lamb chops.

“I’m sorry I called her a bitch last night,” Cho said all of a sudden.

Harry looked up and blinked, surprised.

“I didn’t mean it,” she continued. “Well… not so much, at least. It’s not her fault you love her. Heck, she disappeared for five years. She didn’t seem to want you to love her.”

That really struck him. His brows knotted and he looked at Cho. “Right.”

Cho reddened. “I-I didn’t mean to say it that way. What I meant was… well, it didn’t mean that she didn’t love you, Harry. And knowing you, Ron and Hermione, she probably did it for you, anyway—disappearing, I mean.”

Harry studied her a moment. “You think so? Is that what you automatically thought?”

She seemed surprised by his question. “Well, how else could anyone explain it? Everyone in Hogwarts saw how important the three of you were to each other, regardless of any romantic involvement the three of you had with other people or perhaps with each other. It makes no sense that either of you would do something for your individual interests, especially something as heartbreaking as leaving. It’s a no-brainer, don’t you think?”

Harry sniffed and gave his attention back to his lunch. “Yeah. I suppose you’re right.”

Jie giggled and waved his fists in the air, as if to say, “Of course she is!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry, having just come back from the Ministry, struggled with the last of the Hogwarts Express files and hauled them through the door of Grimmauld Place. This last batch would have to await examination, and as anxious as Harry was to read through them, their trip to Bulgaria was far too important to be put off.

There was little time to waste. Bulgaria was already two hours ahead and they didn’t want to lose anymore dark than they already have.

He had already left half of the pile with Seamus and he could rest easy thinking that at least something was being done about it while he was busy with other things.

Hurriedly making his way through the house, he made line for his room.

He passed the kitchen but paused down the hall when, at the corner of his eye, he saw that Cho and Hermione were there, together.

His heart began to thud in his ears, and he didn’t realize how awful the arrangement was of Hermione and Cho staying in the same house until he was faced with the reality of it, right there. He hung back behind the wall, doubling the masking of his presence as he carefully peeked into the kitchen.

Hermione was taking a box of chocolates from the chill box and Cho was standing at the corner of the counter, the baby carriage protectively behind her. Cho looked tense, probably a bit frightened, but she didn’t have her wand out, which probably meant she wasn’t that scared.

Harry, for one, wasn’t afraid that Hermione would hurt them. She might not like Cho, but she wasn’t a vicious murderer.

“I won’t hurt you,” Hermione said, slamming the chill box door shut.

Cho jumped slightly. “I-I didn’t think you would.”

Hermione nodded, plopping the chocolates on the table and seating herself. She opened the box and casually began to eat a truffle, offering none to Cho.

“Harry’s not the father!” Cho squeaked.

Harry winced.

“Neither of these children are his,” Cho continued, placing a hand on her bulging stomach.

Hermione just kept eating the chocolates and shrugged. “I know that. Why do you think you’re still alive?”

Harry stifled a groan. Shame on you, Hermione, for frightening a pregnant woman.

Cho paled and Hermione chuckled.

“I’m just joking, Cho. I don’t go around killing Harry’s ex-girlfriends.”

“O-Oh…” Cho said, laughing uneasily. “That’s… good to know.”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Hermione kicked a chair and it slid a bit in Cho’s direction.

Cho looked like she’d rather not, but she did, just because Hermione was terribly intimidating.

Hermione gave the baby carriage a brief glance from her seat. “Cute baby. What’s his name?”

“Jie-rui,” replied Cho hastily, as if she was willing to answer all the questions for this interrogation so long as she survived it unscathed. “It means quick-witted.”

“Jie-rui; Quick witted,” Hermione repeated, trying it out. “Good name.”

“Y-Yes… his father thought of it…”

“Well,” said Hermione as she popped the truffle in her mouth. “He had to be good for something, right?”

At that, Cho gave a strained and painful smile. “I-I suppose so.”

Jie began to cry.

“He needs to get changed,” Hermione said instantly.

Cho hesitated before she scrambled back to the carriage, checked the child and looked up. “Well, you’re absolutely right. How did you know?”

“I just do.”

Cho began to bustle about with the baby things, her face flushed, probably from the effort of staying right where she was without bolting and running scared. “You’ve—er—taken care of babies before?”

“Long time ago… I haven’t in a while.”

Cho pulled the baby out and took a few minutes of silence to change him. When she was done, she put the baby back into the carriage. Jie laughed, utterly unaware of the strain his mother was in.

“I do actually love children,” Hermione said.

Cho looked like she was going to pass out.

Hermione scowled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Cho, don’t be ridiculous! I didn’t mean for dinner! I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“O-Oh! I didn’t—I’m sorry, it’s just—“

“Yes, I know. Never mind. Not your fault. I better go, anyway. I’ve a lot of things to do.” With that, Hermione rose from her seat and headed for the exit on the other side of the kitchen. She passed the baby carriage along the way and she glanced into it briefly.

The split-second look Hermione gave little Jie broke Harry’s heart. Hermione’s eyes softened with affection, and she actually smiled, but she was careful. She didn’t want Cho to see. Steeling her features, she shot Cho one last glare before stalking out of the kitchen.

When Hermione was gone, Cho let loose a breath as she slumped against the baby carriage in withering relief.

Feeling the slightest bit depressed, Harry left to get ready for their trip to Bulgaria.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bulgaria was going to be cold that time of year. They were headed for Srenda Gora, the central highlands, just outside Sophia. The wizard forecast spoke of snowdrifts, stiff winds and below-zero temperatures, so they needed to wrap up, but not before they got to the Leaky Cauldron, because while it was cold in London, it wasn’t that cold.

Harry thought it best to keep the party small; limited to him, Ron, Hermione and her Shadow Kin. They would attract enough attention as a group and he didn’t need people thinking they were up to something, enemy or friend.

As they converge in the hall, Harry and Ron hauled thick coats in bags while they clumped around in their thick and thermal hiking boots, brooms slung on their shoulders.

The vampires wore less bulky clothing. They didn’t have to worry so much about cold weather.

Hermione threw a dark cloak over her snow-white winter outfit, which was regrettable. Harry could have stared at her figure-hugging ski outfit all night. “We ought to go.”

Lucien and Solomon threw cloaks over themselves and instantly transformed into enigmas.

Tonks and Remus appeared with Cho to see them off. Draco, who had just gotten released from Mrs. Black and retransformed to his human self, was sulking something awful in his bedroom. There was still a slight, ferrety tilt to his nose that Harry said would wear off eventually. Harry didn’t bother to give a guestimate of when.

Jie was very much awake, giggling and waving at all of them. His mother tried desperately to shush him.

“We’ll be back as soon as we could,” Harry said to Remus as he hefted his backpack and Firebolt. “If we’re not back by tonight, don’t expect us until early tomorrow night. If you need me for anything during the day, messenger spell me. Don’t ever messenger spell me at night.”

Everybody understood why.

“The Strigoi chamber and the potion will be ready when you get here,” Remus said, clasping Harry’s arm. “Harry, you know what will happen when we destroy that last one, don’t you?”

Harry nodded. “I’ll have to fight Voldemort and kill him.”

Remus didn’t look happy, but he patted Harry’s shoulder. “Godspeed, my friend.”

At that, they headed for the Leaky Cauldron.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They arrived in a small wizarding village at the foot of the Srenda Gora mountains.

Their appearance by portkey didn’t really surprise that many people, as they were used to the occasional tourist come to enjoy quaint, little-town charms. It looked a bit like Hogsmeade, especially because of the snow, and because the streets were brightly lit.

“The Krum stronghold is two hours from here by horse-drawn carriage,” Hermione said from their vantage point on a low hill. She pointed to the distance and Harry could see a flicker of light atop the mountain. “It’s faster by broom, of course. A Firebolt would cut the travel time by more than half. Lucien, Solomon and I used to take high-powered snowmobiles up the slopes. I’m quite sure Viktor’s storage shed at the edge of town still has the vehicles stored.”

Harry still felt the distinct twitch whenever Hermione said Viktor’s name, but he pushed back his jealousy and nodded. “Then lets get to the shed. We don’t want to waste time.”

They plodded through the snow a bit until they got to the streets of the village where most of the snow was cleared.

Ron lagged behind for a bit, pressing his face to a deli window as he stared at the colorful meats, cheeses and sausages. The pretty, dark-haired deli-girl, who was unwrapping a huge wheel of cheese, waved to him and giggled from behind the counter.

“Wow…” he breathed.

Harry rolled his eyes and dragged him by the back of his robes. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were looking at the pretty girl.”

Ron blinked. “Pretty girl? Where?”

Solomon laughed.

Some of the townspeople waved at them warmly, just before turning to their companions and whispering.

Harry had to wonder whether they knew who he was. It wasn’t conceit at all when he thought these things. It was, more than anything, paranoia. Even after all these years, he still wished he could turn invisible when people started to recognize who he was.

They passed a Quidditch store and pictures of Viktor Krum were plastered all over the window display. Most the items on display appeared to be autographed.

Well, of course it would be.

Further on, there were less and less people, until they reached a somewhat deserted area line up with what looked like warehouses. They stopped in front a rather plush structure, the paint over it fresh, the windows whole and the steel gates free of rust. It looked well maintained.

“Hope the locks hadn’t been changed,” said Lucien casually.

Hermione gave them a small, plaintive smile. She took out her wand, waved it at the locks before she sighed, rolled her eyes and said, “Tolko si debel che edinstvenite ti snimki sa satelitni,” in what sounded like perfect Bulgarian.

The lock shimmered and clicked open.

Solomon and Lucien doubled over laughing.

“Well, that was brilliant, Hermione!” Ron said, grinning. “Was that a spell?”

“It was a password.”

“Wicked. What did it mean?”

Hermione cocked a weary smile. “You’re so fat that all your pictures have to be taken by a satellite.”

Harry choked on a laugh.

“It was either that or ‘Tvoiata mozuchna kletka se chuvstva samotna,’ which means, ‘Your brain cell is feeling lonely.’ The first won the poll two to one, probably because it sounded meaner.” She glared at Solomon and Lucien.

There was no doubt as to who voted for what.

They pulled the gates back and Hermione activated the lights with a Lumos. The shed was filled with all sorts of tools and thingamajigs with faded enchantments. At the center of the clutter, Lucien began yanking the canvas covering off three snowmobiles. Most of the dust was on the canvas and the vehicles still looked relatively shiny. They were black with gray and red stripes on the side. They looked sleek and sturdy enough to be serviceable.

Ron looked them over curiously but Harry actually crouched down to give the machine a closer look. He’d never really seen a snowmobile except on the telly and the occasional Muggle movie. He had always wondered how fast it could go. It was the speed junkie in him that made him so interested.

“Someone must be maintaining these,” Hermione said, checking the meter readings. “It has gas, too. Sol, have you found the keys, yet?”

Solomon had opened a cupboard somewhere to the back of the shed and returned with three odd looking keys clinking in his hands. He distributed them and they slid the snowmobiles out of the shed. They closed the gates behind them and started their vehicles.

Harry watched Hermione curiously as she went through the process. She lifted a switch found somewhere at the top of the handlebars. She inserted her key and turned it. Nothing happened, but this didn’t seem out of the ordinary, as she attached the key’s chord somewhere near the steering mechanism. She clasped something on the side, braced herself and pulled. There was a slight sputter and she pulled again. This time, the engine roared to life.

Solomon and Lucien did the same thing with their machines and soon, they were all settled on their snowmobiles, feet secured in stirrups.

“Interesting things, those,” Ron remarked as Hermione and her Shadow Kin put on helmets and lowered the visors over their faces.

Harry had to agree.

He and Ron mounted their brooms, spelling their faces impervious to the snow and wind. In the next few minutes, they were off, speeding up the mountain towards the castle of Viktor Krum.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry must have prayed for bumps in the snow so many times that by the time the castle came into view, he was about as devout a man as a non-religious man like him could be.

Flying behind Hermione had been a pleasure he hadn’t expected in the least, because when the bumps came, Hermione lifted her perfect little arse to keep herself steady when the snowmobile jumped, went airborne, and landed back on the snow.

It was a wonder he hadn’t flown into any trees, being so preoccupied with her delectable bum.

So when the perimeter gate came into view, Harry felt even more disappointed than he should have been, since getting to their destination that had promises of a warm fire thawing the chill in his bones.

Hermione rolled her snowmobile up to the guardhouse, idling the machine as she spoke. “Danail? Are you still there?”

For a moment, nothing happened, and Harry was already about to exchange quick looks with Ron, but something materialized through the stonework and a ghost, dressed in lush phantasmal furs and ornately set gold, peered at Hermione with a frightening grimace. An arrow was stuck through the back of his neck, its tip peeking out from where his Adam’s apple was supposed to be.

Any Muggle would have been scared out of their wits.

“It’s me, Danail.”

Danail pulled back, eyebrows arching. “Ah, Lady Granger. The master will be pleased to see you.”

“The master is in?”

“He is. Walk the path, Lady. Your mechanical beasts cannot cross these gates. Wizards may not apparate.”

The gates yawned open and the torches along the path lit up with magical fire.

Harry could see that snow covered most of the front lawn, and that while the cobbled steps leading to the front doors were relatively cleared of snow, the walk was a long one.

The snowmobiles were pushed to the side of the guardhouse where there was yet another shed, just large enough to fit three vehicles. When the doors to the storage shed were sealed shut, they made their way through the perimeter gates.

As soon as they cleared the entrance, Danail disappeared back into the guardhouse.

They proceeded to head to the castle, and as they passed the torches, the lights went out behind them.

“Bloody hell, this place is huge,” Ron said, finding that the castle was almost as massive looking as Hogwarts with stonewalls, parapets, towers and gargoyle carvings. Hogwarts was so much bigger on the inside, of course, but the Krum stronghold was still a rather imposing sight.

They reached the great doors after they climbed half a dozen steps. To the side of the door was a rope. Lucien pulled it and the dull thrum of a bell could be heard through the thick oak.

Moments later, a little ghost girl in rags and shoeless feet, wide-eyed with malnourishment and tangled hair, seeped through the wood and settled on the door step.

“Hello,” said the little girl in a wispy voice. “Please state your name and business.”

Hermione stepped back and Harry realized that she was letting him take the lead now. She had gotten them through the gates, now it was his job to get them an audience with Viktor Krum.

“Her name is Vasilka,” Hermione whispered in his ear.

He nodded. “Vasilka, my name is Harry Potter. I came here to speak to your master, Viktor Krum, about a matter of grave importance. We have traveled far, from London. Tell him I am not alone, that I have brought Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Lucien d’Godenot and Solomon Hughes.”

“Yes, sir,” Vasilka said. She peeked shyly at Hermione and giggled. “Hello, Hermione.”

“Hello, dear. Now go… give your lord Harry Potter’s message.”

Nodding, she melted back into the doors.

“What’s with all the ghosts?” Harry asked.

Hermione shrugged. “I suppose all castles have them, the way most theaters do…”

The wait wasn’t long. In a few minutes, the doors were pulled open by elves, and a butler in dress robes welcomed them in.

“My master welcomes you all and humbly requests a few minutes of your patience,” said the butler to Harry with a respectful tilt of his head. “Shall I take your coats before I lead you to the drawing room?”

They relinquished their coats to him and Hermione looked even better without her bubble jacket.

Harry stifled a sigh. Why was he even putting himself through all this?

The butler led them to a large drawing room that was exquisitely decorated with a mixture of medieval and modern. It was a bit overwhelming, seeing as there were too many chairs set up. He simply didn’t know where he should sit his arse.

He eventually decided he was going to examine the painting hanging over the humungous hearth while everyone else around him sat and waited. The portrait eyed him back, clearing its throat slightly as it sat dignified in what looked like an ornately carved chair. He was in luxuriant furs, his fingers decorated with heavy rings. He bore a beard and mustache. The nose and eyes had traces of Viktor Krum’s features all over it.

The butler brought tea and Hermione thanked him, calling him Wenceslaus.

Harry felt a twitch again. That Hermione was so familiar with these people still made him feel wretched about the entire situation.

A bit later, the doors finally opened and revealed Viktor Krum.

Harry was a little surprised at how Viktor looked. He still looked stocky and prone to surliness, but he seemed better groomed, and he carried himself with more grace than he used to. He had his hair cut short and clean; his hard jaw was so closely shaven that it almost made him look younger and most interesting of all, he had a slight smile on his lips.

“Harry Potter,” he said in his grave, unimposing tone. “This is a most interesting surprise.” He extended his hand, and Harry took it a bit warily.

Viktor’s English certainly sounded better. Maybe he had taken lessons, or perhaps Hermione had cured him of the worse of his accent.

Viktor extended his greetings to everyone else and Harry eyed him carefully when he greeted Hermione.

She gave Viktor a small smile as he took her hand, kissed it and smiled back. There was a brief moment of warmth as he squeezed her hand but he let her go easily. It wasn’t nearly as bad as Harry expected it to be, until Viktor said her name and it sounded like, “Her-my-own.”

Harry stifled a grumble. There was only one person who should be calling her that and it wasn’t Viktor Krum.

Viktor sat himself on one of the sofa chairs near the fire and offered the seat nearest to it, to Harry.

“I feel this is not a social call,” Viktor said as Wenceslaus poured his master some tea. “No one comes to this place for a holiday this time of year, I’m afraid.”

Harry went straight to the point. “We’ve come here to find something.”

Viktor’s eyebrow arched. “Something?”

Harry nodded. “A staff. An old one. It’s more of an artifact, really.” He didn’t want to be mentioning specifics. If Viktor had the staff and he didn’t know it belonged to Gryffindor, maybe Viktor would have an easier time relinquishing it to them.

Viktor took a moment to stare at him, then at Hermione. Her expression remained impassive.

Viktor leaned back on his seat. “And do you know what this staff looks like? My family has kept a vast collection of artifacts, passed down from my ancestors.”

Harry decided he was going to tell the truth. He racked his brain for the research he’d done in the past and remembered the more important details. “We’re not sure what it looks like. None of us have seen it, but I might have seen pictures of it. It’s made of wood. Holly. It looks more like a branch than a staff, and it has the face—not a head, a face—of a lion carved at the top.”

Viktor smirked and nodded. “You are looking for Gryffindor’s staff.”

Harry’s heart sank, wondering if he shouldn’t have been too obvious with his descriptions.

“You are in luck, Harry Potter,” Viktor continued, much to Harry’s surprise. “I have it, and I am certainly going to give it to you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gryffindor’s staff was not, as Yasmin said, “hanging on the walls” of Viktor’s castle. That would imply that Viktor wanted to show it off. The staff, in fact, had been placed in the very bowels of the Krum stronghold, within the thickest dungeon, where little to no one would find it. Several wards had been placed around it, in various forms of magic. It was surrounded by charms, magical items, circles and deterrents, all designed to keep people out and to keep something in.

As soon as Harry saw it, it became apparent why Viktor Krum wanted to get rid of it. The staff pulsed with power, pulsing luminescent lights of red and blue, and if the carcasses of the vermin surrounding it was any testament, it was really good at killing rats and cockroaches. But what shocked Harry was not that, it was what seemed to be going on inside the artifact. It oozed with darkness, yet Harry could detect strong traces of light, as if a war was being waged inside the staff; as if the piece of Voldemort’s soul that was in it was trying to overcome the staff’s natural identity as a bearer of light.

“Blimey,” Ron gasped, moving back in repulsion. “You’d almost think Voldemort himself would jump out of it and kill us all.”

Harry had to wonder if he was the only one could feel the warring entities; that he was the only one who knew that the staff wasn’t going down without a fight.

“It came in a charmed case a few weeks ago,” said Viktor. “Brought by owls. The message on the package said that it was dangerous to humans and creatures of light, that by all accounts, no mortal hand should touch it. We tried to move it with magic, but it… deflected all attempts. I had to enlist the help of vampires to put it here.”

Harry frowned. “So vampires could…”

Viktor looked uncertain as he moved back. “They can, but not for long periods, and not the wizard ones. The vampires had to be muggle. I do not know why, but this appeared to be the situation. At any rate, the vampires who helped me install it here suffered extreme exhaustion handling it for only a short period of time. I wouldn’t recommend that any of you hold it. It is the only reason why I have not disposed of the object, myself. I did not want anyone just stumbling into it and suffering its effects. The case it came in will certainly be very useful, but I would renew the charms on the case if I were you, just to make sure.”

“That’s some bad juju,” Solomon said, cringing away. “Could barely stand to look at it.”

Lucien shuddered but stepped cautiously towards it. “Never seen anything like it… a staff’s like a wand, isn’t it? But more archaic?”

Hermione nodded but stepped back, grimacing. “Y-Yes… ugh, I think I’m going to be sick. I-I can’t stay here…”

“What makes it… like that?” Lucien asked.

Harry became acutely aware of the fact that Lucien, Solomon or Viktor knew nothing about horcruxes, even if the two vamps had heard Yasmin call it that.

Harry was also growing particularly concerned, not just because Hermione was looking worse than the others, but also because he wasn’t feeling particularly repulsed by the object. He certainly knew that the object held something very bad, but he wasn’t feeling any negative physical effects.

There was a humming sound, and it seemed to be coming from the staff. Harry’s brows crinkled with worry as he stared at the horcrux intently.

A thrum, like the sound of a gigantic gong, resounded through the dungeon, and a wave of purple flame ringed outward, from the staff, towards all of them.

Before Harry could give a shout of warning, the light had waned and the sound dissipated.

Harry looked at his companions and saw that none of them acted like they had seen what he’d seen.

An odd localized warmth emanated from his scar and he rubbed at it lightly.

Ron saw him and looked at him worriedly. He’d been in enough instances when Harry’s scar reacted when in close proximity to anything related to Voldemort. “Alright there, Harry?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Best we leave this place for now.”

Nodding, Viktor led the way out of the chamber, placing the wards back up. Immediately, the staff’s presence was muted, its malevolence contained.

They reached level ground in record time, all of them eager to leave the pressing aura of the staff behind them.

Harry looked at Hermione carefully as the bright light of candles and torches fell upon her face. He saw that she was looking rather flustered, but none the worse for wear. She would be alright.

Harry figured he had to think up a way to transport the staff without it killing anyone in the process. They might not be able to go back to Grimmauld Place as soon as he thought.

He would have to look the case over; examine it himself; see what he could do to strengthen its properties. He might have to contact Remus by floo, too.

“I don’t think we’re going to be able to go home, tonight,” Harry told Ron in a low tone. “That thing’s not going to go easy…”

Viktor heard him and told them he had rooms prepared for them. “Her-my-own, you and your Shadow Kin will be set up in the theater basement. Is that satisfactory?”

Hermione nodded wordlessly, still looking winded from their visit of the staff.

Harry didn’t even ask Viktor how he happened to have spare coffins handy. He merely thanked their host. Harry asked if he could have a look at the case.

“I will send the case to you, later,” Viktor said. “I—“

There was a clamor down the hallway and the sound of giggling children echoed. The children appeared at the corner; two blonde little ones, perhaps no older than three. One was in petticoats while the other looked like a miniature Bulgarian lord.

“Chicho!” cried the children, laughing wildly as they barreled into Viktor’s legs.

Viktor laughed, speaking to them in Bulgarian as they clamored to hide behind him.

Two women, perhaps their nursemaids, soon followed, looking terribly winded and apologetic.

Harry cleared his throat. “Erm… yours?”

Viktor grinned and shook his head. “Ne. Niece and nephew. These are Stefanya and Gavril. Mine are too little to run about, just yet.”

“Zdrasti, Stefanya, Gavril,” said Hermione quite suddenly. “Priyatno mi e. Moeto ime e Hermione. Govorish li Angliyski?”

With mischievous eyes, they looked to their uncle and he nodded.

“Da!” they cried in unison.

“Cat!” said Stefanya.

“Dog!” Gavril said.

“Run!” they said together.

Harry had to wonder if they were twins.

They didn’t look like it, even if they were both blonde.

“Very good!” Viktor said, handing them over to their nannies while he spoke more Bulgarian. He gave the children parting kisses, and as their nannies left with their precious bundles, the children waved to Hermione.

“Leka nosht, Her-my-own!” they called.

“Of course they talk like their uncle,” Ron muttered beside Harry.

Harry had to grin at that.

“And are you going to show off yours, Viktor?” Hermione asked as she watched them go. “Or are Ani and Natasha jealous of their children?”

Viktor smiled quite happily. “Ani and Natasha like showing off the babies, actually. When we get the opportunity, da?”

It was a while later Harry realized that Hermione had been talking about the children’s mothers, and that she had spoken of them without the slightest hint of bitterness or regret.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: So many ghosts, don’t you think? ;)

I did not invent the Bulgarian Hermione spoke. Those are real Bulgarian words phonetically spelled. I got some help, of course. I couldn’t speak the language to save my life. :P

Danail, as far as I know, is pronounced as “Dah-nile”. With “nile” pronounced like “Nile River”, but don’t take my word for it.

Bulgarian translations for those with OCD:

Chicho! – Uncle!

Ne – No.

Da – Yes.

Zdrasti – Hi!

Priyatno mi e. Moeto ime e Hermione. Govorish li Angliyski? – Nice to meet you. My name is Hermione. Do you speak English?

Leka nosht, Her-my-own! – Good night, Hermione!

The words, “Potter, maybe it was about you for all the wrong reasons and not about you for the right ones,” didn’t really come from a movie. I made it up.

Next!

28. Chapter Twenty-seventh: Horcrux

Author’s Notes: Have you read Chapter 26: Ghosts yet? If you haven’t, better click back!

Chapter rating: NC-17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty-Seventh: Horcrux

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor was a most accommodating host, warmly inviting them to sit at the table with him for dinner while the vamps left for their own haunts.

Harry grudgingly had to admit that Viktor seemed more likeable in his natural environment than his surly personality in Hogwarts.

As for Ron… well, he was still as star-struck as ever, even having grown mature about it. To Ron, Viktor was still the best professional Quidditch Seeker there was, and Harry began to get the distinct feeling that Ron had forgotten all about Viktor’s transgressions from the fourth year.

So Ron and Viktor talked animatedly over dinner while Harry somewhat picked at his food.

Stefanya and Gavril continued to make appearances in spite of their harried nursemaids and Viktor’s repeated attempts to send them back to their rooms. They seemed to have taken an avid fascination of Harry and Ron.

Ron, for his girth and red hair, and Harry, for his glasses and oddly dancing raven locks. Ron, having spent a lot of time entertaining his nieces and nephew whenever he went to visit Bill, knew his way around children. They liked him, but they didn’t pick on him, because Ron had practice getting them to listen. Harry, however, had no such aptitude. They picked and poked, observing him like some sideshow freak, and being the clueless single bloke that he was, Harry had no idea how to tell them no without yelling at them and causing them to cry.

So he stammered and dodged while they climbed all over him, pulling at his glasses and his hair.

“They are excited by new people,” Viktor explained apologetically. He spoke something in Bulgarian, after which Stefanya jumped down from Harry’s seat, taking his glasses with her and breaking them in the process.

Harry stifled a sigh while Gavril hung off his arm. This dinner was taking far too long.

“Stefanya,” came a gentle voice behind them. “Gavril. Pruilchno.”

Whatever Hermione said, it caused the children to hang back and leave him alone. They lined up by their uncle and smiled shyly at Hermione as she glided in with Lucien and Solomon in tow.

“Harry is too nice to tell you no,” she told them in a quiet but firm tone. “Now be good and listen to your chicho.”

Viktor said something to them in Bulgarian, yet again. This time, Harry felt something being shoved in his hand. It was his glasses.

“Erm, thanks,” he said, putting them on.

Stefanya giggled as she stared up at him.

His glasses were lopsided, having been broken at the joint. Viktor seemed to scold her for laughing.

A tiny smile formed on Hermione’s lips as she sat beside him on the dinner table. She whipped out her wand, waved it at his glasses and the glasses, as always, repaired itself smartly under her expert spellwork.

He readjusted his glasses on his face. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she replied, squeezing his shoulder briefly before turning her attention to the rest of the company on the dinner table.

Stefanya and Gavril didn’t bother Harry again. Instead, they sat behaved on Viktor’s lap until they were too sleepy to protest their being brought to their bedrooms.

Lucien and Solomon joined Ron and Viktor’s animated discussion about Quidditch, beating down on the Chudley Cannons’ perpetually awful record while Ron defended his favorite team valiantly.

Predictably, Hermione had very little to contribute to the Quidditch conversation and she sat back on her seat, looking subdued.

Harry wondered if her exposure to the staff had actually exhausted her, or whether she had other things on her mind.

She caught him staring several minutes into her brooding and he reddened, looking away.

He wanted to talk to her but wondered if the timing was appropriate.

Coming to Bulgaria and being in Viktor Krum’s house wasn’t as bad as Harry had expected. Before arriving at the Krum stronghold, Harry had envisioned Hermione and Viktor exchanging knowing looks and flirty glances; private jokes and perhaps even friendly banter, but so far, neither Hermione, nor Viktor, had acted that way.

It was, in fact, rather odd that Hermione and Viktor acted more like… well, Harry found it a bit hard to explain.

In Muggle movies, there were scenes where two strangers were made to sit on a bench, usually in the park or while at the bus stop. The strangers would sit in companionable silence, neither uncomfortable about the other’s presence; perfectly satisfied with the arrangement of sitting on the same bench without really talking, perhaps laughing together if something funny happened to pass them by but feeling no obligation to go further than that shared laugh. When one or the other’s bus arrived, they might say goodbye in a friendly manner, but after parting, one or both of them had already forgotten what the other looked like.

That was what Hermione and Viktor’s treatment of each other reminded Harry of, like bench-fellows. Friendly, comfortable and impersonal.

Had it been like that for them the entire six months they were together? Surely, not.

Surely, Hermione deserved better than that…

She watched the others talking about Viktor’s Wronski Feint, smirking ever so slightly, probably remembering what she called it.

Harry wondered if she called it Wonky Faints to Viktor’s face. Knowing Hermione, she would have, and Viktor probably laughed it off; he probably got a kick out of the fact that unlike the rest of the world, Hermione was not enamored of his Quidditch persona.

Harry remembered how Hermione had scolded him for his Quidditch daring and rolled her eyes at the way he and Ron seemed to be so gone on the sport. She had thought Quidditch juvenile, and dangerous, and utterly without sense, yet she had gone to each and every game he had played; had screamed as avidly as the rest of the die-hard fans; had booed every bludger, beater and seeker that had gone up against him. She had stood in the stands under the pouring rain; had waved red and gold banners in the wind; had even borne the giggling crowds during Quidditch try-outs.

“You’ve never been more fanciable,” she had told him when he had wondered out loud about the crowd of Quidditch-team hopefuls. She had said it straight-faced and in a business-like tone, yet she later admitted that even then, she had fancied him. How many times had Hermione hidden her true feelings behind a mask of haughtiness, intelligence or even anger? Not just in her feelings for him, but her feelings about many other things, maybe? When had her anger been true? When had it been affected?

When she turned and caught him staring, again, he didn’t look away so quickly. He held her gaze for a heartbeat before turning his attention back to Viktor and the others.

After a few more minutes of listening to them, Harry began to get antsy about other matters. He still had quite a few things to do, like examining the case Gryffindor’s staff came in, which meant he might have to do quick research on the spells; something that could take all night and all day, tomorrow.

He was already trying to formulate a polite way to excuse himself when Viktor, merciful Merlin, brought it up himself.

“Do you still wish to see the case for Gryffindor’s staff, Harry?” he asked.

Harry stifled a sigh of relief. “Yes, very much so. Should I go look for Wenceslaus and ask him to fetch it?”

“I will see to it and have one of my staff bring the case to you. Where would you like it sent?”

“I think I’ll go look at it in my room. I’ll be heading there right now, anyway,” Harry replied, rising from his seat.

“Think you’ll need help with it, mate?” Ron asked.

Harry knew Ron’s heart wasn’t in it and he grinned. “I’ll be fine looking it over myself. I’ll see you all tomorrow, alright?” He graciously thanked Viktor for that evening’s dinner. All of the men gave him a brief grunt goodnight before enthusiastically going back to their previous conversation.

“Goodnight, Harry,” Hermione said, smiling slightly.

At that moment, he wanted to take her hand and tell her they needed to talk. It was the perfect opportunity, anyway. With the rest of the party occupied, there was a lot of time yet for them to iron things out, but then Viktor called Hermione’s attention with his accented, “Her-my-own.”

Her gaze left his and Harry pressed his lips together in resignation.

He turned and left to retire to his room in the upper levels of the castle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry had just tossed in a few more logs of wood into his fireplace when he heard the sharp, even knocking of someone at his door.

Wenceslaus, he thought, straightening from a crouch. The butler was just in time, too. Harry had just started getting comfortable in the cozy room. It wasn’t an overly large chamber, of which Harry was glad about. The cobbled floors had rugs to cushion the lounging area in front of the hearth and the floor beneath the bed.

He went to the door and swung it open. He was just about to thank the butler when he realized that it wasn’t Wenceslaus at all.

It was Hermione and she held a wooden case half her height in her arms.

He was a bit too surprised to say anything coherent. “Hermio…”

“I just came by to drop this off,” she said hastily, shoving the case against his chest.

It knocked the breath out of him a bit and he had to clutch at the case, just so it wouldn’t clatter to his feet.

“Oh! S-Sorry,” she stammered, reddening.

“It’s—It’s alright—“

“If you need any help… I mean, with the spells. On the box. I can do research in the library while you—that is, we don’t have to work together… you can work here while I’m in the… erm… I looked it over a bit, anyway, when I came here. The wards on the box are fairly simple, but I think they need strengthening, especially after what we saw in the dungeons… I’m talking too much, I know. I’ll just go. I’ll be in the library.” She laughed a bit. “I said that already, didn’t I? I better go.”

She turned and hurried away before Harry could say anything.

He watched her walk off, but thankfully, something inside him thought better of it. He said her name, ever so softly.

She stopped in her tracks, turned and stared at him across the distance.

A heartbeat later, she was walking back towards him and he found himself captivated by the determination on her face.

“Well, thing is, see,” she began when she was within earshot of him. “I was hoping we could talk. You don’t really have to say anything, if you don’t feel like it, because I have loads of words. First of all, I’d like to apologize for whatever pain my relationship with Viktor may have caused you. I didn’t mean to hurt you, going into a relationship with him. It wasn’t about you… yet, it was. What I mean to say is all of my relationships were about the equivalent of—well, Lithium. You know that Muggle drug, don’t you? It’s what shrinks prescribe to depressed old women. They crush those little pellets and sprinkle it over their ice-cream… anyway, the point is, all my relationships after you were those sprinkles. Some kind of artificial happiness to get over the depression. I was constantly aware of the fact that I chose blokes that didn’t look, act and think like you. I wanted to get as far away from the memory of you as possible, just so it wouldn’t hurt so badly, you know?

“I suppose I can admit that I had a bit of fun with them, and every once in a while it was actually, genuinely enjoyable, because they were all really nice blokes, but I seemed to have inadvertently effed up every single man I dated for the simple fact that I had these huge boundaries that drove them barmy… anyway, as you might have figured, Viktor Krum was shagging the mothers of his children before he and I… fizzled, and—well, that’s rather effed up of him, but what’s worse is that I didn’t really care, and that’s rather effed up of me. It’s like I decided that a substitute uterus is some kind of thing you can get on eBay… but I digress.

“To say that I was moving on with all these relationships was—I realize now—a big, fat joke, because the only thing moving was my parade of failed and disastrous relationships where the stars of the show are actually just a bunch of balloons filled with hot air… and I’m babbling!” She laughed painfully. “Okay, so the point, Harry, is that I never really stopped loving you. I mean, I always knew that, but five years of Lithium just somewhat jumbles the head, and I actually believed that I could sort of give you up like a bad habit—which, you aren’t, really. You’re not. I was the one who was the bad habit. That’s how I saw it, at least, so I figured you had to quit me. I mean I did honestly believe that I wanted you to move on, and it was an earnest effort on my part to get you to. I suppose I wanted you to get so angry with me that you’d say the most awful, unforgivable and horrible things to me before you completely leave me to rot on my sorry arse. I think that would’ve made it easier for me to accept that you didn’t want me anymore, but in the last three days you’ve just been… well, uninterested. Like… a person who says, Well, that’s it, it’s over, and goes out to buy pizza. I think maybe I should’ve expected that you wouldn’t throw a gigantic fit dumping me. But see, it just makes things all the more palpable, because it gave me time to think, and absorb it, and feel it, and it’s really, really, really…” She sighed, her brows knotting. “Really… painful. Much harder. Awful, really. I couldn’t take it. I mean, the knots on the ring you gave me still haven’t unraveled, but it doesn’t mean you don’t… want out.” She bit her bottom lip. “Not to mention the fact that for a very brief moment it hurt me so very horribly to think that you had gone and had children with Cho. I mean, I didn’t mind with Viktor but with you… well, I minded a lot. A whole lot. Kind of nailed a few truths, frankly. The reality that I didn’t quite feel like sharing you with anyone in that respect… well, I suppose it’s selfish of me, but I couldn’t help feeling that way. So… what I’m trying to say is I wish I hadn’t been stupid and spiteful and difficult, but I was, and I’m just the sad, frightening clown in the rained out parade…”

She fell quiet after her extended monologue, fidgeting uneasily.

He didn’t know what to say, and just when he was mustering a response, she began to speak again.

“And, oh, I figured I’d give you—erm—this.” She dipped a hand into her pocket and yanked out a ring. His Celtic ring. “I might as well. I’ve spilled my guts, anyway… it’s not as if I have much to hide from you anymore, so there’s no point in letting good jewelry go unworn.”

He stared at it, dumbfounded.

Awkwardly, she took his right hand and put the ring on his finger. It pulsed twice and he felt a wave of warmth ripple from the ring to the rest of his body. It felt wonderful, and the knots—they were blessedly twined tight.

She let his hand drop and she somewhat moved about like an awkward sixteen year old, her vampiric poise melting away as she shoved her hands in her pockets and shifted her weight from one foot to another.

“So, there,” she said, finally stepping back. “You can, umm, keep that. And that’s really all I have to say, Harry. "

She turned to leave, and it was at that moment Harry scrambled to set aside the staff case.

It made a racket falling on the floor of his chamber, but there was too little time between setting it neatly aside and touching her arm in a gentle, unimposing hold. “W-Wait…”

She turned to face him with a maddeningly calm look on her face, like she’d just dropped off a singing telegram, or something equally as mundane, and was now wondering if he had called her back to complain about it.

It was supremely difficult to think through the overwhelming rush of emotions her words had wrought in him, and while he probably hadn’t understood half of what she said, he had zeroed in on the more important parts, like her telling him she loved him, and how painful it had been for her, thinking that she’d lost him. He hadn’t quite the words to be as eloquent, or—as the case may be—as frantically long-winded as she had been, but he had always had good instincts, and he always managed to find an effective, if not the best, way to turn the situation in his favor.

This time was no different. In his utter lack of cognizance, he uttered the first thing that came to his lips: the truth. “I’ve missed you.”

She stared at him, as if wary that he was merely lulling her into a false sense of security before he struck. “You have?”

He frowned at that. He supposed her having lived the vampire life for five years made things a lot less easier to take at face value. “Yes, and I know it was mostly my doing, but I couldn’t help it that I was angry. Your relationship with Viktor… it forced me to accept that there had been something wrong with me. Maybe I secretly liked putting all the blame on your shoulders, but—“

“I-It’s alright, Harry. I des—“

“No, it’s not alright. And no, you don’t deserve it. Not all of it, at least. You remember what you said that night you came back? How you said that the reason you left was because you were destroying me? Maybe that was true, but what you haven’t realized is that I was destroying you, too. I wanted to protect you. Keep you sheltered, and I realized now that I was going about it in the most restricting, imprisoning way. If we had gone on the way we were, I would have turned you into someone utterly dependent on me, and that sort of thing eats on a person slowly. You would have lost all sense of self; everything you did would be about me, first, and then because you would become more and more dependent on me as the nights drew on, your opinions and your ideas would slowly wither away to the shape you think would most please me. Before either of us would know it, I’d be addicted, and the once natural balance that was us would have tilted in a most unnatural manner.”

She seemed to take in his words for a bit before she looked up and met his gaze. “I wouldn’t have complained, you know.”

“That’s just it. You wouldn’t have, because you didn’t think you were good for me, and that you were a vampire and therefore indebted to my kindness for taking you; for loving you, because you were a monster, or a burden, and all those things you called yourself back then.”

She didn’t deny it. She was remembering the things she had said about herself. She was remembering the misery, and maybe it was still a part of her, but it was worse for her then, when there was nothing but him because she didn’t think she could contemplate something other than him. She had been in a box that she thought bound her, but now she knew there was something beyond that same box, that it hadn’t been unthinkable to look outside; it hadn’t destroyed him when she sought those outside things, and that it hadn’t completely destroyed her, because upon returning to him, she probably discovered, just as he had, that the Hermione she knew for seventeen years was still inside her, just that she had managed to bury it deep under five years of her vampirism. Now, perhaps, she was finding a way to make those two aspects of her coincide with each other; exist together, without compromising what she naturally ought to be.

Harry smiled. “Before you were turned and after we admitted our feelings for each other, I once wondered why I never thought about you romantically before that night you went to Privet Drive. I asked myself what had changed in you that I suddenly saw you differently. I realized that nothing about you had changed, it was just that I wasn’t ready then to see you the way I was supposed to, and that somehow, after the end of sixth year, I was. It got me to think that if I had stumbled upon my true feelings for you much sooner, it might not have been so well-developed, because it was too precious and powerful to leave to immature and under-developed sensibilities. So when we finally got together that summer, we were ready then, and so it was wonderful, wasn’t it? I think that when you were turned, the process reset itself. Everything was suddenly different, so we had to start all over again, and we were back from where we began: unprepared; not ready. Hermione, you know what they say about powerful things…”

She nodded. “It can either bring ultimate salvation or utter destruction.”

“It was getting destructive between us.”

“Yes.”

“But we’ve learned to wield it, haven’t we? We’ve gotten to this point and we’ve both grown in the last five years, whether we want to admit it or not. We’re better, aren’t we? For ourselves and for each other. I want to love you, and you can’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing. You can’t tell me I haven’t got a choice. I know what I’m doing and I have had choices.” He pulled her closer in his arms and she let him hold her, looking up at him as she laid her palm on his cheek gently.

“And I can no longer tell myself that I could exist without you,” she said. “I thought I could, but I would have realized sooner or later that I was kidding myself, and maybe it would have been too late to put things to rights… I did catch it, now, didn’t I? Just in time?”

“Yes, you did,” he said softly. “I am beginning to understand why you left, why you felt you had to do it. And I suppose… I suppose it had done more good than I realized.”

Her brows knotted, and she looked like she was staunching her tears. “It… it wasn’t easy being away from you, Harry. Don’t ever think it was easier for me than it ever was for you…”

“I don’t think it was easy for you,” he said gently. “At least, not anymore. If we’re going to have a relationship, Hermione, we’re both going to have to look ahead and stop getting stuck in the past.”

“I’d like to look ahead,” she said seriously before she narrowed her gaze at him and smirked. “So next time, try not to stick your ex-girlfriend in my face, won’t you?”

“Well…” he said somewhat silkily. “Turnabout’s fair play?”

“Is it? So you did it to get back at me?”

He laughed softly. “I’m just teasing. The woman’s pregnant, she has a child and she left her husband because he was cheating on her. What did you expect me to do?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Right. I almost forgot about your saving people thing. But you’re still a git. I hate that she’s in the house, even if she has an utterly adorable baby, and even if I feel bad for what happened to her. I should be more vicious than this, don’t you think?”

“Well, I don’t know,” he said, quietly, letting his hands move up her back. “I rather like it that you couldn’t help but be kind to people. But tell me… why do you hate it that Cho’s at Grimmauld Place?”

“Bint. You know why.”

“Well, you know I just want to hear you say it.”

“Fine. I hate that Cho’s in the house because I’m a territorial bitch and that she has invaded my property.”

“Oh, Grimmauld Place is your property, now, is it?”

“I wasn’t talking about Grimmauld Place.” She smirked, twirling the chain on his neck around her fingers.

Harry laughed at that and he clutched her tighter. “That is so wrong! I should be insulted, really!”

Her eyes twinkled. “Serves you right for forcing me to admit that I’m jealous.”

His laughter dwindled and he pressed a soft kiss on her brow. “I’m never going to win one over you without a fight, am I?”

She closed her eyes, leaning into his kiss. “Doubtful.”

He smiled. He supposed challenges were alright once the worst had passed and everything seemed to be working out. In the meantime, it was frustrating and even heartbreaking. He liked challenges, but not that badly.

“But it’s not as if I do it on purpose,” she added softly, paying back his kiss with one of her own to the underside of his jaw.

A chuckle rose from his throat and he lifted her face up by her chin, brushing his lips against hers. “Hate to be on the receiving end when you put your mind to it.”

“You already were,” she said somewhat seriously, pulling back to meet his gaze.

He sighed lightly, planting another kiss on her lips, this one more heated than the last. Her arms slid up his shoulders as their lips and tongues brushed, briefly but without the slightest hint of hesitation.

“We’ll make that part of the past we won’t dwell on,” he breathed, pulling her into a kiss that lasted much longer and caused heat to spread from their joined lips to the rest of his body.

When they separated, his breathing had already gone ragged and her eyes were half-lidded with desire. She pushed him into the room and he managed to keep his footing as he gingerly took a few steps back.

They were kissing again, and he could feel her fingers gently trying to find the edges of his jumper. The mere thought of her undressing him heightened his need, and as soon as they were clear of the door, he slammed it shut with the press of their bodies.

With her back to the door, their kissing grew desperate. His hands sought her backside, and having been enamored of it since seeing it in Grimmauld Place, he imagined that his squeezing was not gentle, but she made no complaints. Her response only became more intense, and she jumped nimbly into his arms, wrapping her legs securely around his waist.

It was when she pressed herself so brilliantly against his erection that a surprisingly reasonable thought occurred to him: They were going to do it. They were going to have deliriously mind-blowing sex.

The thought made him dizzy, and for a moment, he felt like that proverbial randy teenager who was going to get laid for the first time with the desirable single-woman neighbor that all the boys on the block talked about.

Hitching her more firmly against him, he practically spilled both of them on the bed, and he apparently managed to make that clumsy maneuver seem erotic, because she flashed that sultry smile of hers and said, “Oh, Harry,” with such breathless awe, just before she pulled him down to her to reward him in a most delicious manner.

Only then did it occur to him that he didn’t want it to be just about sex, and given the things they’d gone through in the last week, he definitely had to make sure she understood this, after which they could perhaps get down and as dirty as she wanted.

He pulled back, gasping for air as he tried to catch her gaze. For a moment, she seemed to think the pause part of the foreplay, but when it lasted a bit longer than she expected, her eyebrow rose. The perplexity in her expression was most endearing, but this was too important for him to leave it to blind faith.

He took her hand, his ring rasping lightly against hers as he held her hand to his heart. “You understand what this means to me, don’t you?” he asked softly, rather hopefully.

She didn’t look away, and though she didn’t answer immediately, the small, affectionate smile on her lips was most encouraging. “You remember what we used to say, Harry? About how I’d hide somewhere and how you’d always try to find me?”

He nodded. “And you’d say I would, because you wanted me to…”

Her hand lightly squeezed his. “This is you finding me… because I finally want to be found.”

There were hardly any words necessary after that.

He kissed her, and there was a new intensity to their joining.

Even so tangled, they undressed one another piece by piece, letting lips and tongue moved over naked skin as more and more of it was unraveled.

She looked so beautiful to him; all those five years of wanting and needing was utterly lost to the overwhelming reality of her wonderful breasts in his hands just before his mouth descended to suck on each aroused peak. His fingers wandered to parts of her that ached for attention, and the sounds his gentle but purposeful stroking coaxed out of her lips was almost more than he could stand.

So perhaps to distract himself from the burgeoning desire to do with her exactly what he most wanted to do, he spoke a witty indecency in her ear, or at least it seemed witty given the circumstances. But oh, she liked that, and she writhed beneath him as she said his name in a most uninhibited manner.

He felt the first burst of pheromones just when her climax hit her, and as enjoyable as it was to watch her so undone, her pheromones were powerful, and he let the pleasurable haze blanket him in near-explosive sensations.

Before he even realized it, he was on his back and she was above him, kissing him as she hovered above, her knees to his sides.

“Merlin, Harry,” she murmured against his lips as she reached down between them and very expertly began to stroke him. “Those hands!”

Eyes practically rolling to the back of his head, he found that he was in absolutely no condition to be gloating about his hands when hers were being so very clever.

He groaned at the wonderful sensations, but he could think of something infinitely better for them both. Slipping his hands behind her knees, he pulled her to him, coaxing her to relinquish her hold. Her resistance was minimal, and when he felt her warmth and softness wrap around him, they both of them paused, savoring the moment in each other’s scorching gaze.

When Hermione began to move above him, he had to force back the intensity of feeling that threatened to make a quick night of the entire thing. He tore his gaze from the erotic cadence of her body, meeting her eyes even as his fingers dug into the delicate skin of her hips.

She held his eyes for a moment before her lids fluttered close, urgent moans rising from her throat.

He fought his own climax, squeezing his eyes shut and desperately trying to think of something else. It was near impossible with the lovely way she was murmuring the most encouraging and sensual words he had ever heard.

Focusing, he pushed back the effects her words had on him, centering himself even as he returned her thrusts with his own.

Her fingertips brushed his cheek, and the delicate touch sent an astonishing shock of magic rushing through that conduit. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, but his magic had almost always responded perfectly to whatever the situation entailed, and since he knew that he was right where he wanted to be, he knew it could only be good.

She gasped, but he clutched at her wrist to keep the contact, kissing the heel of her palm as he would her lips. Magic coursed between them; his with hers, a brilliant and alluring dance of diverse auras seeking a balance and common ground. He followed the flow of her power, found that it marked a path to her mind, heart and perhaps her soul, and he discovered infinite possibilities.

Her desperate cries rang in his ears, enveloping his senses and bringing him back to himself. Feeling her and seeing her reach that point was fantastic, and suddenly, all that mattered was her. He clung to his restraint valiantly, because he was nothing if not heroic.

She gave a final gasp, and seeing his opportunity, Harry flipped them over, finding her compliant.

He could see the rings in her eyes and her lengthened fangs. She stared up at him with an adoring gaze he felt could sustain him for the next one hundred years.

Smiling slightly, he touched her face delicately as he calmed his own desires.

Pressing soft kisses along her neck, he felt her fingers combing lightly through his hair before they trailed over his nape and spine.

“What was that, Harry?” she whispered.

“Magic,” he replied simply. He didn’t wait long enough for her to ask an explanation. He began to kiss her again, and bracing himself by his elbows, he sank himself into the embrace of her body and moved.

It felt phenomenal, their moans muffled only by the joining of their lips.

There were pheromones and he thought he would pass out from the delicious effects of it.

He changed the cadence of his movements and she gasped.

“O-Oh, Harry…”

Well, she likes that, doesn’t she? And he found that so did he.

He closed his eyes, feeling his climax coming on. He could wait for her. He knew he could.

Slowing his thrusts, he pressed kisses beneath her ear, her cheek and then her lips, nursing them with his own while they, both of them, breathed desire-ridden words to one another.

He kept this pace, biding his time, but when his name from her lips brought with it a pleading quality, it was almost all he could stand.

His movements gained tempo, and her sultry smile of approval, melting into her sensual relinquishment of self to him, heightened his need.

She began to cry out encouragement, her fingers digging into his hair.

The arching of her back was about as much as he could bear. Harry breathed, desperately seeking focus from within him and the magic all around as his eyes rolled closed.

Lights and colors burst behind his eyelids and again the magical connection that had gripped them earlier caught hold. His immense desire to please her fueled its intensity until everything had an identity; a place; an entity that he could call, manipulate and command.

He saw her, and he touched his astral self to hers. Their magic pulled together before exploding around them, sucking them back into their physical selves and sweeping them in a powerful flood of joined climax.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry felt like he’d climbed Mount Everest and was screaming euphorically from the top. He wasn’t quite screaming, and he hadn’t actually so much as climbed the mountain as he had ridden a broom up the slopes, but the euphoria was overwhelming, and his blessed exhaustion was all that kept him from jumping up on the bed and giving a triumphant whoop.

Bloody hell. That was just…

“Amazing,” Hermione whispered, as if to finish his thought. She lay her head on his shoulder, her spill of fragrant hair silky against his skin. She snuggled to his side and he found that he could put his arm around her, at least. “I’ve never felt anything like that.”

He could, of course, revel in the compliments like an insufferable stud muffin, but he knew, without question, that it hadn’t all been him. He might have called the magic, but she had somehow enhanced it. How, he could only guess.

Because she loves me?

He smiled stupidly. Romantic, and perhaps even true to a point, but having known and studied magic since he was eleven, there were aspects of magic that could be explained in a more academic, perhaps even scientific manner. Even now, bathed in contentment, he had recognized the signature of the magic that had occurred. He acknowledged this thought before he decided to push it aside. Now was not the time for that.

Now, he had better things to do. He was going to cuddle. This was the third thing he missed about her, after all. Sex is second, he thought wryly, laughing at his own sentimentality. The thing he most missed was everything else that meant she loved him, and perhaps he would never admit that sort of thing to other blokes, but he would admit it to himself, and to Hermione if she felt like talking about it.

“Me neither,” he said in response to what she said.

She looked up at him, mildly surprised. “Really?”

For a moment, he actually wondered if he had gleaned just the slightest hint of insecurity. It astonished him for only a heartbeat, realizing in the next second that this was what entailed Hermione’s relinquishment of her heart, mind and body. She wasn’t hiding anything anymore… well, at least for now, so open and vulnerable in his arms.

He reached up to push some stray ringlets from her face. “What, did you think I was able to do that because I’ve had practice?”

A flush rose in her cheeks and she chuckled softly. “Well… you’ve had more of that than I—“

“I was able to do it because it was you,” he said, deliberately but gently cutting off her train of thought. “I’ve never done that before.”

She smiled, and he liked the possessive gleam in her eyes, as if she were utterly pleased that this was hers and his alone. “And you could do it again?”

He grinned. “I’m almost positive I could.”

“Brilliant!”

“Well, aren’t you the greedy one?”

“There’s no half-arsing the quest for the perfect orgasm, I’ll have you know.” She said this with a straight face, and perhaps that’s what he found so funny.

He had to laugh and it was only then he realized that he was really lethargic now. “Words to live by.”

She laid her head back down and her fingers traced idle circles on his chest, outlining the skin around the shape of the pendant. There was a brief silence before she spoke. “What are we going to do now, Harry?”

He knew what she meant, but he couldn’t resist being the tiniest bit flippant, especially since he was getting drowsier by the second. “Save the world. Live to tell the tale.”

She chuckled softly. “After that. What are we going to do?”

“You mean because you don’t know if you’d want to leave your job to move to London?”

The idle circling stopped, and for a moment, he feared he had been too flippant, but when she looked up at him, there was only gentle concern in the knotting of her brows. “I have been wondering about it in the last three days, Harry. It’s one of the things—I felt that if I had to beg you to take me back, I should be able to promise you real things; important things. But now that I think about it… they’re things I want, too. I’m staying where you are, Harry. There’s no doubt about that now. I’ll fight for a reassignment if I have to. It won’t be easy, but I’ll do it. In the meantime, if I could make arrangements with Elena to get me a portkey I could use regularly to see you as often as our schedules permit…”

He smiled, utterly happy at the fact that she was making—or at least intending to make—a real effort to be with him. “So long as she doesn’t ask for too high a price, if you know what I mean.” He jerked his eyebrows up and down, bellying his objections.

She slapped him lightly. “As if you really hate the thought. Sorry to disappoint you, but Elena has enough whores. She’d definitely ask monetary remuneration, and it’s not going to be cheap, either, but it’s worth it, isn’t it? To be able to be with you…”

“Or I could move to Albania,” he said, adjusting to a more comfortable position and pulling her into his embrace in the process. “Do they have a Quidditch Team?”

“Silly. You would leave your job as an Auror?”

“Why, yes. It’s not something I’d like to do forever, you know. Too dangerous, if you ask me.”

“Are you serious, Potter?”

“Gravely.”

“Huh. Interesting. What would you like to do after you kick the Auror habit, then?”

Harry gave it a brief thought. “A Quidditch career sounded nice and cushy about three years ago, but the truth is… I don’t really like fame all that much.”

“You don’t.”

“So… thought maybe I’d like to teach.”

She looked up at him again in surprise. “Teach? Like a professor?”

He smirked, blinking sleepily. “They’re usually called that, yes. There’s the occasional ‘Oily Git’, but since I very diligently shampoo, I don’t reckon I’d have to contend with that title. Four Eyes, I think, would be more forthcoming.”

She shot him a dry grin. “Very funny smarty no-pants.”

“Another nickname. But naughtier, I think.”

She pinched him lightly for punishment. “It’s rather ironic, though, isn’t it? Everyone thought you’d want to be an evil-fighting Auror all your life while I would be holed up in some laboratory somewhere, doing research.”

Harry thought that was ironic. “You don’t want to teach?”

She snorted and began to recite a monologue. “Dear Mum, we met our Transfigurations teacher today. Professor Granger is wicked! She is great fun and very beautiful. I think she is in love with the D.A.D.A. professor, who is a dish. I learned today that it is not advisable to get Professor Granger angry, though. It’s a good rule of thumb never to tee off a vampire. I am definitely going to do my Transfigurations homework from now on. Love, Sally.”

He considered it. “You have a point.”

“Of course I do.”

“But it’s not as if teacher-teacher relationships are bad, per se. We just have to be discreet, is all, and not make too much noise in the broom closet—“

She gave him another light slap. “You missed the entire point, you blithering mortal.” Then she laughed, knowing full well that he had completely understood what she was trying to say.

He smiled. “McGonagall would trust you, you know,” he said seriously.

She nodded. “Yes, but why give Hogwarts and its Headmistress unnecessary problems? Employing a vampire? If I were human and I had a child at Hogwarts, I wouldn’t want to think that she was left to the mercies of a blood-drinking creature, even if she was their professor.”

“If you believe in that then you believe that Remus being bullied into resigning was fair.”

She opened her mouth, hesitated then spoke. “That was different. There were measures to contain his situation, and the children were reasonably safe from the… symptoms of his disease. It won’t be the same for a vampire.”

He shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Would you ever hurt a student?”

“If he’s Slytherin, I guess…”

“Seriously?”

She huffed. “Oh, alright. I won’t; not even if he’s a git like Malfoy. Not even if he’s a junior Death Eater. I’ll just turn him into a Pygmy Puff and shove him in a cage.”

“Then I suppose that’s all that ought to matter. Everything else is just prejudice.”

“The vampire prejudice isn’t without basis.”

He yawned. “Oh, I know. Just like with werewolves, I suppose. But still, you have to admit that if you ever get the notion of teaching at Hogwarts, it might be something to seriously consider.”

She smiled affectionately. “Look at you, all exhausted and staying awake… go to sleep, Potter. I release you from your obligatory post-shag cuddling.”

He smiled back, closing his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

“Wake me in thirty minutes.”

“Whatever for?”

“Well, what do you think? We have five years of shagging to make up for. D’you think I’m about to waste time?”

“Apparently not.”

“Thirty-minutes,” he reminded her before sighing and snuggling more comfortably into the pillows.

“I won’t forget.”

He cocked one last grin before he let the waves of slumber lull him into a well-earned nap.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione did wake Harry up in thirty-minutes and it had been a most wonderful awakening indeed, as she had endeavored to wake other parts of him first with her very lovely lips and hands. Harry was half-certain there was a lot of tongue involved, too. When he was fully awake, he took to the most pleasant task of “ravishing” her, as per her instructions. Of course, she had been joking with the term, but as most jokes were wont, it was most assuredly half-meant, and he interpreted it thusly.

The room suffered somewhat, as they seemed to have exploded at least two vases to powder and scorched the sofa seat that had been set by the fireplace. How the flames leapt from the hearth to the chair, they could only guess, but a fair portion of the furnishings had blackened dismally, and if Harry hadn’t been so adept at dousing flames with his magic, they might have burned the entire castle down.

With their desires sated for the meantime and the fire put out (so to speak), they lay back in bed, staring at the ceiling.

“We should stop,” Hermione had said as the chair smoldered still from its previously fiery plight even after Harry and Hermione’s combined efforts to restore it was mostly a success.

He lifted his head from the bed to look at her. “Stop? Why?”

“Because, you randy sod, we almost set the castle on fire!”

“Well, we put out the flames, didn’t we?”

“Harry!”

“It’s only one o’clock!”

“Don’t you—like, ever run out of—“

“Bite your tongue!”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m not meaning to say forever! Just for tonight!”

He arched an eyebrow. “You don’t want to, anymore?”

“Of course I want to—“

Well, that settled that. They were not going to stop. At least not yet. He was a twenty-something bloke, fit, he had a lot of—well, whatever one called it, and he hadn’t gotten any in months. What did Hermione expect?

There were no more untoward accidents after that, anyway.

It was sometime before sunrise, both of them distinctly aware that their night was coming to a close, that Hermione pressed her lips to his neck and sank her fangs into his tender flesh.

The pheromones, the blood rush and the wonderful way their bodies joined was more than enough to have him tumbling into sweet surrender.

He was bonelessly exhausted after that, even with the blood-replenishing potion she made him drink.

Her, “Sweet dreams, Harry,” was the last thing he heard as he finally slept, completely content.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry woke a little after noon. He had overslept, which he should have expected, whether or not Hermione took blood from him.

Hermione wasn’t there, of course.

He felt a little bit sad, and realized in no small way that he had liked awakening all night, last night, simply because she had been there to wake up to. He did, however, have many, many things to offset the gloom.

Things were definitely looking up. The ring on his finger (and the somewhat burnt furniture) was proof that he hadn’t dream the entire thing. It had happened, and so he could hardly wait to see her again.

In the meantime, he had work to do. He had been distracted enough and now he had to make up for it.

He bathed and dressed before taking the case and examining it. He had a few basic Auror instruments in his bag that helped him make proper readings and detailed notes, after which he gathered everything and sought the library.

Wenceslaus was most accommodating in showing him the way, even explaining to him the different sections in the Krum archives. There were two ghost librarians who were more than eager to offer their assistance, anyway.

Two hours later, Harry had books stacked on a table while he scribbled notes frantically on a parchment.

Wenceslaus returned carrying a late lunch on a tray. Harry was terribly embarrassed, but the good butler dispelled his worries with assurances that “Young Master Krum” tasked him to make his guests’ stay as comfortable as possible.

Harry felt a twitch of guilt.

He hadn’t exactly been the friendliest guest, yet here he was, availing of the library, eating Viktor’s food and—well, there was him and Hermione (who happened to be Vitkor’s ex) shagging all night in no less than Viktor’s home, on bed sheets bought by Krum coffers, not to mention the burnt furniture… in a way it was all rather twisted, even if Harry knew there was really nothing he could do about all of it now except to make up for it all by being a more gracious guest.

Wenceslaus then went on to tell him that “Mr. Weasley” was in the courtyard playing a pick-up Quidditch game with Young Master Krum and the stable hands.

Harry thanked Wenceslaus and went back to work.

By the time Ron ambushed him in the library, Harry had worked out a formula for strengthening the wards on the case. He just needed to see the staff again; perhaps make a few calculated adjustments, and surely, Hermione could very well verify his notes when she awoke.

Harry had to look up from his work when Ron sat by him on the table. Ron smelled like many things; among which was horse manure.

Harry grimaced and shook his head. “When it’s not Dragon dung, it’s bog water, and when it’s not that, it’s horse crap. No wonder Gabrielle doesn’t want to see you.”

“I helped the hands clean out the stables,” explained Ron. “Only fair. They played a really good game. You know what I just found out? Krum’s a decent Beater. Really good at it, in fact. Not hard to believe, though. Bloke’s got arms like battering rams and a good eye for opportunity.”

“Fascinating. Sounds like you have a real future with this man.”

“Very funny, Harry.”

Harry smirked and went back to studying his notes.

“Oy…” Ron suddenly said. “What’s that shiny-twinkly-thing on your hand? That looks just like… bloody hell, did she--?”

“Yep.”

“And did you--? On second thought, I don’t want to know, so wipe that spectacularly stupid grin off your ugly mug, Potter.”

“You’re just jealous.”

Ron scoffed. “That’s so fourth year, mate.”

“Why not? We’ve got the whole cast present. You, me, Krum, Hermione… I ought to floo Cho to come Portkeying over here so we could have our own little Yule Ball.”

“Lovely.” Ron grinned. “Well, I’m happy for the both of you, mate. Sounds like you have one hurdle down, a million more to go.”

“You must be that Half-Empty bloke everyone’s talking about. I think I like Half-Filled better.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to sound discouraging. I honestly am glad for the both of you. Hermione would never admit it, but she was already beginning to squeak whenever I brought up the subject of the two of you. It was entertaining, but also somewhat disturbing…”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe it helped that you were pestering her. She was the one who initiated the talk last night. And as you know, that turned out really well. I mean, really, really well.”

“I’m going to pretend that I don’t completely understand what you mean by that. What’s all this research you’ve got going on here?”

Harry allowed Ron the change of subject. He explained the research and how he wanted to see the staff in a little while to confirm his computations.

When Harry was done, Ron nodded. “I’ll go with you when you go check it out. Best you don’t go down there alone. But first, I think I need to go shower.”

“I concur, with everything you said, especially the last part.”

Ron waved off his retorts.

Harry took the time of Ron’s absence to review his re-computed spells. Arithmancy wasn’t his best skill, but he was thankful that he had taken the time to learn it.

Wouldn’t have bothered if Hermione had been around…

He chuckled at the irony. Maybe Hermione had been particularly right about that; that because she hadn’t been around to turn to for Arithmancy and History, he felt that he had to learn it, and in the process, he improved his own knowledge.

Small blessings? he wondered.

If he had been made to choose before, at seventeen, between knowledge and Hermione, he would have chosen Hermione, hands down. But now, at hindsight, especially with his realizations of the last three days, maybe the decision won’t be as easy, or as clear cut. The things he had learned because Hermione hadn’t been there had saved his and many of his loved ones’ lives.

If I were given the chance to choose… Knowing what he knew now? He just wasn’t sure anymore about how he’d decide it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The horcrux was as alive as they left it the night before, and Ron was still as repulsed.

Ron said that it wasn’t that the staff was taking his strength. It felt more like it was oppressive and ultimately painful. Besides that it was evil, and somehow he felt utterly disgusted by it, like the thought of getting near it made him sick.

It was, however, evident that touching it was far more dangerous than looking at it. Contact was, according to the note Viktor received, fatal.

So as they stood outside the perimeter of the staff’s reach, Harry made a few adjustments to his notes.

“Are you done, then?” Ron asked, implying that he just wanted to get the hell out of there.

Harry became ponderous. “Ron, I’m going to tell you something that might freak you out.”

“Oh, no, not another one of those…” In spite of the many years they’ve known each other, Ron hadn’t yet gotten used to the little magical “surprises” Harry sprung on him, like Parseltongue, or having the same wand core as Voldemort’s, painful scars, and the prophecy…

“I’m not feeling as repulsed by the staff as you are,” Harry said in a rush. It was always best to dive right in. “I mean, right now, I think I can actually walk up to it and give it a closer look.”

Ron stared at him, horrified, and for a moment, Harry thought he had finally convinced Ron that yes, he was a freak. “You’re not serious, Harry! That thing could kill you!”

It was always the best feeling in the world finding out that one had true friends.

“That’s the thing. I don’t think so,” Harry responded. “And you know what else? Something inside that staff has been trying to fight off the piece of Voldemort’s soul. I think that’s why it’s so unstable, and that might even be the reason why it’s repulsing everyone. There’s a war going on in it and neither side wants to risk tipping the scale in their opponent’s favor through external interference.”

“Vampires could hold it. Don’t you think their darkness would’ve helped the bad side of it along?”

“I wondered about that, but I have a theory that might explain that. I have to confirm it, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. Anyway…”

“We still have to find out why you aren’t getting repulsed.”

“Maybe neither side in the staff perceives me as a threat.”

“That’s bad, Harry. When magical objects aren’t as resistant to you as they are to everyone else…“

“I know, but perhaps—“

“No. Harry, you’re getting that way again. Risking stuff. Thinking you’re invincible, or something.”

Harry frowned. “Even when I’m wrong I manage to get things to work my way. You know that.”

“Yes, but—at least wait for Hermione to wake up. She’ll tell you what she thinks. If she says you can, then I’ll shut up. Agreed?”

Harry thought about it.

“Harry!”

“Alright, fine. Agreed.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione laughed when she heard it. “No. Absolutely not. You’re mental if you think I’d let you touch that thing.”

Harry rolled his eyes and looked at Ron.

Ron shrugged. “Hey, you heard the lady.”

They were in the in-house theater, seated among the audience chairs.

Viktor, at the moment, was indisposed, as his manager had arrived to discuss some Quidditch career matters. Viktor said he would rejoin them as soon as he was able and Harry found that he felt genuinely alright about the idea, even if it still made him wince when Viktor said, “Her-my-own.”

Before Viktor left them to see to his manager, Harry had one question for him. “Viktor, when you say the staff deflected all attempts to move it by magic, what did you mean?”

Viktor had given him a thoughtful look. “The spells bounced off it rather destructively. It did not want magic to touch it.”

Harry had nodded, his suspicions about the staff gaining more credence.

Now, discussing the staff, he contemplated talking about his theories with Hermione, preferably alone.

Lucien and Solomon were currently balancing on the backs and armrests of the seats, racing each other from one end of the theatre to another. They’d already fallen very painfully, at intervals, several times, but they continued on with the game, the two-out-of-three becoming five-out-of-seven. They were now up to fifteen-out-of-twenty-one.

He and Ron agreed that they wouldn’t talk about horcruxes and Voldemort in front of Solomon and Lucien, so Hermione was still quite a bit in the dark as to Harry’s suspicions about what was going on in the staff. For now, they could talk about who best could handle the packing of the staff.

“Look,” Harry said. “Don’t you think it’s odd that I seem to have no problem approaching it while the rest of you couldn’t wait to get away from it?”

“Yes! It’s the oddest thing! Which is why you shouldn’t, Harry.” She said loftily. “Lucien will do it, so under no circumstance should you—“

“Because I’m mortal?”

“Well, of course because you’re mortal.”

Harry scowled. “The fact that I don’t feel any harmful effects at all means I’m the best candidate to handle that staff.”

She tutted, likely annoyed by his insistence. “I’m sure there are protections spells you can cast on Lucien to mute what little effects the staff might have on him. The wards Viktor has up seem to do the trick well enough, and if you can transmute that to protecting Lucien, it’s still a better option than risking the one and only life you have, Harry.”

He sighed. “I’m telling you, I don’t think I’m in any danger!”

“Famous last words,” she muttered as she took the case and the papers sitting atop it.

Harry shot Ron a tired glance as he let her flip through the parchment.

“These computations are sound,” she said, picking up one of the self-inking quills Harry brought with him. She began scribbling some things on the margin and making adjustments. “It ought to work better with this transposition… how’s that?”

Harry looked it over and of course Hermione added just the right touch to make it brilliant. “Well, that does make it better, doesn’t it?”

“Common enough mistake to forget that the thaumaturgical third-constants could be applied in most arithmantic formulae.”

“Huh. That’s right, isn’t it? Many arithmantic formulae are compatible with thaumaturgy’s tertiary elements. Clever of you to remember.”

Ron shook his head in disapproval.

“Aww,” Lucien sighed.

“Geeks in love.” Solomon said from the side.

Hermione glared at them. “Harry, we should apply these wards now before we go down to the dungeons. You can apply them, can’t you?”

“Well, of course I can. What do you think I am, an amateur?”

“Oh, most definitely not.”

Harry was half-certain they weren’t talking about wards anymore. He cocked a grin and she shot him a mischievous smile, arching her eyebrow, as if to issue a sultry dare for him to tell her otherwise.

Ron hummed, looking away. “Pretending…”

As enticing as flirting with her was, Harry told himself that they could have fun later. They had work to do.

Harry applied the recomputed wards to the case and had Hermione tweak it a bit before they headed for the dungeons.

At the top of the dungeon stairs, Harry handed the case over to Ron. “Think you can give me a minute alone with Hermione? I have to talk to her about something.”

Ron nodded, knowing what it was about. ”Don’t take too long, though. When Lucien and Solomon get bored, they start picking on me and I’m not in the mood for that right now.”

“A few minutes.”

Ron left, ushering Lucien and Solomon away. When they had left hearing range, Harry pulled Hermione behind a corner.

Hermione stared at him uncertainly. “You’re not just trying to get alone time with me, are you?”

He laughed softly. “Always, but I’m afraid snogging will have to wait.” He told her about what he thought was happening inside the staff as briefly as he could. When he was done, she did not look pleased at all.

“And you’re sure about the two entities?” Hermione asked.

“Yes. Positive. We already know a piece of Voldemort’s soul is in there, and while I don’t think a piece of Gryffindor’s soul’s been left in the staff—“

She nodded. “The staff served a very powerful wizard, and there would naturally be imprints of the person who wielded it best, left on the staff.”

“I’d imagine the imprint Gryffindor left could have formed a light entity of sorts. It might have been passive then, but when it fell under siege those years ago when Voldemort created the horcrux, it may have gained some kind of primitive sentience.”

“Feasible. And you think it’s resisting any form of magic from touching it because both entities want no outside interference in this battle of theirs?”

“Not any form. The harnessed form. The form that we could consciously cast spells with.”

She nodded. “Which is why formerly Muggle vampires could touch it with relatively minimal stress compared to their wizard counterparts. Their immortality dampens the fatal effects at the same time their Muggle aspects have no aptitude to wield magic the way we wizards do, therefore, they cannot affect the staff the way wizard-folks can.”

“Exactly.”

“Which only makes the implications of why it isn’t repelling you a lot worse.”

Harry was surprised at this. “Worse?”

“This isn’t just a random ability on your part, Harry,” she continued. “Earlier, when you told me you weren’t being repelled by the staff, I was very worried that you might be right.”

“So you think I could touch it.”

“Yes.”

“Then—“

“It doesn’t mean I think you should,” she snapped. “Tell me, what do you think is the primary goal of this so-called war those entities are waging inside the staff?”

“To drive one of them out, of course, so they could inherit the vessel completely.”

“Correct. And why do you think neither of the entities has shown you resistance?”

“I’m not a threat to either of them.”

“Wrong. You are a threat, magically. Harry, you’re the strongest wizard among all of us. At the very least, the part that is Voldemort should be kicking and screaming to get away from you. Try again.”

Harry frowned. “Really, Hermione, just tell me—“

She sighed but complied. “Both entities have use for you, somehow, Harry. I’m not sure in what way, but—“

“But you have an idea?”

Her lips pursed, eyes blazing with sudden conviction. “An idea that hasn’t enough facts to give it credence or compel me to talk about it with anyone. Don’t ask me to discuss it with you because I won’t. But the fact is you must not touch that staff. You just shouldn’t. Do you understand?”

It was most certainly difficult to resist her when she got this way, all fired up and decided on something. He was, however, not ready to promise her that he wouldn’t touch the staff. So, partly to distract her and give in to his urges, he kissed her.

She took to the kiss immediately and they both took a few minutes to enjoy it. After they got in a grope or two, he grinned and pulled away.

“We ought to get this thing over with,” he said, taking her hand to lead them back to joining the others.

She pouted. “You better have plans of finishing what you started, Potter.”

“You better believe it.”

That seemed to please her well enough.

Together with Ron, Lucien and Solomon, they headed down to the dungeons.

Viktor had, earlier, already given him and Ron access to the wards around the staff. They easily stripped the wards to get to the viewing room.

They came face to face with the staff again, and as usual, it made everyone but Harry uncomfortable.

Lucien, though agitated, stepped up. “Alright, let’s do this, then.”

Harry nodded, handed the box over to Lucien, and began casting protections spells on him. “Seal the staff in as quickly as you can,” instructed Harry as he flicked his wand deliberately on Lucien’s hands and then the rest of him. “No showing off.”

Lucien scowled. “Oy, I don’t always do that!”

“Yes, you do,” Solomon said.

Pouting, Lucien huffed away and approached the staff. His progress was sure enough as he began to cross the perimeter between the last ward and the staff itself, but a bit further down, he slowed.

“Alright, Lucien?” Harry asked.

“It’s—it’s a bit oppressive,” Lucien said.

Harry exchanged looks with Ron before looking to Hermione.

She frowned. “Is it painful in any way, Lucien?”

“Not really. Not yet, at least. I can go on, I think. I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Worse comes to worst, I’ll get off on it.”

“That is so not funny, Lucien,” Hermione said, scowling.

“Oh, honestly,” Lucien said as he gradually made his way towards the staff. “You can be so uptight sometimes, Her-my-own.”

Ron laughed. “Bet you like that one better than Her-mi-ninny.”

“Don’t be unkind, Ron,” Hermione said. “Viktor’s really trying!”

Trying to what? Harry wanted to ask, but decided not to, adding it to his efforts to be more gracious. After all, it didn’t seem as if Viktor was trying to get Hermione back, and by all accounts, Hermione felt nothing more than an easy friendship for the surly Bulgarian. Still, that Her-my-own was little grating.

Lucien had just about reached the staff and had laid the box aside. He lifted the lid off the box before he went before the mounts and reached for the staff.

Harry found himself waiting breathlessly for what was going to happen next.

Lucien’s hands wrapped around the staff and he held it for two heartbeats before speaking. “Feels strange, but I think—“

The staff began to glow purple in his hands and Harry’s eyes widened in horror as he felt a strong wave of malevolence. Lucien was still speaking, and Hermione seemed to be giving him instructions. No one else seemed to be reacting.

They couldn’t see it! Harry thought. “Lucien, let it go,” he said, enunciating every word.

Of course, his words didn’t register with any of them at once.

“Let it go, now!” Harry cried.

But it was too late. Lucien stiffened and his mouth dropped open, as if in a silent scream. The staff shook in his grasp but his fingers wouldn’t unlock, and very slowly, it seemed to suck Lucien from within him. His skin began to collapse over bone, his pleading eyes making it more than evident that he was conscious, and he was feeling an insurmountable pain.

Immortal or not, Lucien looked like death was just about to suck him dry.

“N-No!” Hermione screamed, her impulse to get to her Shadow Kin automatic. She lunged just as Harry cried for her not to.

He cast a binding charm on her, dragging her backwards and right into Solomon’s arms. There was a resounding “oof!” from Solomon and he heard the inevitable eruption of Hermione’s anger, but Harry ignored all that, diving into the wards to get to Lucien before the horcrux killed him.

Ron was hurling shouts and curses, demanding Harry to stay away from the staff, but Harry pretended not to hear him.

Harry focused on Lucien and the staff. He couldn’t risk a spell. Viktor had told him what the staff did when they threw magic at it, and he couldn’t chance hurting anyone if his spell ricocheted. He was well aware that he had an unpredictable amount of power in his magic. There was no telling what a deflected Expelliarmus would yield when the staff spat the spell back out at them.

So Harry did what he thought was the only thing he could do. He grasped the staff and yanked it out of Lucien’s hands.

The glow dissipated as soon as Lucien was wrenched free.

Lucien dropped to the ground with a groan and Harry attempted to go to him.

“Don’t!” Solomon yelled.

Harry froze, letting his logic take root. If Lucien was seriously hurt, he would need blood, and if Harry went to him, the injured vamp would take that blood from Harry. Harry might not survive Lucien’s bloodlust. Lucien wasn’t anybody’s Shadow Kin at that moment. Now, he was just a vampire fighting to survive.

He backed up. He had to put the staff away so that Hermione and Solomon could help Lucien.

He scrambled for the box, and shoved the staff in its cushioned lining, but just before he could set it down, a roaring and whistling sound grinded in his ears, like a freight train. The sound became a presence, and it bore down on him, just before it tried to ram through his mental walls.

He knew it then; that the staff was more sentient than he realized.

It was a trap.

Lucien had been used, yet again, and this time as bait.

Harry pushed the dark entity within the staff back, away from him. The entity was strong; it had been fighting for dominance for at least two decades now, and it wasn’t going to feebly give up after one failed attempt. The rightful entity in the staff did not try to help Harry. Why would it? Harry was the solution to their stalemate. The dark entity would move out and into something else, the rightful entity would have the staff back all to itself.

Focusing his mental powers, Harry summoned all the strengthening techniques Hermione had taught him. His magic and the entity’s clashed, exploded, and before Harry knew it he was flying across the dungeon in one direction and the staff in another.

All he could make out were the shouts of everyone around him just before he felt the bone-crushing force of ancient stone walls slamming against his back, knocking him into oblivion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I’m definitely writing chapter 28 right now.

Don’t forget to thank the betas!!!!

::Does a Thank You Betas dance::

29. Chapter Twenty-eighth: Revelations

A/N: Alright, I can’t say this enough, but tome_raider just did an amazing, spectacular job beta-ing. I mean, you wouldn’t believe… she picked out the errors, communicated her thoughts about certain passages and thanks to her, this chapter just improved—well, exponentially. (That’s my new favorite word, by the way.) So thank you, tome_raider! You’re brilliant.

I’ve also been blessed by Sheryl Bennett, a reader and poet, who was moved by “Forever Knight” to write her captivating and inspired poem Still if you leave me. I will let you readers experience the emotions. Read it here.

Chapter rating: NC-17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Twenty-Eighth: Revelations

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There were times in Hermione’s vampiric life when she desperately wished she could just faint daintily away and escape the horrible realities of certain situations. Like this one, for example.

She was helpless, watching as Lucien, her dear Shadow Kin, suffered agonizing pain before her very eyes, and Harry, the man she loved with everything she had, was jumping into mortal peril.

But of course, vampire or human, she was never a swooner, and so she was wide-awake, seeing all that was happening in slow, agonizing detail.

When Harry took the staff from Lucien’s hands and Lucien fell to the ground, apparently alive, she told herself Lucien was going to be alright, even if her every impulse was to weep and rage at his evidential pain.

He’ll make it. He’ll be alright. That’s what’s important.

And the staff, seemingly reticent in Harry’s grip, actually looked as if Harry’s touch had neutralized it. For the briefest moment, Hermione had felt immense relief, but then Harry’s scar began to glow bright purple, and her fear swallowed her like a tsunami.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God!

She must have shrieked his name, the sound of her voice bleeding into the shouts of Ron and Solomon.

The magically lit torch-flames illuminating the dungeons danced erratically at the blast of chilling air that shot through the chamber.

Hermione could barely hear anything but the roaring wind; could barely see through the whipping of her hair.

There was an explosion, like a flash of red and blue lightning, and the pealing crack of thunder, just before she saw Harry flying backwards in one direction while the staff flew in another.

He was going to hit the stonewall and she screamed, furious and frustrated at her own helplessness.

“Delenio!” Ron cried, throwing a spell right where Harry was expected to connect with the wall.

The cushioning charm hit just before Harry slammed into the wall. Most of his body still hit hard ancient rock, but Ron had managed to cushion the back of Harry’s head. At the very least, Harry hadn’t cracked his skull.

If he’s even alive… OH GOD!

“Solomon, take these binding charms off me now!” she yelled.

Solomon calmly released her.

Struggling to get up, she fought to center herself, scrambling in Harry’s direction just before guilt flared. “Luc—“

“I’ll see to him,” Solomon said. “He’s alive and he’ll be fine. Go to Harry. Go!”

Thanking whatever God had blessed her with friends like Solomon, she rushed to Harry’s side where Ron had just finished checking him.

“He’s alive,” Ron said.

She could have thrown her arms around Ron and kissed him speechless. The man had saved Harry’s life with a spell she couldn’t have cast any better.

Her relief was great, but brief. Panicked thoughts began to assault her: She should have been more alert; she shouldn’t have given Harry the chance to bolt; she shouldn’t have taken blood from him the previous night; she should have been faster… but she stamped these thoughts back, trying to focus on the situation.

Resisting the urge to gather Harry in her arms and cry her heart out, she delicately removed his sticky-charmed glasses, pocketed the spectacles and pulled his eyelid up to check his pupils. She held up her wand, cast a mild Lumos and held it to his eye. His pupils contracted very slowly, which was disturbing, but also encouraging. At that point, she was willing to take anything and work on building upon it.

The sound of the castle staff spilling from the entrance was lost on her as she checked Harry’s vital signs. He was unconscious, and that was frightening, but she had to be optimistic, she had to tell herself that Harry was breathing, that he was responding to stimuli, and that he was bound to wake up sooner or later. Or else, she would just completely fall apart.

Ron looked over his shoulder at the arriving crowd. “That staff has to be put away. You stay here—“

“No, you stay here,” she replied through gritted teeth. “Do you think I’d let you near that thing after what happened? Honestly, between you, Harry and Lucien, I’d be the first vampire to die of a heart attack, I promise you.”

“But—“

“I think Harry did something to it that last second. Can you still feel the staff’s presence?”

Sighing, Ron shook his head. “Go, then. Put the staff away, but I swear, if that thing acts up on you, I’m calling in the Order.”

She nodded and looked to Harry, pushing his hair back tenderly in an unconscious gesture. “Don’t let them move him unnecessarily, and if they must move him, tell them to keep him stable. We won’t have him flung about and have them damaging his spine. He’d be furious if he wakes up paralyzed.”

She only paused for a heartbeat to consider her own words. “Furious” seemed like a misstatement, of course, but knowing Harry, he wouldn’t exactly be wrought with despair, so “furious” seemed most appropriate. Moody as Harry was, he never went down without a fight.

Pushing herself to her feet, she took the casing with her as she headed to the staff. She circled the staff cautiously. It sparked every few seconds, but it seemed to have lost the strength to emit that powerfully awful aura. Whether it was a temporary or permanent state, Hermione didn’t wait to find out. She grasped the staff and felt its resistance. It sent a sharp current of pain right up her arm and the rest of her body, but she sucked it up with a potent oath and jammed it into its casing, slamming the lid shut and sealing it with the appropriate charms.

The oddest sensation overtook her; something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Doubling over, her gorge rose and she retched. At first nothing seemed to come out, but the final painful heave forced out mists of dark blue aura, not from her gut, but from every pore of her body. It enveloped her thickly, as if trying to find its way back into her, before it drifted to the stone floor and dissipated without a trace. Hermione felt unbelievably weak and pained from it. She gagged a few more times before she finally collapsed to her knees, exhausted.

“Alright there, Hermione?” Ron called to her worriedly.

She sucked in the tepid air before she was able to muster a response. “Fine!” Which of course, she wasn’t, but she expected she’d be alright in a few seconds.

When she felt she could walk again without her head spinning, she looked over her shoulder at Harry. Viktor was there, barking orders at elves, ghosts and the seemingly unflappable Wenceslaus.

She wanted nothing more than to go back to Harry, oversee his transfer to a healing facility, but everyone who could help was gathered around him, and Ron was there to make sure Harry didn’t get swept in a flood of eager attendants.

Swallowing one guilt, she rushed to alleviate another.

Solomon had cradled Lucien against him, his sleeve rolled up as he gave Lucien precious blood from his wrist. Lucien, eyes still wild with pain, drank greedily. Vampire blood was not as healthy as human blood, but it was helpful for temporary replenishment; at least until human blood could be supplied.

Hermione could tell Solomon had just about given all he could, and kneeling beside them, she pried Lucien away from Solomon’s wrist. Lucien was not going easy. He was weakened, but he still possessed ample vampire strength.

Lucien’s vampiric eyes glared at her furiously and clawed at her ferociously.

His nails caught her cheek, drawing three claw marks that bled into the collar of her turtleneck.

“Lucien!” Solomon hissed, balling a fist to strike.

“No,” she said calmly. “He’s not himself. That was my fault…” She began to coo gently at Lucien as she pushed him away from Solomon. She tried her pheromones, and it seemed to work.

Solomon fell away, doubling over his wrist as he concentrated on healing the wound. He looked drained, but he would be fine.

Helplessly, Lucien fell for the lulling cadence of her voice. She let his head rest against her chest and circled him with her arms, pressing one bared wrist to his lips.

Lucien’s fangs broke her skin, clamping down almost painfully before his teeth retracted and his tongue began to lap against her skin to catch her blood.

She let him feed like the child she sometimes thought he was. She smoothed his hair back with her other hand, coaxing him softly to take it easy. Relax. Drink what he can but not so quickly. There was time for more, later.

Above Lucien’s head, she could seen them moving Harry in a competently cast Mobili Corpus spell.

She had to trust Ron to take care of Harry; at least for now.

My, how we’ve grown, she thought with a mixture of pride and regret. It had been so difficult to trust Ron before, mostly because he had seemed so prone to dwell on so many unimportant things even in the face of peril, but that dynamic of Ron had sustained her, too, because he was the perfect antidote to her damning seriousness; and that aspect of him was a reminder that they were still young enough to excuse his trivialities, or their immature bickering. Those days of childhood had gone past so quickly that they barely noticed it, yet she realized that they had come to a different point in their lives where she would trust Ron with Harry unconditionally. No, “Ron, don’t do anything stupid!” or, “I swear to you, Ron, if you don’t watch Harry’s back--!” Now, she could leave Harry in Ron’s care and not have to think twice about it, and because of that, she was proud of Ron.

Her eyes fluttered. She was suddenly feeling very weak. There was a distant voice penetrating her thoughts and it sounded rather urgent.

“Hermione!”

She jerked, startled out of her reverie and she saw Solomon’s face hovering over them. She was on her back on the dungeon floor, Lucien still feeding from her. She realized then that she had to pry Lucien off, or he would bleed her dry, and while it couldn’t kill her, it would be a painful recovery. Pressing her free hand to Lucien’s forehead, she pushed him back while Solomon pulled Lucien off.

Hermione watched Solomon cast a binding charm on Lucien before he hovered above her, brows knotted.

“Will you be alright?” Solomon asked.

She blinked lethargically, nodding. She thought maybe she wanted to be left alone for a while. There were too many overwhelming emotions now. She needed to regain her poise, and she needed to do it as quickly as she could. “I think maybe I’ll stay here a while. You can go ahead and take him to the theater…”

Solomon frowned. “I’m not leaving you here—“

“I’m ordering you to go…”

“Dammit, Hermione!” Solomon hissed as he rose to do just what she said. Orders from one’s alpha were followed almost unconditionally, and given the situation, it was clear that Lucien needed more help than she did. Still, it didn’t mean Solomon had to take it quietly.

“Bloody stubborn… Harry’s going to give it to me if he finds out I left you down here by yourself. You think he’s going to care if you ordered me to leave you? Of course he wouldn’t care! He’s damn well unreasonable when it comes to you! Well, I’m going, but if you’re not up there in twenty minutes, I’m coming back down here and I don’t care if your alpha-tough attitude orders me to leave you here again. I’m taking you with me! Stupid, stubborn…”

Solomon left with Lucien, and Hermione smirked to herself. She was exhausted, really, but she had to be thankful for the fact that she was immortal, because if it hadn’t been for that, she might not have survived the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione did manage to force herself to get up and go in twenty minutes. She certainly didn’t want Solomon to waste a trip, and knowing Ron, he’d be getting worried about now, too.

True enough, she met Solomon in one of the hallways. He was already on his way to fetch her, and perhaps seeing that she was alright, began reporting on Lucien’s condition without a word of reprimand about her ordering him to leave her in the dungeons.

Solomon advised her to go straight to Harry, as Lucien was well on his way to recovery.

Grateful for Solomon’s friendship, she gave him an affectionate embrace and kissed him. Before she went searching for Harry, she put on a fresh jumper. The previous one had blood dried on it, and there was no point in worrying anyone about the wound that had long disappeared from her cheek. When she was dressed, she sought Harry.

Vasilka, the little ghost girl, told her that Harry was in his bedroom.

When Hermione arrived, Ron and Viktor looked up from watching the healer attend to Harry.

Ron seemed mildly startled.

“Are you alright?” he asked, brows knotting with concern. “You look… paler.”

Viktor stared at her searchingly, probably trying to see what Ron saw and Hermione found that she was astonished about Ron’s perceptiveness. It was no small thing when one’s friend noticed the different shades of pale. Most couldn’t tell the difference, and Ron noticing meant that he was paying close attention because he cared. It was the most touching thing.

“I’m okay, Ron,” she assured him. “Thank you for asking, but Harry…”

Ron eyed her for another moment before nodding in the direction of the healer.

She waited with them, and after a while, the healer finally looked up.

“His vitals read normal,” the healer said, his English thickly accented. “And his sleep… it is induced. A magical defense mechanism of sorts. I have no Occlumency or Legilimency background, but my tests show magical barriers to mental intrusion. He is protecting himself from something, and I cannot wake him without shutting his mind tighter. He must voluntarily come out of this state. When he does, give him one of these potions. It should help him feel better. Other than that, there is nothing to do but wait.”

Hermione pursed her lips even as she took the potions, fighting back the urge to lash out at the poor healer and say something awful, like, “What kind of healer are you?” The healer didn’t deserve it, and he certainly had to be competent in his profession if he could diagnose mental blocks without powers of Occlumency or Legilimency. She just felt on-edge. She couldn’t bear the thought of losing Harry to anything when she had only just gotten him back.

She felt Viktor’s gaze on her, and it was one of avid curiosity before he looked to the healer and said something to him in Bulgarian. The healer nodded before excusing himself, telling them that he would be in the study down the hall if anyone needed him.

“He’s going to be okay, Hermione,” Ron said. “He’ll pull through. He always does.”

Hermione thought Ron actually sounded quite certain, and staring at him, she saw no doubt—barely a hint of worry—in his eyes. And why shouldn’t Ron believe? They had seen Harry pull more Hail Marys out of his robes than a priory full of Catholic nuns have from theirs.

Feeling strangely assured, she nodded and gave Harry one last glance before she finally looked at Viktor. “Something on your mind?”

Viktor seemed surprised that she noticed, and she found herself wondering if her six months with him had meant anything to either of them. It seemed like she had learned more about him from his letters than she ever did staying in the Krum castle.

Well, as she once told Harry, Viktor was a physical being—the least of which having to do with sex. He was far more eloquent when he was doing things instead of saying them. He was an athlete who was more comfortable slamming shoulders with opponents on the playing field than he was talking about his heart’s desires. He wore this standoffish expression on his face yet he seemed to like being around people anyway, being just within the scope of their awareness. Perhaps it was the only reason she felt she could like him. He was never demanding; never probing; always listening, and when he knew he should, he took care of her. As if to say, “You know I’m not good at this, so I try, but I lack the grace even when I manage it. I play Quidditch. That’s what I’m good at. Watch me play and that’s when you hear me speak best.” The problem being, of course, was that she hardly ever saw him play.

Viktor began to nod, halted and shook his head.

She arched an eyebrow. “Is that a Bulgarian yes or an English no?” One peculiar thing she learned about Bulgarians is that they nodded for no and shook their heads for yes. Odd, but true. Most times, Viktor did it the common way for her, but on occasion, he slipped—usually when he was nervous—and she found herself listening to him say “yes” while he shook his head vehemently.

Viktor actually blushed. “English no.”

“Dobre li si?” she asked, speaking in his language to put him at ease. She asked him if he was alright.

He smiled wanly. “I am. Just many things on my mind.” He glanced briefly at Harry and seemed to expel a small breath. “I must go ahead. I have a few things to attend to. I will be in my office if you need me, Her-my-own.”

She nodded, watching him leave.

“Busy man, isn’t he?” Ron remarked.

Hermione nodded, seating herself on the edge of Harry’s bed as she set the potions on his bedside table. She took his hand and stroked the back of it with her thumb.

She hadn’t yet taken the time to think about what happened to Harry in the dungeons, and the truth was, she didn’t want to think about it, because it meant she might have to consider things that she had forced herself to block out in the last five years.

It was while she began to get lost in her thoughts that she heard Harry stirring.

She stifled a gasp as she held his hand tighter, leaning over him to get a glimpse of his emerald green eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry awoke from unconsciousness distinctly aware that his entire body felt like the Whomping Willow had beat the crap out of him. He had gotten beaten over the head too, no doubt, as it felt sore around the back, the dull ache spreading to the rest of his skull.

He was on a bed, of that he was certain, and he surmised that were it not for the feeling that the Knight Bus had just ran him over ten times, he might have been blissfully comfortable in the soft downy sheets. But as his life was wont to go, he had to take the good with the evil overlords who wanted to rule the world.

The staff.

The thought jolted him out of his lethargy and he jerked, causing a shock of pain to go through him. A painful groan escaped him and he cursed the day he was born.

“Hush. Relax. It’s alright…”

Hermione’s voice sounded distant, and he almost believed he was still dreaming, but as he opened his eyes, there she was, blurry, but real. He felt something slither over his face and knew it was his glasses. All became clearer, and he saw that her gaze was filled with concern, his hand clasped reassuringly in hers.

On the other side of him hovered Ron.

“Welcome back, mate. Took a bad spill there, you did.”

Hermione shot Ron a dirty look but didn’t say anything. She bent over Harry and placed her cool hand on his forehead. It actually felt soothing, the coolness against the warm, throbbing pain.

“Say something, Harry,” she pleaded softly.

She looked so worried that he was almost inclined to think of a way to alleviate her anxiety, but there were more pressing matters, and Hermione was tough. There was no point in treating her with kid gloves. “Where’s Lucien?” he croaked.

Her worry lines intensified. “Solomon and I brought him to the theater. He suffered a lot of pain, but he’ll be alright now… he just needs to heal.”

He could tell that worrying about him and Lucien had taxed her.

Immortal though vampires may be, in general, there was absolutely no telling whether something out there could kill them as effectively as chopping their heads off, staking them through the heart or incinerating them to ashes.

“Good,” Harry said. “And the staff?”

Ron shot Hermione a worried look and Harry began to get worried himself, more so when her features froze over. Whenever she did that, it meant she was hiding something.

“It’s packed,” she replied coolly. “It’s in its case.”

Harry struggled to sit up, and Hermione and Ron scrambled to help him. He glanced at the clock and saw that he hadn’t been out that long. He took a moment to steady himself and Hermione handed him some potion. It looked like a Pepper Up and smelled like it, too. He took it and felt instantly revitalized, most of the pain waning from his body.

Propped by pillows, Harry asked them again. “How did you manage to pack the staff?”

“I did it,” she replied. “It was no big deal. It seemed neutralized when I put it in its case.”

“It made you sick,” Ron told her accusingly.

Hermione looked up at him and glared. “It was nothing. I’m fine.”

Harry’s brows knotted. Though she appeared to be well, he wondered whether he should say something about risking such things, but he supposed he was in no position to make such lectures, as he had an even worse tendency to jump into the worse situations.

“Are you alright, then?” he asked her.

She nodded. “Perfectly alright. The staff… it didn’t feel dangerous anymore when I put it in its case. I mean, I felt—it was still alive but—did you do something with it--?”

He almost laughed at that. “Something” seemed appropriate enough. “I fought with it. I fought with the dark entity. I think… I think it tried to get inside me.”

“Ho, boy,” Ron murmured, and Harry got the distinct impression that his words also meant, “Here we go again.”

“Oh, God,” Hermione whispered, looking terribly frightened.

This was very unsettling. In the last week, he’d grown to understand that Hermione didn’t scare easy, and that even when she was afraid, she still looked ready to kick arse, but the look on her face now suggested despair; something that frightened him, and as a general rule, he didn’t scare easy, either.

“Your scar was glowing purple, back in the dungeon,” she said. “Did you know that?”

“No,” he replied, his hand involuntarily rising to rub at it. “Purple… that’s new, but you understand when I say that nothing about this scar shocks me anymore.”

Ron scoffed. “Yeah. Almost like a running joke, isn’t it?”

Harry grinned. He liked that. Running joke.

Hermione seemed less pleased. “You ought to take this more seriously. Harry, it makes no sense that the entity would want to possess you. It just doesn’t. What put Voldemort’s soul in the staff in the first place required very strong; very dark magic. It required murder. So even if a severed soul wanted a new vessel, it couldn’t just go ahead and do what it wants. It would have to, in effect, make a new Horcrux, which is empirically impossible.”

“I don’t think it was trying to make a new Horcrux, Hermione. I think it was just trying to possess me. You know, like with Ginny...”

“It was not trying to make a new Horcrux,” she said. “But I… I don’t think it was trying to possess you, either. In any case, Ginny wasn’t exactly being possessed. It used her, yes, but it was mostly taking her life essence, like a vamp would, so that it could gain existence. And given that, it’s pretty safe to say that Ginny was a rather random choice. This entity, the one in the staff, zeroed in on you. Both did, it seemed. The entities wanted you and no one else.”

Harry recalled how the staff acted in ways that were only apparent to him and he had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach that Hermione was right. He had already figured that the staff had trapped him, but it was only now he considered the fact that the choice hadn’t been all that random. If it just wanted to possess someone, it could have chosen a wizard who might not have the ability to fight it back, like Ron, for instance, who had no Occlumency training. Or maybe even Viktor, who had been in its possession for quite some time now.

The fact that Harry was a more powerful wizard seemed inconsequential. As the diary proved, it would take anybody who was susceptible to its charms. Harry was in no way susceptible to the staff’s bidding, yet it had insisted on taking him.

He recalled the night before, when the staff had reacted, somehow affecting his scar. None of them had seen it, and for some reason, that seemed to put a particularly scary twist to Hermione’s words, even if he wasn’t grasping the entirety of what she was trying to say.

So what was Hermione trying to say, exactly?

“I’ve… been thinking,” she said, looking vastly uncertain. “For quite some time now, actually, about your scar and how you got it…”

His eyebrow arched, a distant memory making its way into his thoughts. He wasn’t sure why he was remembering it now, but he did. It had to do with something in her journal. Hermione had just come home from the dungeons of St. Mungo’s where she had gotten initiated by Cicero, and that night, she had written a journal entry in the library while he and Ron slept in the lounge area. It was the following day when he discovered the same entry and he read it on the sly. She later made a copy of that entry to leave with him and Ron.

The entry contained Horcrux theory, a theory that ultimately guided them to find the other Horcruxes. Harry had extensively used that entry throughout the five years of his search, and perhaps in his constant referral to it, he could recall parts of it almost by rote. There was a digression in her discussion, something she labeled as a notation, something that had, on more than one occasion, made him wonder about what it meant.

“You’ve been thinking about it since five years ago,” he said carefully.

She seemed surprised. “How did you know?”

“Your journal, one of your first entries, and one of the most important, too. You mentioned something about how Voldemort gave me this scar, and that you dared not write what you were thinking until you had facts to support it, because it might taint future thought-processes unnecessarily.”

Realization gleamed from her gaze.

Ron frowned. “Can you please just skip over this Harry and Hermione mind reading and get to the explaining already?”

Harry stifled the rolling of his eyes and opted to exchange exasperated looks with Hermione, but she wasn’t meeting his gaze, and she was biting her lower lip looking terribly worried. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Hermione?”

Her brows knotted as she looked up at them. “The night Voldemort came to your house at Godric’s Hollow, he killed your parents and he tried to kill you, instead he left you with a scar, marked you as his equal and hurt himself in the process. Many believe that your mother’s love protected you, Harry, and I think it did to a great degree, but what if something else happened that affected Voldemort’s Avada Kedavra? This ability you have now to wield magic with incredible skill, especially when you most need it… I think even as a baby, you had it, Harry. You did something that deflected the curse, or perhaps you took it, and turned it into something else. You said that the magic still needs something to work with before it could let you do those amazing spells, and perhaps that night in Godric’s Hollow, the magic did have something, and it used it to save you, even if it was just meant to buy you more time...”

“That’s all speculation, Hermione. Nobody knows what happened that night, not even me.”

“Yes, but—look at your scar, Harry. You can already tell just by looking at it that it isn’t ordinary, and it has proven to be particularly extraordinary. It reacts to Voldemort in various ways, particularly when he’s near, it lets you feel what he’s feeling and it lets you see what he’s seeing.”

He couldn’t understand it quite yet. “Hermione, what--?”

“I’m saying—I’m saying that somehow, that scar is a link to him. It binds you somehow.”

Harry sighed. “We already know that.”

“Y-Yes, but have you ever wondered why, Harry? I mean, really wondered? So he cast a spell on you and you survived it. Dolohov did the same to me and I don’t have a link with him.”

“Oh, but you don’t have a scar,” Ron pointed out.

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “Just because you couldn’t see the mark, it doesn’t mean it didn’t leave a scar. When I was human, the effects of that hex never completely left me. There were nights I felt pain from it. Not often, but every once in a while it would act up and I would have to take a pain reliever.”

Harry’s insides twisted at that and he most definitely recalled that awful evening he thought he had gotten her killed. Later, his grief over Sirius would overshadow the intensity of that brief moment of dread. She had seemed fine, after all… “I-I didn’t know…”

“And don’t you dare feel guilty about that, Harry,” she said sternly. “That wasn’t your fault, anymore than Sirius’s death was. Anyway, the point is, the hexes that caught us both left an impression, yet yours created a link to Voldemort. Scars don’t do that, Harry. They leave a mark, yes. A reminder, perhaps, but they don’t create psychic links.”

Ron frowned. “But Voldemort had cursed Harry with an Avada Kedavra. That in itself makes the curse different from yours—“

“We don’t know that it was an Avada Kedavra. Everyone just assumed that it was and that Harry survived it, and even if it was an Avada Kedavra, what in an Avada Kedavra would cause Harry to have a connection with Voldemort? What property of the spell would make the scar sensitive to the presence of the one who put it there? What aspect of Avada Kedavra carries with it the ability to transfer certain abilities, like Parseltongue, to the curse’s victim?”

“Well, how should I know?”

“The books,” Hermione enunciated, “tell us that Avada Kedavra simply kills. It takes life. It uses a caster’s hatred to make it effective, and there’s nothing about it that would support a theory that says it transfers power from one wizard to another. Avada Kedavra takes, it doesn’t give. That scar gave Harry the ability to have a link with Voldemort. The ‘curse’ seemed to have given Harry the power to speak with snakes. Whether or not Voldemort hurled an Avada Kedavra at Harry that night, it wasn’t an Avada Kedavra when it connected with him, and that scar isn’t just a scar. I believe, most of all, that Harry’s magic did something to whatever curse Voldemort hurled at him, and Harry’s magic must have changed it. That’s why he survived. That’s why he’s here to fight Voldemort right now. Besides… unforgivable curses don’t leave scars.”

Harry shook his head. “I still don’t understand—“

“A Horcrux”—she continued—“is the tearing of one’s soul through the taking of another life. That torn piece of soul is then placed in a vessel, usually an object, but the theory is that so long as the vessel containing the soul is on this plane, the rest of the soul is anchored, and it cannot really die and move on to the next plane, which is death, so that implies that the soul and its fragments aren’t actually separated. The pieces of the soul are torn, but not severed. They’re still connected. They’re linked.”

Harry stared at her, swallowing nervously. Linked…

“The piece of Voldemort’s soul in the staff wasn’t trying to find a new vessel, Harry. For it to be able to do that, it would at least have to cast a kind of spell that would make the object inhabitable for a soul fragment, and that doesn’t seem feasible. Even the diary, which seemed so intelligent, couldn’t cast spells, much less powerful spells. Besides, if the soul fragment in the staff could change vessels at will, it could have just transferred itself into any random object all these years, but no, it did no such thing. I don’t think it waited for you, Harry, but when you fell within the proximity of its power, it sensed two things about you. One, that you were already an inhabitable vessel, and that two, there was something inside you that was drawing it to you.”

Harry’s heart began to palpitate at the unsavory direction her words were leading them to. “Something?”

“Like calls to like,” she said, her gaze becoming liquid with tears. “It felt the presence of Voldemort’s soul fragment in you, Harry. I think—I think that night at Godric’s Hollow, Voldemort inadvertently turned you into a Horcrux.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She could feel the horror of Ron and Harry bearing into her.

One of them was going to start yelling soon, and if she knew them both at all, it would be Ron who would yell first.

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Hermione!” Ron yelled.

Sometimes, she hated being right all the time, and right now, after everything she’d said, she’d never wanted to be more wrong in her life.

Harry’s hand was gripping hers almost painfully. “Th-That can’t be right,” he gasped, staring at her wide-eyed. “You can’t be serious!” His voice had risen as well.

She blinked back her tears, knowing very well that this was not the time to be weak of will. “Why would I joke about something like this, Harry? I’ve been turning this thing over and over in my head for five years. I’ve every reason to think it was true, and the only reason I could think of that it wasn’t was the fact that I couldn’t prove or disprove it! And then suddenly there’s this, and that spell Silvia and Paolo told us about…”

She could see Ron and Harry processing her words as they stood there, flabbergast.

“The soul harvest, spell?” Harry asked. “What does that have to do with this?”

“I’m not sure,” she said, frustrated. “But I find it hard to believe that a ‘soul harvest’ spell playing into this situation is completely unrelated to the possibility that you’re a Horcrux, Harry.”

“Have you found anything about the spell, then?” Ron demanded.

She glared at him, wanting to tell him to stop badgering her; that this wasn’t her fault, but she bit back her aggression. They were all trying to cope with this revelation. “Not the spell, exactly, but I’ve done research on soul spells, and harvest spells. Soul spells necessarily rely on the presence of a living soul as a key ingredient. Soul spells fall under dark magic and is generally called Necromancy. Because one’s or someone else’s soul should never have to be tampered with, doing so creates travesties of life, like Inferi, or Horcruxes, or perhaps even to some degree ghosts, dark creatures and oracles. ‘To harvest’ necessarily means to remove or extract from something cultured, living or recently diseased…”

“So are you saying Voldemort’s going to take back his soul from me?” Harry asked.

She shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. What for? Horcruxes, per se, aren’t meant to be extracted. They anchor a soul and they’re used to haul him back out from the veil of death. That the diary tried to live through Ginny was incidental, because we both know that when Voldemort was reborn in the graveyard during your fourth year, they didn’t have to use up the soul in a Horcrux to bring him back. He still has the main fragment of his soul with him, which is how he could exist, after all.”

Harry frowned. She could tell he was getting impatient. “What does this soul harvest spell have to do with me, then? You said so yourself that it all had to be related!”

“I don’t know, Harry. I just… it’s all guesswork. I need more time, I suppose. I haven’t exactly exhausted the Hogwarts library…”

“What if there aren’t any answers there, either?” Ron asked.

Hermione had considered that. “One or both possibilities can be true: First, it’s like the Horcrux spell: Dark enough to be banned from print and the academe. Second… it’s a new spell, manufactured for Voldemort alone.”

“Maybe we should ask Horace Slughorn about it,” Harry muttered. “That ought to be interesting. A Horcrux asking Slughorn about another spell he probably wouldn’t want to talk about…”

She looked at him ruefully. She wasn’t much for bringing him happy news, these days. It was always something morbid, or awful.

“It’s not your fault,” he said softly.

She didn’t know if he had read her mind or if he saw it on her face. Either way, she appreciated what he said. “This is all just theory, anyway. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t always want to be right. Especially not on this one. Harry, if I’m right and you’re a Horcrux—“

“Yeah. I’d have to—“

“Don’t,” she said. “There is no ‘have to,’ right now. Until we know more, we will not succumb to ‘have to.’”

He sighed and Hermione had that fourth year impulse to throw her arms around him, but he pushed the sheets back and got on his socked feet. She resisted the urge tell him to lie back down; that he’d only just woken up. Ron certainly showed no inclination to stop him as Harry went to the fireplace and poked the logs.

When he seemed to have rekindled the flames enough, he sat on one of the lounge chairs and stared broodingly into the fire. Ron didn’t look very upbeat, either.

She didn’t know what to say to them. Perhaps she should have shut her mouth. Perhaps she shouldn’t have shot off like that without more proof. It’s still all conjecture, after all.

“What do we do now, then?” Ron asked.

For a moment, it looked as if Harry wasn’t going to speak, but then his mouth opened, and Hermione could see in his eyes a sense of purpose. Harry was going to tell them what to do, and she felt rather awestruck that he could even think at a time like this. She waited eagerly for his response, but there was a sound at the door, and there stood Viktor looking terribly uncertain.

Viktor caught her gaze for a moment and saw an all-too familiar glimmer there; a look she hadn’t seen from him in a long time. But he tore his gaze away and looked at Harry. “I am glad to see you are awake. I should send in the healer, I think, just to make sure you are alright, yes?”

Harry’s face was bereft of expression as he returned Viktor’s gaze as he shook his head. “Thank you, but I’m fine. His Pepper-Up potion worked wonders.”

“Good.” Viktor’s eyes returned to Hermione. “May I haff a moment with you?” he asked, his accent thickening all of a sudden.

His timing was horrible, of course. She looked at him apologetically. “Viktor, I—“

“Ako obichash.”

Hermione stared at him in mild surprise. He sounded nervous, because he tended to forget his English when he did.

“Please,” he had said.

“Pravilen,” she replied, nodding. She looked at Ron, then at Harry, apologetically. “I’ll only be a minute,” she said.

She stood there, not moving, and she realized that she was waiting for Harry’s reaction; almost waiting for him to say, “It’s alright. It’s not a big deal.”

She heard a chuckle, but the sound hadn’t been carried by the air. It was a sound that rippled through her mind, and it was Harry. Of course it was Harry. “So long as you promise not to run away with him…”

At that, she stifled her own chuckle as she flashed him a contrite smile. She should have known he wouldn’t be so petty. Though really, sometimes, it was hard to tell when Harry got jealous and when he didn’t.

She went to the door and crossed the threshold, joining Viktor out in the hall. Viktor did not even bother to close the door, putting the two of them in plain view of Ron and Harry.

Viktor began to speak to her in a rush of Bulgarian.

She had learned many of the most common phrases, and perhaps a bit more than that, as well, but she was, in no way, as fluent as Viktor thought her to be at that moment.

“Ne razbiram,” she said gently, which meant she couldn’t understand. “Too fast. Too many.”

He stopped, sighed and smiled wearily.

She hadn’t noticed that weariness until now. Maybe he had been hiding it? Putting up a front? Viktor was actually quite good at that, mainly because he was quiet enough when he was perfectly fine. It was hard to tell apart his various moods.

“I am sorry for what has happened,” he said, gesturing vaguely to Harry.

Well, Viktor was nothing if not polite. It was just like him to take the blame for the chaotic events because it happened in his home. He had done the same thing, a long time ago, when a visiting guest had cut his hand examining the Krum antique weapons collection. Viktor had apologized.

Stifling a scoff, she waved her hand in a gentle dismissal. “It’s not your fault.”

Pausing a moment, he glanced one more time into Harry’s room before continuing. “You are together again?”

His question surprised her, this time. Not because it was too personal, but because it implied he cared. “Yes. We are.”

Viktor gave her a small smile. “I am happy for you. I know you love him much. I always knew. There was…” He groped for a word and muttered, “Kak shte kazhesh tova na Angliski…?”

How do you say this in English…?

“Emptiness,” he continued. “In your soul.”

She felt her cheeks flush. The thing about Viktor was that in order to improve his English, he had taken to reading poetry, so when he groped for words, he came up with things like, “Emptiness in your soul.” Not that he was wrong. He was, in fact, disturbingly accurate most times, just that words like his tended to strip down one’s emotional defenses instantly.

“Th-There was,” she replied awkwardly.

He nodded. “It is important to fill the emptiness, yes? It is important to have someone in your heart. At times it can be a weakness, but they give you strength, as well. Harry is a good man…”

She looked at him questioningly, wondering why he was telling her this.

“I… have my heart filled,” he said. “By my children. Jaroslav and Todor are my life.”

Hermione stared intently into his gaze, and she saw fear. It struck her like a bludger. “What are you trying to tell me, Viktor?” she asked, her tone purposeful.

He turned away from her, unable to meet her gaze now as he began to speak in a low, whispering tone. “My brother and sister… have joined the Dark Lord’s cause, and they have taken my children as hostage for my cooperation.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took everything in Hermione’s Coven-honed willpower not to strike him and show him how utterly devastated she was with him right now. She kept telling herself that they had his sons, that they had forced him into doing this. That he had no choice and that she might have done the same for her children. It was difficult, but she forced herself, and she had to listen to his words.

His sister, Vanya, and his brother, Vasili, had made clear their intentions of joining Voldemort’s side a few months ago. Viktor had been against it; opposed it. He had begged and argued for them to change their minds; to do it for their children, but his siblings were set in their ways, utterly convinced that Voldemort’s way was the best way. It was, after all, how their father had tried to raise them: Purebloods for purebloods. Power from pure-breeding.

Viktor had been... difficult in that respect. His father had always blamed his mother, never Viktor. Viktor was his prized son: International Quidditch Seeker; strong; immovable.

“It is only a phase, this sympathy for Muggle-borns and Half Bloods,” Viktor Krum, Sr. had often said.

Viktor, his nature reticent, had let his father think so.

His mother, the Gods rest her gentle soul, could hardly be “blamed” for his “notions”. While Viktor could somehow attribute his “softer” views to his relatively more compassionate mother, he believed that his alternative perception of Muggle-borns and Half Bloods was nurtured by none other than Quidditch. He had learned much more than flying and catching snitches on the Quidditch Pitch. Engaging other teams, many of them with talented and amicable Muggle-born and Half Blood players, taught him that though many factors shaped one’s character, blood was the least of them.

It was a concept he had hoped to impart to his siblings, but he had lost all hope of changing their views when they told him that they would become Death Eaters.

Concerned for his brother and sister, Viktor decided he would pretend to be on their side, but perhaps not entirely convinced of his loyalty, they took it upon themselves to make sure that Viktor would not step out of line. They took his children, and perhaps to mock him, knowing he was too weak to do his niece and nephew harm, left their children, Stefanya and Gavril, with him. Besides, what better spies than children who would not lie?

The staff had been given to them for safekeeping, and they tasked Viktor to house the staff in the Krum castle dungeon. It had been sitting in the dungeon for weeks now, and Viktor had, in the last few months, been dreaming and plotting of ways to use the staff to get his children back. It wasn’t until three weeks ago that he found his opportunity.

A Death Eater meeting had been held in the castle, and among the Death Eaters was none other than Professor Severus Snape.

Viktor stood by the hearth, staring listlessly at the fire blazing underneath the portrait of his great grandfather.

All around him, Death Eaters, his brother and sister among them, talked and partook of wine from the Krum cellar. There were vampires as well, prancing about, radiating fierce beauty wherever they mingled. Greyback’s werewolves, the ones who weren’t servants to the vampires, walked among them.

These were people he never would have welcomed into his home before. Now he had no choice, because he had to play the part, lest his children suffer the consequences of his convictions.

As he desperately wished for the heat of the flames to warm the deep chill in his heart, he felt a presence beside him.

Pulling his gaze from the fire, he looked up and found a hawk-nosed, pale-faced man with oily black hair and the coldest eyes he ever did see. This man was familiar; one he had seen from long ago.

His memories of that time were marked by her, the bright young girl who had spoken to him and looked past the International Quidditch player, listened past the poor English, and saw more than a surly, stocky young man who would sooner catch a snitch than make friends. He was in Hogwarts for the Triwizards Tournament, and while Hermione Granger had been the one person in that entire competition that he wanted to please, he had remembered faces and names. There was Harry Potter, Cedric Diggory, Fleur Delacour, Albus Dumbledore, Barty Crouch, Sr., and one professor, whom his Headmaster from Durmstrang seemed to have looked upon with such high regard: Severus Snape.

“I was made to understand that your father entrusted the keeping of this castle to you before his untimely death,” Snape said in his clipped and haughty tone. “Unusual, as you are evidently the youngest among your siblings.”

Viktor nodded. “He saw that I loved this home more than Vanya and Vasili ever did. They think this home archaic. They prefer the newer mansions, and so my father made sure that this home would not be sold so that my siblings could buy new ones.”

“That must have displeased them.”

“It did.” Viktor then had to wonder if his siblings hadn’t decided to join Voldemort simply because they hadn’t gotten their way. It occurred to him that they were just the type to do such a thing. He stifled a sigh.

“Interesting,” Snape began with an arch of his eyebrows. “You are unlike your siblings in many ways, I think.”

“I suppose I am.”

“For instance, you would soil yourself by cavorting with that Mudblood, Hermione Granger.”

Viktor gave a start, reacting instinctively to such vicious slander. He grabbed the collar of Snape’s robes and whipped out his wand with his other hand. He shoved the tip of his rigid hornbeam underneath Snape’s chin just as he was about to demand that Snape take everything he said back, when Snape spoke in an unaffected, silky tone.

“My, my, my… a Death Eater sympathetic to the Muggle-born. How utterly magnanimous of you.”

Viktor froze at Snape’s words. He could feel the eyes of his siblings on him; curious, anxious. They did not want him to embarrass them. And there were other Death Eaters, too, who seemed to have taken a slight interest in his odd proximity to Snape.

Slipping his wand into the sleeve of his robe with a sleight of hand, Viktor stepped back and away from Snape, glaring at him one last time before looking back to the fire. “Old habits. I am done with M-Mudbloods. I serve the Dark Lord and his ideals, now.”

“Indeed. He is the salvation of our world, isn’t he? He will save our magic from extinction…”

Viktor’s lip curled ever so slightly as he replied. “Da.”

“It is for the good of… your children, yes?”

Viktor’s jaw clenched, and he stared at Snape, wondering whether the man meant what he said literally or figuratively. Was Snape testing his loyalty to Voldemort? What game was he playing?”

“This wine you have,” Snape said, swirling the red liquid in his wine glass. “It is exquisite. Is this the only one you procured from its vineyard?”

Viktor wasn’t a man of particular social skills. Unlike his father, he wasn’t adept at interactive niceties or the subtle intonations of context, but he knew a request for private conference when he heard one. The question now was… would he oblige it?

He appraised Snape’s appearance. Snape didn’t look physically formidable, but Viktor had learned that it was those like him that usually knew how to wield magic most successfully. It would be dangerous to be alone with Snape, but really, he’d had to put up with so many things already. Death was almost a welcome escape.

“I will show you to our cellar. Would that interest you?” Viktor said.

“Indeed.”

Viktor lead the way. It wasn’t a particularly long walk, and both of them, it seemed, were taking brisk strides. He could feel the eyes of every painting following them curiously and when he got them to the cellar, he shut them both in, barred the door and grabbed Snape by the throat, shoving him against the door and glaring at him.

“What do you want from me?” Viktor hissed, wand out and ready to hex.

Snape looked amazingly calm. “You’re about as awful a Death Eater as you are an excellent Quidditch player, Viktor Krum. It’s plain, at least to me, that given a choice, you’d hex every Death Eater that crossed the threshold of your castle.”

“I ask you the same question, then. What do you want from me?”

“Do you want to save your children, Krum? Or more importantly, do you want to save the Wizarding World?”

Viktor did not speak, and he did not release Snape from his grip, but he did not tighten his hold on the man’s neck, either. “Go on,” he said.

Snape held out the sleeve of his robe, exposing a pocket. “Inside this pocket, you will find a letter. You must get the letter to Hermione Granger. I know you have a way of reaching her. You cavorted with her once, didn’t you?” He said this with an unpleasant sneer, but Viktor did not hurt him for it.

Viktor reached into Snapes robe and pulled out the envelope. It was unmarked.

“Only Granger can unravel its contents. A precaution, I suppose. In this business, not everything is what it seems. As for saving your children… well, I have three words for you: Harry Bloody Potter…”

Snape told Viktor exactly what he should do to stay free of suspicion from the others. Viktor must seek audience with the grieving Yasmin ibna Omar, newly robbed of her Blood Kin. Tell her that he possessed the last Horcrux of Voldemort.

When Viktor asked him what a Horcrux was, Snape told him it was unimportant; that Yasmin would know, and that Yasmin would see the merits of this information, especially driven by vengeance and Oracular prophecies. From thereon, Snape would expect Yasmin to act accordingly, and that somehow, it would involve having a nice little Hermione and Harry reunion.

“Depend upon it,” Snape had said. “You will have Harry Potter in your home soon enough. You can either seek his help in getting your children back, or you can betray him, giving him over to the Dark Lord. Either way, I don’t care. But if you’re smart, Krum… you ought to be thinking in terms of the long-haul. Harry Potter will need all the time he could scrounge to prepare for his meeting with the Dark Lord. The end is fast approaching. What you decide might very well determine the fate of the Wizarding world.”

Viktor did everything Snape instructed him to do, and he had gotten this far in the plan. Now came the time to decide what path to tread. He reached into his robe and pulled out an envelope.

Hermione saw that it was unmarked.

She grabbed his wrist and pushed back the sleeve of his robe. There, on his arm, shimmered the Dark Mark. She glared at him. “Why should I trust you, Viktor? You brought us here by means of deceit. Everything you’ve done from thereon brings your motives to question.”

His eyes were filled with shame, but it did not contain regret. “I was afraid for my children. I dared not deviate from Snape’s instructions for fear of being found out by the others. He said that if I contacted you or Harry Potter directly, that it would instantly put everyone on alert. Their attention was not focused on Yasmin. It was easier—and safer—to meet with her secretly.”

“And do you expect me to believe that Severus Snape, the man who murdered Albus Dumbledore, would help our cause?” she hissed.

“I do not know, but everything he has told me, until this point, has been proven correct—“

“Correct, indeed, but trustworthy? He has manipulated everyone, even went so far as forcing Yasmin to do exactly as she was expected to do. I know my Coven Master, Viktor. She would not have been so predictable if she didn’t have her own reasons to fall for it. Did Snape tell you anything else?”

“He dared not. And I dared not ask.”

She hardened her heart, dropping his wrist roughly. “That staff hurt Harry and Lucien, and because Solomon and I had to give Lucien blood, we would be too weak right now to protect ourselves, Ron, and Harry against other vampires. You knew this would happen to us. You knew that if we had to fight, we would fail—“

“I am not so malicious as to betray you so badly, but I—I admit that I had been greatly undecided about the matter until now. I contemplated giving Harry Potter over to the Dark Lord, when Harry Potter least expected it, but I… I have been speaking to his best friend, Ron Weasley. Harry Potter… he can save us all, can’t he?”

Hermione bit back her rage. She hated it when people completely disregarded the fact that Harry was a person, that he had a life, and people he loved, that when he wasn’t being a hero, he was a man who didn’t deserve to be used, or abused, or expected to shoulder the responsibility of a world that couldn’t care less for him if it weren’t for the fact that he was destined to fight for them all. “Yes. Yes, he can. He is the only hope of the Wizarding world, but tell me why you deserve his help. You have been dishonest, and manipulative, and worst of all, you looked me in the eyes and carried on this awful charade. How could you lie to me, Viktor? I’ve never given you reason to deceive me. Even when you wanted children of your own, we had an understanding, that—“ She shook her head. “How could you?”

Viktor tried to touch her but she stepped back, slapping his hand away.

“Don’t,” she told him, glaring at him. “Don’t touch me.”

She had ceased whispering now, and the sound of the slap had Harry and Ron jerking to attention from where they sat.

They were there in a heartbeat, Harry stepping between her and Viktor while Ron stood by, ready to pounce when Harry told him to.

“What’s going on?” Harry asked in a dangerously soft tone.

Viktor gave Harry one cautious glance before he met her gaze over Harry’s shoulders. “Her-my… Her-my-own-nee, please… Molya te. I am begging you… my sons… they have my sons.” And much to her awe, he dropped to one knee, head bowed, hands to the floor. “I risk their lives by telling you this… Molya te.”

He was begging, and perhaps some part of her heart, no matter how wounded it was from his deceit, truly understood his reasons. And even without Viktor explaining why he was telling her this, she knew why he did it, because Viktor was no different from anybody else when it came to what Harry inspired. Just like the rest of the Wizarding world, Viktor knew that Harry was their only hope of a life without fear of their sons being held hostage; or their fathers getting killed; or of lovers dying for them. Harry was their only hope of a life without the shadow of evil ruling their lives.

Harry and Ron said nothing, staring at Viktor in shock.

Steeling her feelings of betrayal, she went to him and held her hand out. “Give me the letter.”

Viktor did.

She broke the seal and scanned the words. It explained to her in quick detail what the Soul Harvest spell did, pointing out relevant theory so that she would understand how it worked and so that she would believe it was feasible. The contents of the letter gave her both hope and despair, and of course, at the bottom was the signature of none other than Severus Snape.

She knelt at eye level and grabbed Viktor’s chin to yank his gaze up, and with barely a warning, she searched back into his memories. Hours, days, weeks, and finally that evening Severus Snape told him what he should do. She heard no words, but the images coincided with Viktor’s tale. She fast-forwarded, finding that he did, indeed, speak to Yasmin, and finally, she searched through his memories of last night as Viktor sat in his study, contemplating near to tears over the unmarked envelope he held in his hand—and which she now held in hers—the fate of Wizarding world, as she and Harry made love for the first time in a long time.

She had seen enough. She pulled back and stood. “Get up,” she hissed.

He did.

“Have you told them that we’re here?”

Swallowing, Viktor shook his head. “N-No. Of course not. I have prevented Stefanya and Gavril the floo, but soon they will want to speak to their parents, and they will tell Vanya and Vasili that I have very interesting visitors…”

Nodding, she stood to face Harry and Ron.

Ron scowled. “What the hell is going on?”

Choosing her words, Hermione told them everything Viktor confessed to her. She could see their reactions as she spoke, saw Ron cast murderous glances in Viktor’s direction, saw how Harry refused to look at Viktor while he seethed. In the end, even with her feelings of betrayal, she spoke in Viktor’s behalf.

“They have his children. Who knows what we might have done put in the same situation? Ultimately, what matters are the choices we make in the end. He chose to trust us at the risk of losing his children forever. I have already decided I would help him. You do not have to decide the same.” She prayed that Harry would not hate her for her decision. There was a time in their lives when they would always go the way the other did, because neither wanted to be separate from the other. In a romantic sense, that seemed like a good thing, but perhaps in other ways; ways that might ultimately make the feelings of the heart develop and mature, it was healthier to have a minds of their own. She hoped Harry saw it that way; that he would embrace the truth that even if she loved him with everything she had, her convictions were important too.

In a second that seemed to last a lifetime, something softened in Harry’s gaze.

She felt his hand snake to the back of her neck and he gently pulled her to him, so that his lips would be on her ear.

“This is why I love you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek before letting her go. She smiled, wanting nothing more than to grab him and snog the hell out of him right there.

Harry trained his gaze on Viktor Krum. “I’m going to help you get your children back, and Viktor… you’d better understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione had two good reasons to find Harry. One, she needed to speak to him about Snape’s letter and two, she was feeling terribly stressed, and therefore randy. She wondered how she was going to satisfy both objectives without sacrificing one for the other.

She found Harry in the fencing room in the dead of night, barefoot and meditating, the poor man having no idea that she was planning an assault that very moment.

Earlier, after Harry had finalized plans with Viktor, Hermione had to see to Lucien in their theater chambers. She felt that she had neglected Lucien enough, and that she had to make her Shadow Kin understand that just because things with Harry had changed, it didn’t mean that she was going to let them fend for themselves. She gave Lucien the attention he deserved, soothing his aches as best she could and lulling him into a restful sleep.

After she’d spent a bit of time talking to Solomon in the way that made them such close and affectionate friends, she became acutely aware of how much she missed Harry, and she took that opportunity to find Harry to have some alone time with him.

The feeling of longing fast became something more primal, and by the time she found him in the fencing room, she was about ready to jump him and shag his brains out.

A woman with a mission, she fluffed her hair, unzipped the top of her jumper as low as it could go, and lastly, made sure her bra did what it was suppose to do to her breasts. She was going to speak to him about Snape, so it was best to look like a slut the whole time, just so their talk wouldn’t completely steal his mojo.

She slipped into the room soundlessly, hoping not to disturb him until he was through, but he opened his eyes as soon as she fell within the perimeter of his consciousness, and he didn’t seem to mind her intrusion, because he smiled and invited her to come closer with an indicative tilt of his head.

She sat as near to him as she possibly could, tucking one leg to herself as she propped her other leg behind him. She leaned her elbow on her knee so she could play idly with his messy hair and bent over just right to show him what properly engineered under-wire brassieres could do.

He made a contented sound in his throat, leaning over to press his lips and his tongue on her neck.

He really is a quick study, isn’t he? she thought with feral delight.

She closed her eyes, smiling as she let him seduce her. Goosebumps rippled down her back and it was becoming increasingly difficult to check off her to-do list in proper order. She stifled a giggle at her thoughts.

To Do… who?

His hand came up to grope her and she pursed her lips to keep from laughing.

The boy doesn’t waste time.

“I didn’t come here to snog, Harry,” she lied.

“Oh?” he drawled as he continued to kiss her. “Could have fooled me… God, these low-riding trousers are dead sexy…” As if to prove his point, his hands artfully grazed the skin just beneath the waist, hooking his finger into one side of her thong panties and snapping it teasingly.

She yelped and laughed. “Harry! You—oh…” She took a few moments to appreciate the finer points of having Harry’s mouth sucking on the delicate flesh of her throat before she gently pushed him away. “I came here to talk about Snape’s letter.”

For a moment, he looked like he wasn’t going to listen, but in the next second, he was sighing and leaning back. “Talk about killing the mood…”

She gave him an apologetic smile, pulling out the letter from within her bra. The way his eyes followed the trail of her hand and stayed just a few heartbeats longer on her cleavage was proof enough that the mood wasn’t quite dead yet.

Hiding her smirk, she gave the letter to him.

He took it, opened it and stared at it. “It’s blank.”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched. She looked at the letter and saw that it was, indeed blank. Evidently, there was a charm on it, and she was quite impressed with the spellwork. The ink had been charmed to sense her magical signature, maybe? She wondered what personal object of hers Snape used to make the charm work and she shuddered at the thought that Snape would even have anything of hers that was personal.

Reaching out, she touched her fingers to the edge of the parchment, and sure enough, the words appeared.

Harry’s eyebrow arched as he looked at her. “Please tell me Snape didn’t happen to get hold of your unmentionables.” Evidently, he was thinking along the same lines, or maybe he was just really horny right now.

“Unless he rummaged through my clothes hamper while I was in Hogwarts, no, I don’t think he used my knickers to mix the potion that charmed this ink, Harry. I’m guessing he used one of my test-papers. I bet he’s just the sort of potions master to keep things like that for ingredients: Eye of Newt dried under the light of a full-moon, Lilies plundered from the grave of a murdered man and Test-Paper from a Vampiric Know-It-All student.”

“Waste not, want not.” Harry read the contents of the letter and frowned. “This tells us what a Soul Harvest is… first question: Should we even trust this letter?”

“I don’t know.”

Harry nodded, as if to agree with what she said. “Second question: Why? Why would he write the details of the spell and send it to you?”

“I don’t know,” she replied again.

So much for the Know-It-All.

“Was this some elaborate plan to give us the wrong information?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe. Perhaps he’s trying to manipulate things the way he manipulated Viktor; the way he manipulated Yasmin…”

“Just like Snape, innit?”

“Yes,” she replied. “But what if he’s doing it because he isn’t actually on their side, Harry? What if he’s playing the double agent again?”

“He murdered Albus Dumbledore.”

She considered his answer and sighed, wondering why she even bothered to try to make angels of demons. Perhaps deep down inside, she didn’t want people to look at her and instantly think she would rip their throats out and drink their blood. Everyone deserved a second look. That’s what she wanted to believe, at least. The reality was not as nice and comfortable.

“He did, didn’t he?” she replied.

Harry’s gaze grew distant, and for several moments, Hermione thought he had forgotten the now, so lost in his thoughts. She traced some of his hair off the top of his ear and that seemed to snap him back to the present.

“You know…” he began quietly. “I’ve watched that memory many times, that night Dumbledore was killed. I watch it in my pensieve. And every time I did, less and less of it makes sense.”

Her brows knotted sympathetically. She whispered his name with compassionate concern. He’d seen too many people he cared for die. Why did he insist on seeing it over and over again?

“No, you don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t mean—What I mean to say is, every time I watch it, I see things here and there that don’t add up. Like Dumbledore, for example. He was the most powerful wizard there was, Hermione. Why in the world would he beg mercy from Snape? Snape is—well, Snape isn’t exactly Dumbledore caliber, is he? Dumbledore could have done Snape in if he really wanted to, even in Dumbledore’s weakened state, but it seemed to me… it seemed to me that night, he didn’t want to. He was begging Snape… to what? What did he want Snape to do? Spare him? Or kill him?”

She stared at him, worried. “Harry—“

“When I told Dumbledore that night that I wanted to go to the cave with him, he made me promise to follow his every command, even if the orders were to ‘flee’, ‘hide’ or ‘go back’… even if his orders were to ‘save myself’, he made me promise I would listen. What if… what if I wasn’t the only one he forced to make such a promise?”

She frowned. “Do you think he made Snape promise? Do you think he wanted Snape to kill him?”

Harry gave an exasperated shrug. “I don’t know, but there had to be a reason Dumbledore trusted him unconditionally. When Dumbledore was weak and powerless, he didn’t look for McGonagall; he didn’t look for Hagrid, or Flitwick, he looked for Snape. Snape was the only person Dumbledore wanted to see. He trusted Snape for years, and that night, he trusted Snape with his life, and I couldn’t reconcile it with the fact that he would trust someone so completely only to have that person betray him so badly. And I think… I think that night, Dumbledore knew he was going to die.”

“Harry…”

“And now Snape tells us this, on top of everything else. The Soul Harvest… just when you think there’s nothing worse than a Horcrux.”

Hermione took his hand and squeezed it. “Count on Snape to create something so abominable and then brag about it.”

Harry laughed bitterly. “Do you believe it could be done? This spell?”

She gave it a brief thought. “The theory is sound. It says here the spell requires an object, a sacrifice and a catalyst…”

“And he wants me for the sacrifice, of course. How very dramatic.”

Hermione didn’t think it was drama, but did she really need to remind him that she feared he was a Horcrux, too? It was odd, but for the first time in her life, she really wished she could talk to Snape. The man had had the foresight to address the letter to her. Not to Harry; not to Lupin; to her. Then again, Harry and Lupin were not exactly his favorite people, and he had to have had a grudging respect of her intelligence, having taught her for six years, trying to cut her down at each opportunity yet failing at it and having no choice but to giver her an O… at least he acknowledged she was smart enough to comprehend the finer points of his spell, assuming it would work. Or perhaps…

Perhaps he knows I would understand exactly what would make the spell work when everyone would think it isn’t possible…

That thought, as she earlier decided when she first read the letter, gave her a sense of hope and despair. If her theory about Snape’s spell was correct, there was a chance… yet, if Snape’s spell failed and her theory about Harry as a Horcrux was correct…

I couldn’t lose him. I won’t let it happen. If I have to, I’d—

She stopped her train of thought. What, Granger? Turn him? Could she? Was she brave enough? Was she cruel enough?

Harry deserves a full life. A mortal life. A life he could look back on and say, “Well, that was a really good run, wasn’t it?”

It was bad enough that she was desperate to make his one life, with her, wonderful, for as long as she could help it, even if she didn’t know how she was going to do it, but if she had to force him to pay the price of immortality… would she be able to forgive herself? Would he be able to forgive her?

“Oy,” he said gently, cutting through her reverie. He brushed some curls off her forehead. “Chin up. You look like someone went and got expelled.”

She stared at him in mild surprise then she smiled contritely. “You and Ron will never let me live that down, eh?”

He shrugged. “It’s all we have on you. Everything you said and did after that was just pure brilliance.”

She grinned. “Even spew?”

“That’s S.P.E.W. to you, miss. Oh, excuse me—Ms.”

She laughed at that, realizing that she had missed laughing like this with Harry. “Well, Ms. Perfect isn’t really perfect, as you well know. I’ve done some pretty stupid things in the last five years…”

“Mistakes I’m well on my way to forgiving completely.”

“But not forgetting.”

“Forgetting, too. It was part of our deal last night.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Oh? Do you mean to tell me that you’re willing to forget that I left—“

“Forgotten.”

“That I dated Vik—“

“Completely Obliviated.”

She smirked. “That I slept with Ron?”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“Kidding.”

“That was not funny.”

“Yes, it was. The look on your face was hilarious. And shame on you for believing it for even a second.”

“How do you say, ‘You are a sick and twisted woman,’ in Bulgarian?”

She was just about to translate when he yanked her to him by the back of her neck and kissed her in such a way that assured her that he had indeed, forgiven and forgotten, at least for the duration of their amazing tongue-lock.

Given that perhaps this wasn’t the most appropriate time to be making love, Hermione acknowledged this undeniable truth by kissing him back even harder and pulling desperately at his jumper. They had talked about Snape already, and evidently, she hadn’t lost him amidst that unsavory discussion.

They made love last night. This was something else entirely, which was just how she wanted it for the time being.

Take one for the team? she thought rather snarkily. Okay!

He leaned back, whipped off his jumper and undershirt, and proceeded to peel off her top.

“I know this probably isn’t the best time for this,” he said, throwing her jumper over his shoulder and kissing the valley between her breasts. “As we have loads of more important things to worry about, but it’s the stress, you see, and really, what matters is that I love you very much, so what I’m trying to say is, even if it seems like I just want to shag—“

But Merlin, the boy talks too much sometimes…

In the Wizarding world, “Please” wasn’t the only magic word there was. There was Incendio, Alohomora, and perhaps, if one was so inclined, Incarcerous. And then there were the other magic words, which Hermione employed immediately in view of the situation.

“Shut up and fuck me, Potter,” she growled. “Fast and hard.”

“Oh, God, woman! I love you for saying that!”

It worked like a charm, and Hermione was always proud of her Charms class O.

Harry hooked his fingers to the waist of her pants and yanked down, dragging her to lie back on the fencing room floor beneath him.

Oh, my! How delightfully Neanderthal of him!

And he was unhooking her belt from its buckle and undoing her trousers with skilled speed.

She smiled lecherously. “Can’t disappear clothes, yet, Potter?” Because one would think he would if he could.

“Definitely can. But doing it by hand is much more fun and a helluva lot sexier.”

That increased her desire exponentially, and she kicked off her shoes in a hurry just so he could pull her trousers off without impediment.

Clad in nothing but her black lacy under-things and the gun holster strapped to the small of her back, Harry, on his knees, leaned back and surveyed her from his vantage point. He grinned, pleased at what he probably considered his handiwork.

She smirked, liking it that he had his shirt off and she could see the even lines of his chest while the pendant she gave him dangled between his pecs. The wand holster on his left forearm and the silver stiletto knife on his right weren’t bad accessories, either. The pendulum-like shape of the vial chained around his neck pointed down, as if to say, “That way lies very happy things.” She didn’t doubt it for a moment.

Licking her lips and fangs, she reached out and pulled him to her by the front of his jeans.

Their lips came together and they couldn’t kiss hard enough.

His fingers raked through her hair, tangling with the strands as he held her firmly. She felt a pull at her scalp and she found that it was intensely arousing.

He tugged. She gasped. And he was kissing her exposed throat. She moaned something. She wasn’t sure what. It was hard to think when Harry was taking charge like this. It was difficult to make much sense of anything because she was really enjoying being the submissive one.

His hand untangled from her curls, and the lonely relief of his loosened grasp was over-shadowed by the sliding of his hand to her back, just where the clasp of her bra was. She felt the press of his hand there and he lifted her to him, her back arching just when her bra was undone and his free hand was tossing it away. It was that same hand that clasped one breast while his mouth fell upon the other. She could feel the velvety movement of his tongue on her nipple and the erotic suction of his lips.

Hermione thought her senses were going to blow. There she was, helpless and in Harry’s control and he wasn’t even fully undressed!

She had a desperate need to have that visibly tented crotch of his pressed against her, but he was bent over, his knees to the floor, and there was this distance between his trapped cock and her knickers-clad, aching—

“Door,” she gasped, remembering that she hadn’t locked it. “Anybody could walk right—“

She heard something slam, then shriek, like a dead bolt being forced through a rusty grate. Benches and chairs scraped against the floor as they crashed and piled against the fencing room door.

Well, that took care of that.

“Not like it would have made much of a difference,” he grumbled against her skin as he undid the clasps of her holster and slid it off her. “If anyone walked in on us they could very bloody well watch.”

She thought maybe she should be scandalized, but realized that the thought that Harry could be so lost on pleasuring her that he wouldn’t care about anything else, had her completely lost in naughty fantasies.

Impatiently, she bent up her knee between his legs, just so she could have the arch of her foot sliding against the caged little—well, not little at all, really. Poor bugger HAS to get out and do some damage NOW.

He groaned something incoherent, something that sounded like “Bloody hell,” but in a good way. He set her down, leaned back on his knees and began to undo his belt and trousers rather frantically.

Sitting up, she pushed his hands back and undid him herself, conscious and aroused by the fact that he was watching her do it, even while he removed the holsters from his arms.

She smirked up at him, keeping eye contact as she pulled, pushed and yanked. She didn’t even bother with stages. She just dragged his trousers and boxers down to his hips just when he combed his hands into her hair and kissed her again.

Lying back, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down with her, the weight of his body pleasing against hers.

Amidst their desperate kissing, she managed to hook her toes to the waist of his boxers and trousers so she could push it completely off him.

Now he was completely naked. She could feel his erection through the fabric of her silken knickers, and he groaned in frustration.

Pushing back and away from her, he leaned back on his knees again, pulled her knickers off and threw one of her legs over his shoulder. She barely mustered a gasp of approval before he drove into her, as fast and hard as he probably dared without coming too soon.

The force of his thrusts felt fantastic, and for a while they just reveled in the sensations. She wondered over and over, as if the thought kept resetting itself in her head, about how she was able to live without this kind of sex in the last five years.

There was the act, and there was even pleasure, but nothing so mind-blowingly exhilarating, like this. She hadn’t, in the last five years, been so moved by the thought that she would give everything, and do anything for the very man giving and doing everything and anything to her at that very moment.

She couldn’t stop looking at his hips, how he moved against her with his tight muscles pressing against her softness.

Without breaking stride, he took her hand and laced their fingers together intimately for a moment before he turned his grip over. With his hand over hers, he pressed her fingers on her clit and circled both their digits lightly over it.

Her eyes rolled back into her head and she moaned.

He circled their fingers around her nub a second time, pressing a little more firmly just when he made a subtle shift with his hips. That changed everything.

OH. MY. GOD!

That was it for her. She came. It felt like her head was imploding while the rest of her was swallowed by a wave of pleasure.

He groaned, tossing his head back as he moved desperately for a few more heartbeats before he tensed. His fingers dug into her thigh and he pressed himself against her, a defeated, guttural cry escaping from him.

Seconds later he had collapsed atop her, his sweat pleasant against her newly flushed skin.

She felt strangely warm; like she was actually going to break out in a sweat. It was a sensation she hadn’t felt in five years, but it was welcome.

Harry gasped for breath, his face buried in the crook of her neck and shoulder. She wrapped her arms and legs around him, loving the feel of him inside her when they were both so vulnerable.

Lazily, she trailed her fingers through his hair.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Oh, Harry, that was wonderful.”

He murmured something in reply, something like a cross between “yeah” and “uh-huh.”

She gave him another moment to recover.

A minute later, he lifted his head from her shoulder and kissed her soundly, just before he rolled both of them over so that he had his back to the floor and her lying on top of him.

She smiled contentedly and lay her head on his chest, closing her eyes briefly and purring when his fingers began to idly caress her hair.

“I don’t suppose,” he began, “Viktor would be so very annoyed if he finds out that not only did we scorch his guestroom furniture, but now we’ve basically abused his fencing room…”

She opened eyes and saw the haphazard pile of fencing room furniture, and perhaps even a fencing mask or two… and really, a whole bunch of other fencing equipment. And they weren’t just actually piled like someone had thrown them there. They were… well, they seemed stuck on the door, the way socks clung to everything when Muggles took them out of the washer-dryer.

“Did you do that?” she asked, amazed.

He looked and she saw that he seemed a little bothered, but not at all surprised. “Probably. My magic seems to go wonky when I’m—you know—doing, er, with you…”

“That’s hot.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, do you know how to take it down?”

“You mean un-sticky it?”

“Yes.”

“You know what’s weird? I can actually put everything back where I got it.”

“Everything?”

“Every single one.”

She smirked. “Now you’re just making me jealous of your mad magic skilz.”

He chuckled. “I’m serious. I’m telling you, I can do it.”

She studied him carefully before leaning over to give him a sultry, seductive kiss. “You know what, Harry? I totally believe you.”

And she did, because Harry was pure, amazing, and breathtaking magic.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

END PART 2

A/N: Now, I know I told a bunch of you that there isn’t a Part 3… but I realized now that there has to be, not because anything has changed in my outline, but because I realized that I came to a sort of conclusion, which was the Harry and Hermione relationship and a few major revelations; and have now arrived at a critical part of the story, which is THE WAR. So for reasons of PURE FORMAT, I’ve set up the rest of the chapters as Part 3. Now, Part 3 probably won’t be as long as part 1 and 2. I say probably because I don’t want to jinx it and find myself dragging you all into another fourteen chapters. Lol.

30. PART 3 - Chapter Twenty-Ninth: Deceived

A rather lengthy Author’s Notes: This took long for one reason and one reason only: I was swamped. However, every time I got the chance to sit down and write, I just kept on writing. So much so that I’ve actually cut scenes from this one just because it had gotten too long. Not to worry, though. I promise you that those clipped scenes were absolutely unnecessary. Amusing, but unnecessary. And so I hope this is worth the wait.

On yet another important note: You’ve all been so kind, telling me that you don’t mind getting dragged through 14 more chapters. It’s terribly sweet of you all and I thank you.

I’ve gone the last four days staying up too late and now it has taken its toll. As you’re reading this, I am probably comatose, whether or not my eyes are open or close. But be assured that if I do finally get to close my eyes on a proper bed (as opposed to an improper one, like my ergonomic office chair) sixteen hours of sleep ought to do it for me, and that the moment I wake up, I would be writing chapter 31. So as I pay up my sleep debt (plus interest), I thank you all for your continued support of Harry and Hermione in friendship, adventure, romance, and porn.

Last but certainly not the least, thanks so very much to tome_raider who has betaed so very competently. If it weren’t for her, these last few chapters would’ve been sad, unredeemable messes. When you feel like putting those extra exclamation points in “OMFGthatwasuchagreatchapter!!!!!!!!111exclamation point!!!111”, I’m quite sure that it was because of her. ^_^

Chapter rating: R

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PART THREE: MIDNIGHT

Chapter Twenty-Ninth: Deceived

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War is a period of armed conflict between two opposing ideologies, which can involve nations, states, federations or, perhaps in its smallest scale, organizations. There is death. There is destruction, and most of all, there is division. But apart from a mind’s understanding of war, the individual experience of it strikes one’s heart and soul. When one is in the middle of a war, and not merely watching it from the outside, one realizes that death, destruction and division bleeds from the very people closest to you.

The realization that war tears from the very hearts of the ones involved in it and then outwards is a true testament that war isn’t just about armies, strategies, weapons and political cunning; it is, most importantly, about people, families, and loved ones.

A brother could die; a mother could be heartbroken; a child could be lost; a family could be irreparably shattered.

Harry had watched Ron bury one brother and lose hope for the other; had seen women and men die while their friends, family or even just their comrades, wept over their bodies. He had held the woman he loved as her life blood spilled, the future they could have once had, fading forever beneath its crimson pool.

In times of war, life runs uncertain. Plans are precarious; principles are compromised; fear taints the most simple of pleasures; loss is an inevitability.

It was something Harry had learned to live with everyday of his life, longer than Wizards his age has had to endure. Since his third year in Hogwarts, he knew that war wasn’t just a battle he could watch from a distant field. War was with him while he was in school; while he slept; while he laughed in Hogsmead; while he played Quidditch. The rest of Wizard-kind only began to acknowledge the existence of it in his fifth year, and the handful that did take action only did so because they’d known the horrors of war more intimately than their more insulated fellowmen.

And so now, in Viktor Krum’s home, the ravages of war have begun to bleed where once the snowy peaks, isolated towns and magnificent castle walls were enough to keep it away. Now, Viktor Krum found his heart torn, his convictions stifled and his integrity put to the harshest of tests because love for his children and even his siblings had given him no leeway for much else.

His sister had his sons, kept from him these last few months in a location Viktor knew not of. His brother had refused him visiting rights to his own children, and his only proof that they were alive was the blessedly un-checked box labeled “Deceased” on their enchanted Civil Certificates in the Bulgarian Hall of Records.

Harry stood by the window of Viktor’s study, the sun not quite ready to set over Bulgaria. The sky bore the unique taint of impending sunset, the pinks, oranges and blues just about creeping on the edges of white light where it would later bleed and blend together into purple, then grey and finally black. To some people it signified the end of the day. To Harry, especially five years ago when Hermione had been newly turned, it was in a lot of ways only the beginning.

“Harry should have better things to look forward to than the coming of sunset,” Hermione had told Ron that night she left.

He smiled to himself. What was so bad about night, anyway?

Just like daylight, only… well, darker.

Chuckling, he turned from the window to look at the items on Viktor’s desk. There were parchments and quills, magical desktop toys and of course a snitch in a glass globe. And then there were the pictures.

There were only two of them, right where Viktor could look up from scribbling on his parchment to see it. The children were, as Viktor had said, still too young to run about, but they were strong like their father, perhaps, and they were nimbly crawling on their knees and hands, laughing and grinning toothlessly at their mobile toys and mini-snitches.

Harry had to wonder about their mothers. Did Viktor even care about them? Or had they, as Hermione jokingly pointed out, served as nothing but wombs?

“Jaroslav and Todor were born only weeks apart,” said Viktor from the door.

Harry had hardly noticed his arrival. The man was as quiet and unassuming as always. It still surprised Harry that someone so famous could be so uninterested in attention.

Well, you’re not exactly a nobody, Potter.

He frowned at his own musings.

We’re different. The attention he gets is positive. He’s a Quidditch star. I’m just a bloke with a buggery prophecy written all over my forehead.

“I did not keep my intentions, of having children, from her.” Viktor continued.

Harry then realized that Viktor had misinterpreted the displeased expression on his face. “That’s not—“ He paused and sighed, giving Viktor a close-lipped smile. “Your sprogs favor you. I think maybe they have your nose.”

Viktor made a sound like soft laughter. “Yet another thing they will blame me for when they get older, da?”

Ah. So the bloke does have a sense of humor. Harry cocked a tiny grin. “Least of their worries, I think.”

Viktor’s quiet laughter dwindled and he nodded, his eyes falling on the pictures of his children.

Harry watched him a moment before speaking. “You understand what you will have to do when you get them back?”

“Yes. I understand.” Viktor sighed, looking just the tiniest bit forlorn. He pulled a drawer open and plucked out an ornate picture frame, and when he turned it over, Harry saw that the frame matched the ones for his children. This picture used to be on the desk with Jaroslav and Todor.

Viktor shoved the frame into Harry’s hands. “I always thought she… looked beautiful when she was sad.”

Harry looked and saw a picture of Hermione in a relatively conservative sleeping gown. The gown was dark blue and black. It showed off her arms and shoulders but not much else. Her thick hair was braided back and she was looking out of the window before she turned to look out of the picture, relinquishing a smile tinged with pain. She was beautiful, but her eyes were so filled with sorrow even Harry felt a profound sadness.

“That sounds odd,” Viktor continued. “But she was often… cold, and it was when she was sad that she was herself again. At least when she was with me.”

Harry stared at the picture a moment, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the face on the photograph, realizing in no small way the sacrifices she had made for him, and perhaps for everybody, too.

“You keep the picture,” said Viktor. “I cannot take it with me and… well, it is a… very good picture. No point in letting it go to waste.”

For a moment, Harry felt that white-hot jealousy he had always harbored (and never quite properly voiced) for Viktor Krum, and he had to bite back his extremely spiteful retort of, “Well, I don’t need this because I’ve got the real thing,” but considering what Viktor had gone through; what he was going through right at this moment, Harry could let Viktor have his memories of Hermione without tainting it with spite.

Harry shrunk the picture frame and slipped it into his coat pocket. It marked the end of their easy discussion. It was time to get down to business. “Have you flooed your brother and sister?”

Viktor nodded, taking up the change of topic in a flash. “Yes.”

“Did they agree to make the deal with you?”

“They agreed to bring the children. They made no promises of leaving them with me, but it would be enough if Jaroslav and Todor were physically here. Anyway, I think once my brother and sister sees you and Ron Weasley, I think they will trust me unconditionally. They also… asked how many vamps you had with you. I told them, just like you instructed.”

“And what did you tell them when they asked you why you hadn’t informed them of my arrival sooner?”

“Just as Her-my-own, suggested. Subduing you needed timing. Planning. You had vampires and Ron Weasley to protect you. I could only capture you by means of treachery, which took time.”

“They believed you?”

“Yes. They think they know my weaknesses and they consider my slow-moving deviousness as one of them.”

Harry couldn’t help but thank Merlin for small blessings. “They’ll want to be here before sundown, of course.”

“They said they would be. They will bring other Death Eaters with them, and they’re going to kill Hermione and her Shadow Kin in their sleep.”

This, Harry expected as well, but hearing it spoken so frankly still gave him an involuntary shudder. “This works best. At this hour, they can’t bring their own vampires with them, though I would expect that they’d have vampires follow after. If all goes according to plan, we don’t have to worry about those vamps, whether they follow or not.”

“I hope you are right.”

“I have to be, or I’ll have the lives of your children on my conscience. Viktor, will you… your niece and nephew…?”

“They will be returned to their parents.”

Harry did not pursue it. The fate of Stefanya and Gavril was for Viktor to decide.

A phantasmal form materialized from the door. The ghost girl Vasilka appeared, wringing her hands. “My Lords,” she said. “Your guests have arrived.”

“We better get to the dungeons, then,” Harry said. “And get this show on the road.”

“Indeed.” Viktor stood, both of them hurrying out Viktor’s study.

“Is everything ready?” Harry asked.

“Ron said it would be.”

As Harry came upon the dungeons and descended its stairs, the settling darkness began to alter his mood. He grew focused and determined, and the deeper he went, the more resolute he was about making this work. His thoughts fell upon the encased staff stored safely in some secret part of the castle. Wards for it were no longer needed. The dreadful powers once encompassing a wide radius was now confined to its tiny cage.

Harry couldn’t resist a small smile of pride. He and Hermione had made that casing fool proof. They had strengthened it, together.

Arriving at the bottommost holding area, Harry saw the shackles that would be used to bind him. Beside that was Ron’s body.

Ron’s body…

Leaning lifelessly against the wall, eyes wide open with a shocked expression on his face and a knife driven through his belly. Ron’s blood pooled on the dungeon floor. He wasn’t breathing. He wasn’t anything. He was dead.

Harry stood there, gaping at Ron who stared right back. Trembling, he turned to face Viktor who had his wand out.

The last words Harry heard was Viktor’s perfectly pronounced, “Stupefy.”

After which Harry knew no more.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry woke with a jolt, the sockets of his arms aching for a split heartbeat before it became uncomfortably numb. He was slumped against the wall, arms raised above him as his wrists hung from short-chained manacles. His legs were bound by magic.

He felt a bit disoriented, especially staring into the eyes of someone strangely familiar, yet… not.

He squinted in the dimness. The hawk nose; the dark hair; the strong jaw.

Viktor’s sister.

She spoke in Bulgarian, looking over her shoulder at Viktor and, whom Harry assumed, was her second brother, Vasili.

Vasili laughed at what she said, thumping Viktor proudly on the back as he said something which was apparently equally as amusing, because his sister responded to it with a grin.

There were a few other strangers with them; a mix of men and women totaling thirteen, and likely Death Eaters too, but just as Harry had expected, none of the Big Boys were there. Like any follower of Voldemort, they couldn’t pass up the chance of taking full-credit for Harry Potter’s capture. Reporting the capture of Harry Potter to those like Bellatrix Lestrange or Lucius Malfoy would be a waste, because Lestrange and Malfoy would give credit to no one but themselves.

Viktor’s faint smile in response to the laughter around him did not reach his eyes, but he tore his gaze from Harry.

“Good evening, Harry Potter,” Vanya said, stepping back and smiling at him. She had a thick accent as she spoke, but she seemed well-versed in English. “I trust you slept well? Viktor has been a model host to you and your friends.” She turned her gaze at Ron’s lifeless body. “Though I think your friend over there might not be feeling so at-home.”

Harry bit back any retort that rose from his throat.

The Death Eater nearest to Ron kicked Ron’s corpse.

“Get away from him,” Harry growled menacingly. “Don’t you touch him!”

Again there was laughter.

“What time is it, Viktor?” Vanya asked over her shoulder, though her eyes never left Harry.

Viktor took a moment to reply before checking his pocket watch. “The sun sets, but it is a while yet before dark, sister. The vampires still sleep.”

Vanya smirked. “You know what that means, don’t you, Harry Potter? It means your precious Mudblood and her Shadow Kin are being staked through the heart as we speak… while they sleep helplessly in their coffins.”

“Dita and Mikhail always wanted to have the slaying of vampires,” said someone from the group. “Something to brag about, they say!”

There was more laughter.

They’re enjoying themselves…

Harry felt sick to his stomach. He was familiar with the ruthlessness of Death Eaters, having dealt with them since he was fourteen, but it still disgusted him, their utter disregard for human decency. They had no respect for anyone except their kind: Pureblood supremacists and the occasional half-blood that shared their opinion.

He shook in his shackles with rage. “Viktor, you wouldn’t. How could you—“

“The M-Mudblood was a mistake I wish to correct,” Viktor said, his face utterly devoid of expression. “And I want to prove to my brother and sister that I am loyal to the Dark Lord. What better way is there than to deliver Hermione Granger and Harry Potter at the same time? Weasley was a bonus.”

“Bastard,” Harry whispered under his breath.

At that, Vasili draped his arm over Viktor’s shoulder and beamed, exchanging Bulgarian words with Viktor and their buddies in an excited tone.

“The Dark Lord will be pleased,” Vanya said. “Twice over when we bring Hermione Granger’s head on a silver platter. Janus will hate that, won’t he? Had always fancied he’d be the one to have the killing of her.”

Harry felt hatred rise in his chest so quickly at the mere mention of Janus’s name. His eyes flashed angrily in Viktor’s direction.

“I hope it was worth it, Viktor. I hope your betrayal was worth Hermione’s life.”

Viktor swallowed and nodded. “It was. My children are safe, Harry Potter.”

Harry eyed him carefully.

“My children are safe.”

Harry stifled his grin. It worked!

“So are Stefanya and Gavril,” Viktor continued.

Harry was surprised at that last bit. Vasili and Vanya looked like they’d gotten hit with Bludgers.

Vanya’s eyes darted to her brother fiercely. “What do you—“

“They will not be raised by Death Eaters. Not if I can help it.”

Vasili stepped away from Viktor, eyes livid with confusion and rage. He was speaking sharply in Bulgarian, along with the rest of their comrades. Vanya had joined their argument, speaking harshly at Viktor. Everyone’s back was turned to Harry, now, and Harry glanced anxiously at Ron’s sprawled form as he fished the manacles’ key from within the cuffs. He could free himself in seconds, but he couldn’t risk fighting all fifteen Death Eaters alone, even with Viktor’s help.

How far along is sunset, anyway?

There would be daylight still, of that Harry was certain. It could not have been thirty minutes since the arrival of the Death Eaters, but how long was he expected to wait for Ron to rise?

Harry was on the verge of real worry when Ron’s corpse blinked and a pained expression crinkled his brow.

“Shhhhite!” the corpse hissed, pushing himself up from the floor.

The arguing dwindled as everyone’s gazes fell upon Ron who had, quite literally, risen from the dead.

A smile spread across Harry’s face. Excellent!

Ron wrapped his hand around the hilt of the knife embedded into him and pulled, groaning as blood oozed profusely from the wound. “Honestly! Did you have to stick that in so deep, Viktor?”

Viktor blushed. He blushed! “I—I apologize…”

The Death Eaters gaped at Viktor in shock.

The game was coming to a head and the shit was just about to hit the fan.

Grinning, Harry turned the key to his manacles and loosened his bindings. It was while they watched in horrified fascination the healing of Ron’s knife wound that Viktor swiped out two wands and ducked for cover. Harry summoned his wand from Viktor’s hand and removed the magical bindings from his legs.

The polyjuice ruse was a crucial part of their plan. Given that Viktor’s siblings were prone to suspicion, Viktor had to do something drastic to show his siblings that they could trust him, and Harry knew just the thing. Viktor needed to show Vanya and Vasili a body; preferably a dead one, and preferably someone close to Harry Potter. The dead body had to be either Ron’s or Hermione’s, and since faking a vampire’s death was next to impossible considering it involved either a burning, a stake through the heart, or decapitation, Hermione was out of the question. They could make Ron seem dead, and if they played their ruse very carefully, the Death Eaters might not find out about the deception until it was too late. The plan seemed viable, but a bit precarious until Hermione suggested using polyjuice potion on Solomon.

“Solomon would be perfect for it,” she had told him. “Polyjuice him into Ron and Ron would be—well, he’d be dead as dead can be while Solomon’s asleep. It would be a more than convincing ruse. Best part? Solomon can wake up before sunset, so long as there aren’t any windows for the sun to shine through, which means Solomon can very well help you round up Death Eaters. I’m thinking between you, Viktor, Solomon and the shock of Ron rising from the dead, you can take on fifteen to twenty Death Eaters easy.” After which she had given him a grin, a wink and a flirty bump of her hip.

Somehow, hearing Hermione say “you can take on fifteen to twenty Death Eaters easy” with such casual confidence made Harry feel he could take on fifty of them if she said he could and if she said it just that way.

There was a shout, and Harry sprung to his feet, casting a protection charm as hexes flew at him just when Solomon started throwing hexes of his own.

Two Death Eaters fell just when Solomon doubled over, suffering the waning effects of Auror-grade polyjuice potion.

“Bugger me! OUCH!” Solomon cried, his true voice blending with the polyjuice induced one as his true visage began to emerge from beneath Ron’s face.

The Death Eaters stood stunned for a few heartbeats before they dissolved into even more confusion.

Harry emerged from his shield and hexed left and right with wand and hand. Death Eaters ducked and dodged, splitting as one group advanced towards Viktor and the other towards Harry. The Death Eaters had completely forgotten about Solomon, which was a phenomenal mistake.

In another moment, Solomon rose from his crouch. No trace of Ron remained in his body and he vamped ferociously in his true skin.

Vanya’s scream pierced the dungeon walls as Solomon leapt into the fray, fangs bared and eyes aglow with bloodlust.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron stared at the two Death Eaters from behind Harry’s invisibility cloak. He stayed low, crouched behind some theater props of vine-festooned trees, gorilla costumes, leopard skins and household items carved from wood and coconut husks. There were several phonographs set on one corner of the room, presumably to make sound-effects with, and several monkey puppets hung from high above the Lily-like horn speakers. Nearby was a battered copy of what looked like a script, and on its cover page was its title: Greystoke.

He had no inclination whatsoever to pick that copy up and read it, but he had to wonder if the script had anything to do with the props scattered about the room. At any rate, the props would do nicely for what he planned to do.

The Death Eaters came armed with wooden stakes and vials of what was probably blessed water. They had their cowls pulled over their heads and they moved purposefully towards the three coffins in the middle of the room.

They spoke in Bulgarian, the soft, nervous laughter evident in their chatter.

First time, is it? Ron thought sourly. He could never understand how some people were so eager to have their first vampire kill. It wasn’t something he had looked forward to before, not just because he was completely conscious of the fact that Hermione was one, but also because killing them was—well, it was horribly messy.

It was nothing like an Avada Kedavra, or a choking spell, or even the ghastly Sectusempra. Killing a vampire meant you had to get close to it, and there was just no escaping the blood. Beheading and spiking them made for a generous spray of gore, bits of crimson flesh splattering when one didn’t do it just right.

Setting them on fire was worse. The smell of burning hair, skin and flesh was enough to cause any sane wizard with a shred of human decency to double over and vomit, at least when having a whiff of it for the first time. Frankly, Ron couldn’t quite get over the severed heads, impaled hearts and extra-crispy slabs of vamp. It wasn’t something he took pleasure in. He wasn’t adverse to defending himself from death-by-fang, but he didn’t stomp around Order meetings all gung-ho and ready to collect vamp heads.

Ron often had to wonder whether Harry had gotten over the more awful aspects of vampire killing. Harry had, after all, killed six of them, but Harry never quite talked about the slaying. He never quite talked about anything to do with taking lives, whether it was vampire, werewolf or human.

Neither did Ron, for that matter. They had enough to deal with in their private thoughts. Voicing it only made it all the more real.

The Death Eaters came upon the first coffin, breathing reverently and grinning just before they heaved to push open the lid.

The lid wouldn’t budge, of course. Not from the outside, at least. Ron hadn’t grown up within the Weasley household without learning his locking spells with near obsessive enthusiasm. With Fred and George as brothers, nothing was sacred if they were given access, hence, Ron had to learn, and refine, his barring and vaulting techniques. Of course, Bill had always been a generous teacher when it came to making those magical locks and curses, because Bill had to know how to put them there if he was going to be any good at breaking the ones put there by others.

And so now the Death Eaters tried the second coffin, which was sealed just as tight.

Ron had to stifle a scoff. Didn’t even try to break the lock. Pathetic. If I had known they would be this stupid, I wouldn’t have bothered with the Industrial stuff. Then again, not like I’d risk Hermione’s and Lucien’s safety.

Ron found himself wondering when he began adding Lucien to his Worry Repertoire.

‘Twas inevitable. Hermione cares for the fruity twit and in a typical me fashion, I’m sticking my neck out for the buggery bloke.

Deterred once again, the Death Eaters’ smiles slowly began to lack luster. They tried the third coffin.

This one opened quite easily. It ought to have. Ron hadn’t bothered to ward it, mainly because there was no vampire inside.

Solomon was, by Ron’s pocket watch, probably terrorizing the piss out of Viktor’s siblings and pals by now. He recalled Harry’s reminder last night, just before the vamps went to sleep.

“Solomon, I’d—I’d really like it if our prisoners were… alive when we take them into custody,” Harry had said, brow slightly knotted. “And alive enough to, oh, live… you know?”

“So,” Solomon had responded somewhat uncertainly. “Umm, you don’t want me to kill them?”

“Alive and able, Sol,” Hermione had said. “Preferably with their limbs and other appendages intact.”

Solomon hadn’t looked all that happy. “Not even their ears?”

Ron recalled having stepped away from him and saying, “I fear you,” which, to Ron’s own surprise, wasn’t really all that true.

Since when had he gotten all chummy-chummy with vamps? Sure, Hermione was one thing, but other bloodsuckers? He never would have thought it was possible, yet there he was, thinking chummy thoughts of Solomon and Lucien.

How far you’ve come, Teaspoon!Ron.

Of course, it had still been terribly weird when, using Harry’s Auror-Issue polyjuice stock from what Hermione called Harry’s “utility belt” (and at this point, Ron had to pretend he didn’t understand her suggestive “Harry’s tool kit” jokes), they had turned Solomon into him. For a few seconds, Ron saw what he’d look like if he was—well, fully undead.

The polyjuice potion took a while before it had Solomon completely transformed, and according to Solomon, it wasn’t a pleasant feeling, either. Harry said this was common with the Auror-Issue mixes. The effects were supposed to last some fifteen to twenty hours, whether the one who ingested the potion stayed alive or happened to get himself killed while undercover. So given its properties, the polyjuice’s effects should last throughout Solomon’s dead sleep. The only problem being that Harry had no way of telling whether the polyjuice would last as long given a vamp’s body chemistry.

As it was, Solomon, as Ron, still had a teeny tiny bit of fang that just wouldn’t go away, and of course his eyes were still intensely vampiric. According to Solomon, he knew he could vamp in his present polyjuiced form, but doing so would likely retransform him into his true self.

“Just make sure Viktor already has his kids before you wake up and vamp,” Harry had said.

“How will I know?” Solomon had asked.

Viktor had replied that if Solomon woke up to Vasili and Vanya’s angry yelling, that meant he had his children safe. That seemed enough for Solomon and he accepted it without asking for an explanation.

Ron hoped Viktor and Solomon knew what they were doing.

In the meantime, Ron was getting a bit bored with these silly Death Eaters who were now arguing about something. After bickering for another minute, they began to head for the door.

Well, maybe this isn’t a total loss.

Ron flicked his wand and the doors swung shut, bolting itself tight.

The Death Eaters stared at it a moment before throwing themselves at the door, frantically banging and pushing against it in clear panic.

Yawning, Ron lifted the Immobulous spells on the phonographs. Jungle sounds filled the room, which predictably had the two Death Eaters whirling to face the room, backs pressed to the door and looking utterly petrified.

They raised their wands and their respective vampire weapons.

These Voldi-whores have absolutely NO idea what they got themselves into, coming here and thinking they could kill them a couple of vamps, Ron thought with a roll of his eyes. He wondered what would happen if he jiggled the puppet monkeys, so he did, just to see, and the Death Eaters screamed out hexes, blasting the monkeys from their puppet strings. The wooden puppets fell on the phonographs, knocking a few of them askew and causing some of them to emit very weird noises.

Ron winced. Yikes.

The bloke began to sob and his companion whacked his shoulder in utter disdain. She turned to the door and fired hexes at it, which of course bounced back, ricocheted and almost caught them on its way back.

Please. As if I would make it that easy, thought Ron sourly. He checked his watch again. It was a bit yet before sunset. He could very well keep playing with these Death Eaters and wait for Hermione and Lucien to rise, which Ron imagined would have the Death Eaters scared shitless (unnecessary, but hilarious), or he could incapacitate them right now, which would be wise (but boring).

“No monkey business, Ron,” Hermione had told him before she went to sleep. He wasn’t sure if she had chosen that particular metaphor on purpose, but somehow, having primates all around the room quite effectively reminded him of her warning.

Bloody Know-It-All probably planned it that way, too.

He was more than a little glad that he didn’t have to put up with her attitude any more than he had to. His fanged best friend was so very dear to him, but if he had to listen to that bossy voice all the time, he imagined it would drive him to drink.

Well, drink more than usual, at least.

He wondered how in the world Harry could stand it, though the fantastically stupid smile on Harry’s face seemed to imply that the Boy Who Lived didn’t mind in the least being the Boy Who Lived to Get Whipped By His Vamp Girlfriend.

Then again… Harry didn’t seem all that whipped, either, even with all of Ron’s initial objections to Harry’s seemingly unwavering “lurve” for her.

Hermione always did have a healthy respect for Harry… dates all the way back to first year. I, on the other hand, got called an insensitive teaspoon, was turned down as a Yule Ball date, and was introduced to a flock of conjured canaries.

He smirked. Now that he looked back on it all, it astounded him that he ever thought that he wanted Hermione as a girlfriend. Nothing about them would have worked.

We would have been miserable, plain and simple… might have stuck around for the sex, though, if it’s as good as Harry says it is.

Hermione—and probably Harry, too—would deck him for that. But as Luna once said, “Women might be able to fake orgasms, but men can fake whole relationships,” so he could hardly be blamed for thinking it.

Ron remembered having a blast with George over that and two bottles of Firewhiskey. Ron couldn’t remember if it was funnier before or after the alcohol. Either way, listening to Luna’s quotable quotes was always a treat. It was just the sort of thing that made Luna such good company.

At that, Ron frowned. In his last drinking session with George and Luna, George seemed to be giving Luna these really wonky looks; the kind of looks George used to throw in Katie Bell’s direction. Strangest of all was that Ron felt extremely unsettled by this.

Maybe George shouldn’t be trying to get into relationships carrying so much baggage…

He was snapped out of his musings when the Death Eaters started arguing heatedly. He considered watching this argument, even if he couldn’t understand a word that was being said, but he supposed he had already let it go on for as long as was necessary.

Honestly, if only all Death Eaters were this stupid, this entire bloody war would’ve ended ages ago.

Of course, Ron had dealt with the really dangerous ones in the last five years and he wouldn’t have trifled with any of them like this.

Rabastan alone is one tough mo’ fo’ who can throw hex for hex with some of the more talented members of the Order, and at least the more senior Death Eaters knew enough not to take Harry one on one…

Ron whipped off the invisibility cloak and stepped into the light of the dim room.

The Death Eaters stopped arguing, stunned at his sudden appearance.

“Yeah,” he said in reply to their questioning stares. He threw a curse, petrifying the man just as he ducked from the woman’s Reducto.

Her hex blew through a nearby Gorilla suit and Ron had to stifle a gasp of surprise. The little lady packed a mean punch.

Ron rolled on his back and saw her second curse coming even before he had gathered his bearings from her last one. He dodged but it caught his foot, setting the laces of his trainers aflame.

“Shite!” Ron yelled, stamping the flames away just as she ran for cover behind one of the many crates.

The man, petrified on the floor, had been left to fend for himself. Ron grabbed him by the collar of his robe and held the man up, pressing the tip of his wand to the man’s throat. “Drop your wand or I’ll—“

She fired a curse and Ron spewed profanities as he dragged himself and his hostage behind a tree prop. He could hear the man squeaking softly beyond his frozen lips.

Ron stayed behind his tree while the woman launched curses in their direction.

“Your girlfriend doesn’t care much about you, does she?” Ron asked his petrified hostage.

The man’s eyes rolled in its sockets. Maybe this Bulgarian spoke English.

Another one of her curses hit the tree and the curse practically punched a hole through the thick plank of wood.

Ron couldn’t help but laugh. “I think she just broke up with you, mate. Don’t worry, if you show her you don’t care, she’ll come running right back to you, begging you to take her back. Worked for a friend of mine really well, and then they had mind-blowing sex like you wouldn’t believe.”

There was another explosion and Ron ducked lower.

“Ron Weasley, I heard what you said about me, you git!”

Ron laughed at the sound of Hermione’s voice. “Well, it’s true, innit?”

“Potter’s been telling tales, I see,” she said, a soft thump following her words.

Ron peeked from behind his hiding place and saw that Hermione had hopped out of her coffin. She was wearing a rather skimpy top with matching skimpy boy-shorts.

Ron figured he wasn’t going to tell Harry that he’d had a gander at Hermione in her sleepwear.

The hexing from the woman Death Eater had stopped, and wherever she was, whatever she was planning, Ron would bet his stones that it had nothing whatsoever to do with saving her fellow-Death Eater on her way out the door.

Lucien’s coffin opened and he sat up. “What does a vamp have to do for some quiet around here? Don’t you know I need my beauty sleep? Now more than ever because I look like shit.”

No, Lucien hadn’t developed a sense of modesty. He really was still rather ghastly, but at least he was strong again, and he had definitely regained his lucidity.

“Last time I looked like this, I had drugs coming out of my ears, so maybe I deserved it then,” he continued, crossing his arms over his chest and refusing to leave his coffin. “But now I look like hell because I did something for everyone’s benefit! Is it too much to ask for some extra hours of peace, people? And where the hell’s my blood? I want my blood!”

“Sheesh, what a diva,” Ron said, staying behind his hiding place. Hermione and Lucien may be awake and damn near impenetrable, but it didn’t mean the Death Eater wasn’t going to aim her hexes at him. Unlike some people, he wasn’t immortal.

Lucien scowled. “This is stupid. None of you are paying attention to me! I’m an invalid! I demand to be loved and cared for!”

“Settle down, Diana Ross,” Hermione told Lucien with a scowl. “We still have a little Death Eater problem, if you bothered to care about someone other than yourself.”

“Humph! I’m going back to bed!” With that, Lucien lay back down and pulled the coffin’s lid close. “And no, I’m not leaving my coffin even if you beg and plead. I won’t! I won’t!”

Hermione sighed and shot Ron a weary look. She scanned the room for the Death Eater. “Where’s the little bugger at, anyway?”

“Careful! She’s got blessed water!” Ron said.

“Ugh. Of course she does.”

Hermione crouched and crawled into Ron’s hiding space, wriggling through the tight spot. Ron prayed she didn’t inadvertently wiggle out of her clothes as she did that.

She grinned when she saw the other Death Eater beside him. “Well! At least you’re good for something.”

“Oy,” Ron said, narrowing his gaze at her.

She laughed just before leaning over, cupping a hand to the side of her mouth to whisper to him. “She’s behind the Bengal Tiger.”

Ron didn’t exactly catch that. Hermione had cleavage and he could look nowhere else. “Blimey, Hermione. You seriously have to be careful about those things when you’re around blokes. They’re so… there. Someone like Malfoy could have a gander at it and then where would you be?”

She smirked. “Ravished by the evil and lecherous Draco, apparently. Honestly, Ron. These days, Draco’s bark is worse than his bite. If he ever gets a look at my goodies, he’ll just gawk and grin. Either way, it’s not like I’d care. So he’s looking and he likes it. Woohoo for him.”

“Somehow, I don’t think Harry would take it as well if he caught Malfoy at it. Anyway, what was it you were saying to me a while ago?”

“You mean while you were gawking at my boobs?”

“Er… yeah.”

“I said the Death Eater’s behind the Bengal Tiger, although now I think she’s moving, and I reckon she’ll find a way to escape in the next minute because you’re oh-so-quick. Quicker than a fox. Quicker than a speeding bullet. Quicker than Malfoy having sex with a whore.”

“Hundreds of vampires in England and I get stuck with the snarkiest one. Go figure. Incidentally, that last bit you said will give me nightmares for weeks.”

She scoffed. “You scare too easily. Personally, I think the image of Malfoy having sex with anyone is laughable. ‘Yes, baby. Who’s your Dark Lord? Tell me who’s your Dark Lo—‘”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

She giggled.

Ron sighed. “Oh, shove off, won’t you? I can move about faster if you just got out of my way.”

“Well, pardon me. I wasn’t the one hiding behind a tree prop while Little Miss Death Eater over there outclassed me.”

“I was going easy on her!”

“Oh, sure.”

Ron glared at her and nudged her aside, trying valiantly not to look at her chest and concentrating on creeping out of his hiding place. “You’re a hair’s breast away from being Silencio-ed, Granger.”

“Did you just say hair’s breast?”

“Erm… I… umm… can you just let me do my thing? Honestly!”

“Fine. Go. I’ll watch your back.”

“Yeah, do that.”

“I don’t hear any of you begging and pleading!” Lucien cried from inside his coffin.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Ignore him. He gets this way whenever he’s recovering from injury. A right pain in the arse, I tell you. But it just means he’s healed, so I mostly let him do his dramatics.”

Ron sighed, throwing Harry’s invisibility cloak over him and hefting his wand. “You and your barmy vampires…” he muttered as he crept towards the Bengal Tiger.

He moved as quickly and as soundlessly as he could and sure enough, he found their Death Eater huddled just a bit further away from the tiger. She was closer to the puppet python, now. She had a vial of holy water in her hand and she was clutching it tightly. On her belt were the other vials.

Another thing about living with Fred and George was having a true appreciation of the merits of distraction. There was opportunity in confusion, and when there was no opportunity to be had, there were times that you just had to love confusion for its own sake. It made for a lot of laughs, properly applied, anyway.

Ron waved his wand. “Eruptio.”

The vials on the Death Eater’s belt exploded and she gave a shriek of surprise. Ron knocked the wand from her hand with an Expelliarmus and in her confusion, she dropped the one vial of holy water she had left. It shattered to the floor with a tinkle and she took off in her panic.

Ron cast a binding spell that had her screeching and tumbling to the ground.

Perhaps realizing that she had no escape, she resorted to yelling and hissing Bulgarian profanities, or at least they sounded like Bulgarian profanities to him. There was a universal quality to cursing, after all.

Hermione reemerged, dragging their first prisoner with her by the collar of his robe. She spoke to the woman in Bulgarian. It sounded like a “Shut the fuck up!” which had a universal quality as well. The Death Eater seemed to heed it, falling silent.

“We have to get to the dungeon,” she said, nudging the woman with her bare foot. She caught some of the holy water from the woman’s robe and her toe hissed ever so slightly.

“You should put on a robe, or something,” Ron said as nonchalantly as he could. “Cover up, you know? Ain’t proper for a girl like you to be walking round like a scarlet…”

Hermione glared at him, her chin setting stubbornly. By the flashing of her eyes, it looked as if she’d rather swallow bobutuber puss than listen to him.

Ron figured it probably hadn’t been the best way to go about convincing her to get better dressed. “Erm… what do we do with these two?”

“Leave them here with Lucien. He’s sulking but he’ll do as I ask.” She went to Lucien and knocked on his coffin. “Lucien, Ron and I have to go. We’re leaving two prisoners for you and I want you to guard them. Don’t be difficult.”

“Whatever,” came Lucien’s muffled response, just before the lid lifted slightly and he peeked out. “I’m an invalid.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Yes, love, of course you are. But I want my boys to be useful no matter what. I’ll baby you later if we have time. Now be good and watch over these Death Eaters for me, won’t you?”

“Okay.”

Ron couldn’t help but do his own eye roll. For such an old guy, Lucien was a hand at acting like a five year old.

Lucien sat up, pulling his legs up to his chest and hugging his knees. He gave a sigh as he looked at the incapacitated Death Eaters on the floor. “I’m hungry.”

Hermione gave the Death Eaters a malevolent smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There ought to be a law, Harry thought sourly as he looked up and saw Hermione in her skimpy sleepwear.

He transferred his glare to Ron, as if to tell him that he should’ve at least told Hermione to get better dressed. Ron, probably reading the intent of his gaze, gave a helpless shrug.

The threat in the dungeon had been neutralized almost as soon as the hexing began. Harry had been a bit worried about the number to begin with, but when Solomon vamped, it was all over.

Solomon had the Death Eaters screaming and wetting themselves, uselessly falling to Harry’s immobilization spells and stuns. Viktor had been swifter than Harry had expected, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. The man was the best Quidditch Seeker in Europe and a champion in the Triwizards Tournament; of course he had skills.

Between the three of them, they had the Death Eaters bound and stunned in about five minutes.

He had expected Ron and Hermione to arrive as back up. He hadn’t expected she’d look like that, though. Even Viktor, stoic to a fault, couldn’t help giving her the once over with his slow moving eyes.

“Nice shorts,” Harry told her with an arch of his eyebrow.

“Thanks,” she replied without a hint of hesitation. She had that stubborn gleam in her eyes that made her fight for elf rights and stand up to people who called her a Mudblood. She shot him a very brief glare before moving on to rounding up the incapacitated bodies littering the dungeon floor.

“Two minutes,” Harry muttered as Ron came within hearing distance of him. “That’s all you needed to tell her to put on a robe or something.”

“You think I didn’t try? Why does she have to go and make a political statement all the time, anyway?”

“Political—oh, fantastic. You probably used the words scarlet woman or girl, or—“

“It’s frightening how you know me so well.”

Harry was too annoyed to exchange clever repartee with his best friend, whom he considered a blithering idiot at the moment. He began to move the Death Eaters into one area, casting half-frustrated-half-admiring looks at Hermione who had already bent over twice to check Viktor’s minor injuries.

He was beginning to suspect that Viktor was finding as many injuries on himself as he could.

“More of us will come,” said Vanya as she sat bound on the floor. “And do not think, brother, that they will be quick to spare you—“

“I expect no such kindness,” Viktor replied, rather sadly.

“They will bring Vampires with them,” Vanya continued. “More than what you have.”

Solomon laughed at that. “I wouldn’t assume so much, if I were you.” He shot a pointed look at Hermione and Vanya’s scowl etched itself deeper into her face. “She isn’t Coven Master’s pet for nothing.”

Hermione frowned but didn’t deny it. “Yasmin’s affection of me might be shaky, of late, though I don’t doubt she’d oblige me if only to protect her interests, which means protecting Harry, of course.”

Vanya made a spitting motion. “Filthy little Mudblood!”

“Vanya!” Viktor hissed, speaking to her in strong Bulgarian, turning redder and redder in the face as he spoke.

Hermione spared Vanya a glance and sidled up to Harry. “Never did like her,” she muttered from the corner of her mouth.

Resisting the urge to throw his robe over her, he focused on more important matters. “Will the vamps be here, Hermione?” he asked in a low tone. Vanya and Viktor were still arguing, but the others were free to listen in on their conversation if he didn’t take care.

She nodded. She had sent an owl out to the highest-ranking Coven of Isis vamp in Bulgaria, telling the vamp in Coven code that she would need reinforcement vamps from London. Hermione gave a specific time and place for those reinforcements to have access to their means of transport, “transport” being Portkeys.

Hermione didn’t worry so much about how the vamps would activate the keys. Many vampires had Wizard werewolves to do the activating for them.

She was certain the vampires would arrive because the Bulgarian Coven associate had owled back her reply, assuring Hermione that the arrangements had been made.

It seemed like a roundabout way to make arrangements, but it was the only way. Vamps couldn’t floo each other and she didn’t have a Coven-recognized Wizard werewolf to relay the message for her. Harry couldn’t have done it either, simply because the Coven vamps would have given Harry a far more difficult time of it than it was worth. Vamps didn’t like taking orders from humans, even if said orders came from another vamp.

“They will be,” she replied, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s standard procedure for Coven vampires to respond to the needs of the associates, though I think this is the first time a lot of them have had to use human-issued Portkeys. We only have three agents in Bulgaria handy, and it’s a rule never to bother the local units when you can summon from Coven-central in Albania or London.”

Harry checked his pocket watch. “The Order ought to be out there by now, though Remus said he wanted to cut it really close just so the Death Eaters wouldn’t have time to prepare. Think it’s going to get bloody out there?”

“Only with the vampires. You’re going to have to tell the humans to back off in dealing with the vamps. Let us take care of them. Tell your captains to stick with the mortals and I think we’ll be alright. Is everything arranged for Viktor and his children?”

Harry nodded. “As well as I could make it. So long as he stays away from the public eye, they’ll never be able to find him. You realize, of course, that after he leaves, he’ll need a secret keeper, which means only one person in the world will know exactly where he is.”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously.

He smirked. “I’ll give you three guesses who I think he’ll choose.”

“You?”

He chuckled. “I already volunteered. He didn’t take my offer.”

She sighed. “You think it’s me, isn’t it?”

“Who else?”

“Viktor Krum’s secret keeper. Could be worse, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Hermione.”

“You know I’ll do it, Harry.”

He smiled, taking her hand while giving Viktor a brief glance. “Then it’s all set. Viktor can take his children to their new secret home and he’ll be able to protect them properly. He’ll be sacrificing a lot for this, you understand.”

“You mean his Quidditch career and his inheritance.”

“Among other things. Friends, the rest of his family, his country…”

“Why, Harry, one would almost think you feel sorry for him.”

He shrugged. “He’s not a bad bloke. And maybe I can respect a person who would give everything up for their loved ones.”

She looked up at him and realized that he wasn’t just talking about Viktor anymore.

He felt her thumb rubbing the back of his hand. He smiled a bit and pulled her close. “I mean it.”

“I know you do,” she said, the slightest blush coloring her cheeks while she pretended to look like they weren’t having an intimate conversation in the middle of the post-battle clean up. “And it means a lot hearing you say that.”

Viktor, Ron and Solomon approached them.

“They’re all accounted for,” Solomon said. “We ought to stuff them in the cells already. Big fight ahead of us.”

Viktor nodded. “The cells are ready. We must make haste if we want to help your Order fight off the reinforcement Death Eaters.”

Ron’s eyebrow arched. “You don’t have to fight with us, Viktor. If anything, you ought to be thinking of your sprogs. If something happens to you—“

“I will let nothing happen to me,” Viktor said. “And I seemed to have hidden long enough behind the wrong side, don’t you think? It would behoove me to think that I’d now resort to hiding behind my children.”

Harry exchanged looks with Hermione and there was no mistaking that she couldn’t help but be pleased about what Viktor said. It was, perhaps, her way of saying that she hadn’t been wrong about Viktor after all.

“I better go and suit up, then,” Hermione said. “I don’t think anybody would appreciate a scarlet woman running about killing vampires.” She shot Ron a pointed look after this.

Ron scowled and Harry stifled a roll of his eyes.

He knew his best friends too well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All was quiet on the Krum castle’s courtyard, and the only signs of life had all to do with death. Phantasmal figures flitted about at random intervals, their silvery visages grim, almost frightening, especially with the thin mist of snow falling from above. The dim torches lining the perimeter walls did nothing to lift the darkness, and Hermione could feel the presence of vampires skirting its edges. The distant sound of wolves piped through the still air.

Within the castle, just behind the great doors, Hermione peered through the open window. She could feel no alien presence beyond that of their vamps, but she knew their enemies were coming. Vanya and her Death Eaters were not as stupid as they seemed. Impulsive and careless though they may have been at the thought that they could deliver Harry Potter to their Dark Lord, it was evident that she had informed someone that if they did not floo back by nightfall, it meant something had gone terribly wrong and that reinforcements would be necessary.

“Do you think they’d bring werewolves?” Harry asked softly over her shoulder as he came up behind her. He reached around her and pried the shutter open a bit more, his other hand rubbing her shoulder.

She didn’t even know if he knew he was touching her. His gaze seemed preoccupied and trained to the courtyard outside. She nodded in reply to his question. “If we brought werewolves, then so will they.”

His brows knotted slightly and she could tell by the tensing of his shoulders that he was anxious about something. “I wish I’d been given the chance to speak to them all…”

An apologetic smile tugged at the corners of her lips. She knew he was talking about the vampires and werewolves that had Portkeyed over from London. “They’re only just getting used to the idea that their coven master had signed them over to get involved in a war between humans. That they came with human-issued Portkeys at all without much fuss is something of a phenomenon. Let them do things on their own terms first and you’ll find that they’d ease into this arrangement soon enough.” She touched his face, trailing her finger on his jaw, never minding that there were Order members scattered about to see them being so close.

Ron was speaking with Solomon, Remus, Tonks, Lucien and Viktor. In another group were Arthur, Charlie, Ginny and Shacklebolt. A third group consisted of Seamus, Dean, George, Moody and Lee Jordan. There was yet another group dispatched to the dungeons for the captured Death Eaters.

They had all arrived via Portkey just a bit after nightfall, bringing with them vampires and werewolves from the coven. The vamps and wolves had been issued Ministry Portkeys, and the fact that those keys had been issued by humans would have definitely put the vamps in a somewhat rebellious mood.

Upon arriving at the edges of Viktor’s property, the Order members had used stealth to enter the castle, just in case there were Death Eaters expecting them. The Death Eaters were yet to arrive.

The vampires and werewolves had disappeared into the backdrop of Viktor’s castle even before Harry could have a chance to speak to them. As Hermione said, they were only just beginning to comprehend the concept of having to work with humans.

Hermione did not foresee any kind of mutiny, as Yasmin’s word was—to the Coven—law, but Hermione imagined that the vamps felt that they didn’t have to be congenial about the arrangement, at least not in the beginning. The Brotherhood of Osiris and the Blood-Kin of Ramses would be a bit harder to convince, but Yasmin knew how to get them to do what she wanted.

Harry looked at her. “They’ll listen to you, though, won’t they? I don’t mind doing it that way. I’ll relay orders to you so you can relay it to them—“

“We’ll worry about that when we have to. Right now, they’re all set up and they won’t fail you, Harry. They know that if they hurt anyone from the Order, they’ll answer to me, and quite possibly to Yasmin. They’ll do what they were summoned here to do and they’ll do it well, I promise.”

He smiled, taking her hand and squeezing it.

She was just about to lean back against him to reassure him, when there was a soft knock on the door.

Everyone in the room froze.

Vasilka flitted from the end of the room and passed through the doors. After a moment, she reappeared. “She calls herself Keiko.”

Hermione spoke immediately. “She’s one of ours. Let her in.”

Wenseslaus appeared out of nowhere with several assistants in tow. The great doors were opened slightly and a woman dressed in a gorgeous black kimono with flowing black hair slipped in. A resplendent katana hung from her hip, coupled with a wakizashi, or short sword. She wore arm guards on her forearms, and her feet were clad in grey tabi and geta; traditional Japanese socks and sandals. She was pale, beautiful and dangerous with her fangs drawn and her eyes pools of dark ink.

The humans stared at her in open awe. Clearly, very few of the Order members had gotten a glimpse of the vampires brought from London. Keiko was just one of the many standout personalities.

Keiko did not stop to acknowledge anyone. She went straight to Hermione. “They come. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“How many are there?” asked Hermione.

Keiko’s eyes flickered to Harry for a moment.

Hermione stifled her frown. “He has to know too. He leads the humans and he has their lives to consider, just like any alpha.”

Keiko’s cheek twitched ever so slightly before she replied. “Eleven vamps, twenty werewolves and sixteen humans.”

“Any shapeshifters?”

“Deardra’s with them. The only other shapeshifters are the werewolves, none of them morphmagus.”

“Manageable. Apart from the Deardra-factor, we’re evenly matched. I’ll take care of her. Is everyone clear on how we’re going to do this?”

“Yes. No prisoners?”

Hermione paused, conscious that everyone in the room was waiting for her response. What she was going to say wasn’t going to sound pretty, but someone had to say it. “Capture the humans, kill the rest.”

Keiko nodded, turning to leave. She saw Lucien and her eyebrow arched at his less-than-pretty visage. “Rough night?”

Lucien glared at her. “Mind your own business, Kimosabe.”

Keiko paused. “That’s not a Japanese word, you know. It’s what Tonto, the American Indian, calls his white-man friend, the Lone Ranger. So there’s really nothing remotely Japanese about either of them. You’d think a hundred and fifty year old vamp like you would know that.”

Solomon and Ron doubled over, laughing. Lucien scowled at them. “Shut it, you!” He looked at Keiko irritably. “Alright, go now. Bye, bye. Sayonara!”

“Kutabare, baka,” said Keiko, slipping out of the door and into the darkness.

“Oy!” Lucien cried.

Solomon and Ron laughed even louder. None of them understood what she had said, but her tone implied that her words weren’t polite, and that was damning enough.

Hermione smirked slightly before turning her attention to Harry.

Harry was not laughing. He was looking at her with barely veiled worry and for a brief moment, Hermione was overwhelmed by the fact that someone was actually worried about her. She hadn’t felt that kind of concern from anyone in five years. Not that there was no one who cared. It was mostly because everyone knew she was entirely capable of taking care of herself.

So maybe Harry was just the sort of person who worried about everybody. It was his nature to look out for everyone, but it was still astounding to realize that Harry felt real anxiety for her.

This time, however, he did not voice his concern. Perhaps it was enough for him that she understood. It certainly meant a lot to her, to know that someone was thinking about her the way he was.

Harry turned to the Order members. “We’ll not get in the way of the vamps. Vamps will fight vamps so long as we don’t interfere. Werewolves will be aggressive to anybody, so keep your bows and silver weapons handy. Coven vamps have some protection against Patronuses, so you may use your Patronus, but only if you’re in trouble with the Death Eater vamps. The coven vamps don’t want to drive their enemies away… understand what I’m saying?”

There was a collective gathering of breath as they nodded. None of them had ever been caught between two warring vamp factions, but they knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. This night was not for the weak of stomach.

Charlie and Kingsley approached him, and Hermione stepped back, letting Harry confer with the captains. She stamped down her feelings of awe; that girlish thrill of seeing Harry as an authority figure taking absolute control of a situation. It wasn’t the time to go all fan-girlish on him, but she couldn’t help it.

Kingsley and Charlie broke off from Harry just when the crew from the dungeon emerged from one of the main hallways.

The groups split; the Order members standing behind their respective captains.

“Viktor, you’re with me,” Ron said with a flick of his head. “And we’re with him.” He jerked a thumb at Harry and grinned. “Won’t let anything happen to us… unless you try to steal his girlfriend.”

Harry dealt him a slanted sneer.

Viktor had a tiny smile of his own. “I dated her first, so technically, he stole Her-my-own.”

Harry sniffed. “It really bugs me when you call her that, you know. It really does. She’s not Her-your-ow—erm, I mean—it’s Her-MY-OWN-nee. Get it?”

Viktor seemed annoyed. “It is not as if I can help it, you know. It is an accent.”

Harry looked even more annoyed. “Yeah, whatever. Wonky fainting… anyway…”

“We should”—piped Remus while clearing his throat—“get into position, right Harry?”

“Right,” Harry grumbled.

Hermione stifled the rolling of her eyes as everyone, avoiding eye contact with Harry, scrambled to get into place while Solomon and Lucien pulled the great doors open.

She ought to be offended about the “stealing” thing, and perhaps she ought to have chastised them a bit for the subtle pissing contest that just happened, but there were too many other important things that needed tending to, first. She would talk to Harry about all of it later. She stamped back her irritation and focused herself on the task at hand.

The Order units filed out into the darkness, pulling their cowls over their heads as they went. One by one, they faded into the cold, snowy night.

Hermione, collecting herself from her irritation, nudged Lucien. “You know I’d rather you didn’t fight, right?”

Lucien shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve fought being in worse shape.”

She eyed him and saw one hundred fifty years of pure survival instinct staring her back in the face. She nodded. “Just don’t get killed.”

“Gotcha.”

She felt the presence of Harry beside her and she turned, finding herself staring up into his intense gaze.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “’Bout that thing with Viktor. It just sort of crawled out of me. I think it’s been wanting to…”

She cocked a smile, pushed herself up on her tiptoes and kissed him passionately, however brief. When she pulled away, she said, “Be careful.”

The light caress of his fingers on her throat sent fire shooting through her. She was reminded again of how crazy she was about him, and that there were an infinite number of little things he could do that made her love loving him.

“You too,” he said, pulling his cloak over his head as he turned and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Go on to the next one, then!

31. Chapter Thirtieth: Tested

A/N: This chapter’s a bit shorter by comparison but I hope you like it!

Chapter rating: Hard R for violence.

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Chapter Thirtieth: Tested

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Hermione felt the presence of humans, vampires and half-formed werewolves apparating outside the Krum perimeter walls. Any moment now, the fighting would begin, and she had to think of a way to draw first blood. She clutched her sword, mentally going over the pre-battle questions:

Will you remember your sword forms? Are your guns locked and loaded? Are you ready to take the pain?

Each and every answer to the question had to be yes, or else she just might get herself killed too soon into the fight.

A dark figure in the distance rose into the air, wings like a raven’s flapping and stirring the flecks of ice in whirls.

“There’s Deardra,” Solomon said.

Beneath the winged vampire were the rest of the Death Eaters. They would be walking through the snow to cross the courtyard because the Krum property had anti-apparition wards.

Hermione tightened her grip on her sheathed sword. “Sol. Go.”

Solomon took off with vampiric speed. Lucien took off after him and Hermione followed, pulling her sword free of its scabbard as she went.

Across the courtyard, Hermione saw Deardra’s gaze dart towards them, and seconds later, Deardra was off to meet them in an attack.

Deardra dove towards them like a bird of prey, her razor-sharp claws elongating as she came.

Those very claws had beheaded many an unsuspecting vampire in the last twenty years of Deardra’s existence. Deardra was quite deadly in her own right and she had done some contract jobs for the coven in the past. She was a mercenary, and perhaps she had gotten paid enough money to join with a human faction. Money was, after all, what drove her, and that above everything else, was the reason Hermione was going to take her down this night.

Solomon skidded into a graceful crouch ahead and Hermione planted her foot on his shoulder as she reached him. He heaved, tossing her into the air like a springboard. She flew into deadly action, sword and body melding in fierce combat.

Muscles tightening, she glided into form as she swung and Deardra’s claws blocked her sword. The rasp of steel against claws sang through the air. Vampire had caught vampire, but it was exactly what Hermione had hoped. Using Deardra’s grip on her sword as leverage, she twisted, pulled her aikuchi out of its sheathe, and sank the silver blade right through Deardra’s spine.

Deardra’s shriek ripped through the battlefield like a woeful siren and she batted Hermione away with a powerful smack of her raven wings.

Hermione felt the wing land right on her gut and she braced herself for the jarring fall, even as she landed into a graceful, skidding crouch. She sank her sword’s blade into the snow and ground as she slid.

Deardra crashed into the snowdrifts as battle exploded all around them.

The humans scrambled for cover as hexes came at them from all around. Werewolves and vampires clashed in the open courtyard, blood and bone mingling as limbs were torn and sliced.

Hermione felt herself vamp as the smell of blood permeated the air.

Deardra batted snow at Hermione and the ice struck Hermione’s face with shocking force. Her instinct was to move back, knowing full well that Deardra would take that opportunity to attack. The spray had barely dissipated when she felt the tip of Deardra’s claws rake across her body. She felt a distinct sting on her throat. The welling of blood and the warm wetness that accompanied it was a reminder that had she been fool enough to stay planted on the spot when Deardra created her diversion, Hermione’s head would be rolling on the ground.

As it was, Hermione fought back the urge to gag and double over. Breathless though vampires may be, the blood flowing through them was a comforting stream. Violent disruptions like the slashing of one’s throat caused an abrupt change in rhythm. It was disorienting.

Clearing her mind, Hermione raised her sword and blocked the follow-up slash.

Deardra reversed her spin in a split heartbeat.

Hermione saw the wing closing in on her. It was like a solid wall, black feathers hiding hard muscle and sinew. Bracing her sword with both hands, she turned and felt the wing brush at her back just before she spun to position herself on the other side of it. With all her strength, she swung down, the bite of blade against cartilage distinct and hard.

Deardra’s shriek filled the air just before the cartilage gave.

Hermione tore through Deardra’s wing, slicing most of it off. There wasn’t much blood, but it looked horribly painful.

The second wing swung at Hermione and it clocked her on the head. She felt her head spin as she crashed to the icy cobbled ground.

Wasting no time, Hermione shook off the haze even while invisible fingers pressed viciously into her skull.

Deardra had retransformed, her healthy wing disappearing into her while her injured one remained protruding. She reached for her back, pulling out Hermione’s aikuchi with an agonized moan.

Her sight still shaky, Hermione hefted her sword into form as she spoke to buy herself some time to recover. “So… how much did Janus pay you to work for them? Or are you taking money from humans now?”

Deardra sneered. “Least I work for money. You, on the other hand, work for dick. He as good as they say he is?”

That was surprisingly offensive, and Hermione realized that it angered her to hear Harry objectified.

So this is how guys feel when jerks talk shit about their girlfriend.

The rage shot adrenaline through her. It was like a puzzle cinching into place, the way Hermione felt her faltering focus returning. Her determination pumped raw power into her body while years of training harnessed it into a deadly, razor-sharp blade.

Hermione moved, pushing forward with her sword raised.

Deardra responded, hefting the aikuchi in one hand and growing her claws in the other.

Hermione swung her katana upward, deflecting the aikuchi. The aikuchi flew into the air, but the claws swooped underneath. Hermione felt nails rip diagonally down her thigh and the pain made her buckle to one knee, but sucking in the instinct to wail and whine she concentrated on a quick counter. Hermione swept her sword into a looping, upward arc and attempted to slice through Deardra’s side. Deardra jumped back to avoid it.

On pure instinct, Hermione flowed into a third attack. Bracing her palm on the butt of her sword, she levered her injured thigh, thrust forward and sank her blade through Deardra’s gut.

Deardra’s scream gurgled in her throat as blood poured out of her mouth. Caught, but not defeated, Deardra pulled Hermione’s sword in deeper. Hermione lunged, gasping at the unexpected move, just before Deardra sank her claws into Hermione’s stomach, twisting as she went.

Hermione bit down her scream. Her body battered and sliced, this new pain seemed to top it all.

Deardra grinned through blood-stained fangs. “Betcha yours hurts more than mine.”

No arguments, thought Hermione through grit teeth, but surprised as she was of Deardra’s threshold for pain, she was beginning to realize the fact that unlike Deardra, she wasn’t attached to her weapon. Hermione let her sword go, dislodged herself from Deardra’s claws, and clenched her fist. She spun away, braced her arm and landed a solid, sweeping punch to the back of Deardra’s head.

Hermione could tell the blow shocked Deardra more than hurt her. In a fight between vampires, a punch wasn’t often useful. It didn’t mean it never was, however.

Deardra tumbled face-first into the snow, and gasping in surprise, the sword lodged deeper through her as the hilt collided with the ground.

Hermione drew back her leg and kicked Deardra’s side, flipping Deardra over just enough for Hermione to grab hold of her hilt and draw its blade out.

Deardra hissed and struggled to push herself off the ground.

Hermione wasted no time flowing into form, sweeping her blade into a precise arc. Her wounds burned, the earlier ones Deardra inflicted were healing just now even as she moved.

Deardra hissed as she raised her claws, attempting to block the sword. She blocked too high.

The katana sliced through Deardra’s wrist and continued on straight through her neck.

Deardra’s head went flying before it dropped and rolled lifelessly over the icy ground.

Hermione didn’t even stop to look at Deardra’s headless body as it fell, the sound of werewolves coming at her from both sides.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sharp sting of an ill-aimed Reducto hex blossomed from Harry’s arm and to the rest of his body, ripping his attention from Hermione to the chaos of his own battle.

The image of claws ripping through Hermione was chased away by the agony of the wound that felt like it was bleeding fire.

Crying out at the pain, he threw up a protection spell, and in his state of agitation, he put too much power in it, sending his attacker flying backwards and knocking him breathless.

Cursing his attacker’s lineage, Harry ducked a stray hex and rolled towards his opponent. As he rose to a crouch, he saw the werewolf coming at him from the corner of his eye.

Harry swung his wand arm, aimed and fired. “Everte Statum!”

The werewolf roared as it got lifted off its feet, spinning frantically into the air as it went.

Holding out his wounded arm at his human opponent, he made a pulling motion. “Carpe Retractum!”

The Death Eater wailed as he swiftly slid on the ground towards Harry at the same moment the werewolf recovered and bounded towards them with inhuman speed, maw wide open.

Death Eater and werewolf collided, and Harry had to duck frantically to get away from its chaotic path.

He rolled, pulling his crossbow from his back and launched an arrow to the back of the werewolf’s head.

The werewolf whimpered, froze, and slumped lifeless above the struggling Death Eater.

Harry pushed the werewolf aside with a flick of his wand and cast an Incarcerous at the Death Eater. He jumped behind a snowdrift, magically dragging his prisoner after him. He had three of them now and they looked at one another, the first two eyeing the third one with great irritation, as if to say, “Not you, too!”

Lining up the snow bunker were his unit consisting of Remus, Viktor, Ron, Ginny and Seamus, all of which took a moment to glare at him malevolently before going back to throwing hexes and warding off werewolves.

Ginny came up to one side of him while Ron planted himself on the other.

Both were scowling so very fiercely, but it was Ginny who started to talk. “You great big idiot!” She flicked her wand, tearing a strip of cloth from one of the Death Eaters’ robes. “You stupid, bird-brained, four-eyed—“

“Oy!” Harry cried, matching her scowl. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“The point, Potter,”—she hissed while whipping the strip of cloth straight and looping it around his injured arm—“is hardly that you’re alive, because in case you’ve forgotten, they don’t want you dead! The main thing is that they want you living and breathing, and if they manage to capture you during this battle, then all our efforts—mine, Ron’s, the entire Order’s, really—will go to waste! Besides that, Hermione will have your head if she found out you blundered into enemy hands because you wanted to ‘save’ her.”

“That was—“ He stopped, sighed, and growled. “Okay, I screwed that one up!”

Ginny tied the strip tight. “Humph. At least you know that much.”

“Harry, you’ll drive her away again if you carry on like that,” Ron said harshly. “Is that what you want? Is that—“

“NO!” Harry cried. “Of course that’s not what I want! And I know, alright? I know that was stupid, and moronic!”

“And bird-brained,” Ginny added, to remind him.

He gave her a wilting look. “I know all that, and I know it’s just the sort of thing that drove her away before. So I won’t do it again! It just—this is the first time I’ve had to—“

“Actually stand back and let her?” Ron finished for him.

Ron was absolutely right, of course.

Harry nodded and expelled a breath. “Yeah, but I’ve got it, now. I swear. I was just shocked. It’s not everyday you see your girlfriend get skewered—never mind. Let’s—“

“I know,” Ron said, compassion replacing his anger.

Harry felt grateful, and it was enough that Ron understood. “Alright, then. Let’s try this again…”

Refocusing on the fight, Harry gathered Ginny and Ron, rounding them up with Remus, Viktor and Seamus.

He took about three seconds to tell himself, “Hermione’s strong. She can handle it. She’s going to be alright. She’s phenomenal with her sword,” before he gave them their orders in quick succession.

The number of human Death Eaters alone would’ve been easy to manage, but those werewolves were making things quite difficult. Not only were they tougher, but they were fast, and they were powerfully distracting.

Harry reloaded his crossbow before he led his unit out of the bunker. They spilled out after him, alternating protection spells with hexes. They formed a circle in one section of the battlefield, backs to one another before Harry, Ron and Remus broke off into a wider circle and took on attacking werewolves. Harry stared right at an approaching wolf, whipping out his crossbow and letting its arrow fly.

The arrow sank into the wolf’s open mouth and the wolf crashed back, raking at his throat as he trembled, stiffened and finally died.

A hex flew over his head from behind, Ginny’s Petrificus Totalus catching a Death Eater mid-attack. Harry summoned the Death Eater to them just as he threw a hex to catch another.

It was while he rolled to throw back another approaching werewolf that he saw the vampire coming at them from the corner of his eye.

The vamp was in what looked like a cassock, his long auburn hair braided into shiny tips. He held a sword with confident grace. No Coven vamp appeared to hinder him, and it he was heading straight for Harry.

Don’t panic, thought Harry amidst the tensing of his shoulders. Any moment now, a Coven vamp…

But no Coven vamp came to their rescue. Harry realized in no small way that one of them was going to have to take on the vamp, and considering the past week, training with Hermione, it ought to be him.

It ought to be me…

He pulled out his sword.

I’ve gone abso-fucking-lutely mad.

Harry gripped his sword hilt and began to move into form.

“Harry!” came Ron’s frantic voice. “Have you gone abso-fucking-lutely mad?”

Well, the man knows me, after all.

He centered himself, letting what meditative technique he learned calm his senses. Ron’s voice, Ginny’s shrieks, and Seamus’s potent profanity melted away. He cast a protective charm around himself, spells bouncing off before they could touch him.

His emerald eyes met the grey, Vampiric gaze.

Accept the challenge… came a foreign, psychic voice.

The vampire flashed fang, knowing that Harry heard him.

Harry breathed and took off.

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Harry saw the vicious smile spreading the vampire’s lips as he closed in, sword held firmly into form. He flipped through the sword forms Hermione had taught him and his mind set upon one while his body put it to action.

He slashed upwards and the vamp leaned back to avoid it just as Harry shifted, hands still to his hilt as he crossed one wrist over another, flipping the sword for a backward sweep.

The vampire dodged a second time, but Harry wasn’t through. One hand released the hilt, allowing his sword arm to complete the arc and flow into a third form. Sword and arm came back up over his head, and both hands on the hilt, he swung downward.

His sword met solid ground as the vampire jumped back, skidding gracefully away.

“Impressive, Harry James Potter,” said the vamp.

Harry was used to enemies calling him by name, but this was the first time he’d heard his whole name from enemy lips. It irked him, somehow. There were few who could claim to summon him by his full name, and every one of them was someone he cared for. He did not care for this vampire, therefore the vamp had no right.

He took a page out of Hermione’s book. “That’s Mr. Potter to you, Flunkie.” It was, according to Hermione, one of the worse insults you could lop at a vamp. Flunkies were at the bottom of the Vampire World’s food chain, literally and figuratively.

The vamp frowned slightly but continued to speak. “My name is Edward, not like you have to know, though. You’ll be dead in the next minute because I could care less about keeping you alive. To me, you’re just another human.”

Harry stifled a scoff. Vamps disobeying humans… what else is new? “Just Edward? No last name? What is it with you vamps? Keeping your last names to yourselves like a bunch of pop stars from the eighties…”

Edward glared at him.

Now he’s angry. Why did I say those things, again? Oh, right. It’s supposed to make the enemy lose focus. I hope it worked.

Edward clutched into sword form.

Alright, so maybe it didn’t. What now?

Edward attacked and Harry blocked once, twice, before Edward’s foot sank into Harry’s gut and sent him stumbling back.

Harry rasped for breath, his eyes watering at the pain of his diaphragm refusing to work properly. He willed himself to focus, knowing that Edward would take advantage of his vulnerability. He raised his sword just in time for Edward’s downward swing.

Edward spun, his braided hair flying in all directions.

It was only then that Harry realized that the tips of Edward’s braids were razor-sharp. The blades stung as they bit, one after another, on the side of Harry’s neck, ear and cheek.

Cursing, Harry scrambled away, forcing himself to go into form, however awkward it felt.

The sting of the small wounds flared through one side of him just before he felt the trickle of blood oozing from his cuts.

“Didn’t expect that, did you?” Edward sneered.

Harry told himself to ignore the aggravating jibe; ordered himself not to think about how he hated it that each vamp had some kind of surprise in store, some unique ability; scolded himself not to whine and whimper how it was all so bloody unfair.

He forced himself to think rationally, inhaling and exhaling to steady his rattled nerves.

He’s good, but not that good. The fact that I could block his strikes means he’s nowhere near Hermione’s and Solomon’s caliber. I can beat him. Just have to find a way how.

Edward came at him, sword raised and eyes blazing. He flashed fang and attacked with vamp speed.

Harry saw the flash of steel; knew that Edward’s sword was on its way for the kill.

Three thoughts crossed his mind.

First: I can’t die.

Second: I have a world—lives to save.

Third: If I die, Hermione and Ron will never forgive me.

Those thoughts bore down on him, anchored him then pushed him over the edge of conscious thought with a powerful heave, and he realized one, irrevocable truth that pulled all three thoughts together into something so potent, he could almost feel it; see it: I HAVE TO LIVE.

It wasn’t just about survival now. It was something he knew he had to do. It was an instinct attached to rational thought. There were reasons, concrete and tangible.

For the first time since his magic began obliging him, he felt the true impact of it.

From the center of him; not just his heart but his soul, too, that ball of conviction, determination and resolve burst out of him into visible patches, strings and slivers of color, light, and dark. He recognized it because he’d seen it amidst the passion of being in Hermione’s arms. They’d made love and he made things happen, half-knowing what swath of magic could cause one thing or another. She had unlocked something in him as she taught, trained and made love to him, and now he knew how to call the magic, at least in times of desperate need.

The anti-apparition wards drifted with hollows in the spaces and he summoned the magic of apparition. He slipped through the grooves, easing in, then out, popping up right behind Edward.

Edward gasped, hair whipping as he spun with his sword raised.

Harry pulled at the magic, wrapping it around Edward as he cast. Immobulus.

Edward froze. One second. Two. He was moving again, but it was enough for Harry to duck out of the way.

Vamps seemed somewhat resistant to the spells, some more prone to resist than others. Perhaps it depended on how old a vamp was.

And perhaps sometimes it depends on how aware I am of casting it, he thought, remembering how he had cast the same spell on Solomon before, with similar results, except then he didn’t know how he did it. Perhaps if he had known how when he cast it on Solomon, a young vamp who still had a lot of years ahead of him to develop a resistance to magic, the vamp might have froze for a longer amount of time.

Harry flipped his sword and plunged it through Edward’s heart.

The shocked surprise was evident on Edward’s face, and Harry completely understood why. Edward was vamp-amped. He was moving faster than the human eye could see, yet Harry had matched that speed with something all his own and managed to thrust his blade through Edward’s chest.

I love magic.

The snarl that befell Edward’s face was so vicious that Harry was sure Edward had a bit of magic of his own. Harry felt the hatred pulse, just before Edward pushed, ramming his palms against Harry’s chest and sending him careening backwards into the hard, icy ground.

His sword was still embedded in Edward and in a swordfight with a vampire, that was never a good thing.

Edward swiped Harry’s sword out, hefting it in one hand while he hefted his own sword in the other. Fangs drawn and eyes alight with vampire fury, he lunged at Harry and Harry only had time to frantically Apparate again.

When he reappeared behind Edward, Edward was stumbling out of balance.

Caesaries Inflamare.

Edward’s hair burst into flames and he screamed, dropping the swords as he plunged his head into a snowdrift.

Harry picked up his sword as Edward plucked his head from the ice.

Smoke drifted up from his charred hair and scalp as he spun to face Harry, profanities issues from his lips.

Harry didn’t let him finish. He swung. His form was perfect; his aim true, and his sword sliced cleanly through Edward’s neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bloody fucking hell… he did it! Ron thought, seeing the vampire fall headless at Harry’s feet. He still couldn’t fathom how, though. He had been too busy fighting off Death Eaters and werewolves to figure out how in the world Harry was able to do the things he did.

It can’t just be that he’s better at this than everyone! thought Ron. It can’t—

“Ron!” shrieked Ginny.

The werewolf came out of nowhere, jumping for his throat.

Ron cried out as he held up his arm, the werewolf’s teeth clamping down on his arm. He yelled out a curse as the werewolf bore down on him, snarling and growling menacingly as he knocked away Ron’s wand.

A sharp, unbearable pain roiled up from where the werewolf was lodged and Ron cried out in agony.

He was going to pass out. He knew he was going to, but Ginny’s panicked shriek pierced through his senses and he held on while he and werewolf rolled and tumbled on the ground. No one could get a spell in. They would either hit him or the werewolf, and they couldn’t risk the former for the latter.

Ron threw a punch to the werewolf’s ear and it whimpered, but it didn’t let go of his arm. He threw another punch and the werewolf rolled beneath him. Ron reached for his wand, caught it and fired a hex right between the werewolf’s eyes.

The werewolf broke off with a pained cry and Ron scrambled off him.

Remus and Viktor hurled hexes at it, one after another before Ron pulled out his crossbow, aimed and lodged a silver arrow into his chest. Seamus’s arrow caught the werewolf’s knee. The werewolf fell over, breathing his last breath.

“Oh, Ron!” Ginny cried, pulling her brother within the protective circle of Remus, Viktor and Seamus. Tears were coursing from her eyes as she looked at Ron’s arm.

Pain shot through Ron as her hands fell upon it to examine it. “Son of a fucking Merl—“

“Ron, I have to see!” Ginny pleaded, poking her fingers into the holes the werewolf’s teeth wrought through Ron’s parka. Downy feathers burst from the rips and Ginny pushed them back, blowing off the puffs and clearing the opening of the jacket sleeve.

“Oh, God,” she gasped with what Ron realized to be relief.

The dragon-hide armguards he had worn were intact. Not a fang had gotten through. Not a scratch marred its impenetrable surface. But the pain…

“I think your arm’s broken, Ron. Thank God!”

“I wouldn’t say thank you, if you know what I mean…”

Ginny’s tears continued to spill. “Git! I thought—I thought you’d—a werewolf’s bite is—“

Ron couldn’t help but give her a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I know. But I’m fine, alright? I’m fine.”

She nodded, putting her arm around him and helping him up. “We have to get you into the castle. No more fighting for you.”

It sounded like a good idea, and there was nothing he wanted more than relief from the pain, but everyone he loved; everyone dear to him was on this very battlefield. He couldn’t. Not even with a broken arm.

So one arm was broken. That only meant the other was fine, and that he still had his legs to run, walk and jump with. War was not for the faint of heart, and he was, decidedly, all heart and no faint. “I can fight.”

“No—“

“I can fight. I’ll tell you if I can’t. I promise.”

She stared back at him, and perhaps seeing the determination in his eyes, she let him go.

Grinning to mask the pain from his arm, Ron braced his broken arm against his chest and raised his wand at an approaching Death Eater. “Expelliarmus!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Without losing flow, she flipped her sword, thrusting backward just in time to skewer the werewolf at her back. She spun, both hands gripping her hilt as she slashed the same werewolf in half.

Crimson warmth gushed over her, sticky and sweet, hot against the biting mountain cold.

She turned just in time to see another approaching werewolf.

It came at her ferociously and she ducked from its powerful jaws. She felt claws rake down her back from a second werewolf and she stifled her cry of pain. Crowded by the two hulking bodies, she sank her sword through the chest of one werewolf and allowed the second one to barrel into her.

It felt like she had gone head-on with a refrigerator, the crushing force snapping three or four ribs and a collarbone. The sharp pain that welled through her from the jagged edges of splintered bone pierced through her skin tissue and she tried not to think about the piece sticking out from beneath her leather coat.

His jaws clamped down on her injured shoulder and a shriek clawed its way out of her throat.

She gasped, willing herself to do something rational, to do something other than cry out in pain.

Rational thought came. She swiped out her gun, pressed the barrel of it to the werewolf’s temple and fired a shot. And another. And a third one just to dislodge his jaws.

Brains and blood flecked over her as the werewolf bucked once before it slumped limp, lifeless.

Rasping from the pain, she pushed the werewolf off her. Sluggishly, she got to her feet.

Mangled as she was, she would have been ready to take on another couple of vampires, her adrenaline powering her in spite of her injuries, but she saw the litter of bodies around her, vampires and werewolves sliced and beheaded, none of which were from her side of the fight. Towards the edges of the battlefield, Death Eaters lay stunned and incapacitated. She hadn’t even had a chance to sting-hex a Death Eater.

Would’ve been satisfying, I think, she thought with weary humor.

It was over. There was no need for her to keep fighting.

Nearby, the werewolf that had taken her sword to his chest whimpered. With deliberate ease, Hermione went to him, aimed and put him out of his misery between the eyes. Blood blossomed thick in the snow from where the bullet punched a hole through the back of his head.

Putting her gun away, she pulled her sword from the werewolf and flicked the blood off the blade. She hissed as her wounds screamed murder. Werewolf bites and claws took a little longer to heal. Werewolf saliva and claw tissue acted like poison on vamps’ wounds, but such wounds did heal without treatment, excruciating though they may be.

She had taken more than her share of the vamps and wolves, and while she was never one to complain, she felt that too many had aspired to kill her.

My head would’ve made a nice little trinket for Janus, I suppose.

Her vamp amp ebbed from her system and her fangs began to slowly retract. The stench of blood was no more pronounced than it should be and the pain of her injuries was becoming unbearable.

Well… all things considered, it could have been worse.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The mist seemed thicker now. Or maybe it had been just as thick earlier, just that the masses of frantically moving bodies had stirred and pushed it back. Now, with everyone beaten into a more sedate pace, the mist had reestablished itself around them.

“Hermione.”

She was mildly startled that Harry had managed to sneak up on her again. She looked up and she supposed he got a good look at her because she could see the flicker of shock on his face.

“Good lord,” he whispered after a heartbeat.

I must look horrific. She arched an eyebrow, seeing the wounds on the side of his neck and face. Blood was fresh against his coat. “Well, you’re not looking too good, either.”

He frowned and perhaps chose to ignore her observations. “Are you—“

“I am,” she said before he could finish the question. She attempted to heft her sword and found that her arm was a bit uncooperative. She felt her broken bones knitting right then, slower than usual because of the poison, but the wounds directly caused by werewolf fangs and claws would be a while yet. “Or at least I will be,” she added reluctantly. “I’ve had worse. Everyone alright?”

“Yes. Death Eaters didn’t know what hit ‘em. Hermione, you’re hurt—“

“I’ll heal in a few hours, Harry. Nothing to worry about—“

“Shut up and let me have a look.”

Rolling her eyes, she held still as he moved around her.

“Merlin,” he muttered as he saw the wounds on her back. “I saw them picking on you… those last two werewolves were nasty. I almost ran over here to help you.”

But he hadn’t, and Hermione found that that was an immensely satisfying thought. Worried as he was about her, he had trusted her to handle it, and while on any other day he might have helped anyway, he didn’t this time, because he had other responsibilities on the battlefield, like his own unit, which would not have appreciated their captain abandoning them for his immortal girlfriend.

She looked over her shoulder at him. “How far you’ve come, Harry,” she said softly, meaning it.

He smiled, understanding what she meant. It had been his inability to balance his concern for her with the welfare of others that had driven her away all those years ago. More and more he proved how profound his understanding of their relationship had become.

She felt warmth spread over her back, most of the sharp pain ebbing. She had to admit to the relief. It was handy to have someone care. She didn’t have to bear the pain by being too tough to ask for the simple relief of a numbing charm.

“You look like hell,” Harry said in a softly teasing tone. The smile on his face was strained, but at least he didn’t seem as worried as he first was.

“I might appreciate honesty most times, but not this time,” she grumbled.

He placed his hands on either side of her arms and squeezed ever so gently. “Everything looks like hell, but I’m—I’m just glad you’re alright. Gave me a minor heart attack going head to head with that winged vamp, though. I’m still reeling from that one.”

Like a set-up joke, Deardra’s head was within reach of her foot, and nudging it slightly, she said, “Deardra, meet Harry. Harry, Deardra.”

Harry swallowed something, valiantly keeping it from rising back up. “The… less experienced members of the Order are still shell shocked, but they’re all pretty much unharmed.”

She gave him a placid smile. “They might as well get used to it. The Order’s going to be fighting side by side with vamps from hereon. Voldemort’s going to find out about tonight sooner or later and he’s not exactly going to let you out-vamp him.”

He nodded. “I’d say that this was a… relatively successful trial run.”

“Relatively.” She looked up at the front steps of the house. Standing at the foot of the steps, intimidating the hell out of the humans passing them by were Keiko and Tatiana.

Tatiana, tall and model-thin, preferred long purple hair to her naturally blonde locks. Her eyes were smudged by dark make-up and her lips were painted black. She wore a kind of de-layered Victorian-era cut dress—black, of course—with lace-up knee-high boots. She was pierced everywhere, perhaps even in places most people thought one shouldn’t.

Keiko looked delicate and demure by comparison, which of course she wasn’t. Keiko was, in Hermione’s opinion, one of the fiercest alphas in the coven. She could rip the eyes off anyone with her bare hands like she was picking seeds out of a grape then lick her fingers clean without expression, pause or hesitation. She was fierce because she could care less.

Both vampires were stained and matted in blood, but they stood as unbothered about it as only proper vampires ought to be.

Hermione gave the two vamps acknowledging nods before she looked back at Harry. She told him she needed a few minutes to confer with the alphas.

She could see his protest of having her walk around by herself in the brief moment that his shoulders tensed, but he seemed to get over it, for which Hermione was eternally grateful. It wouldn’t do for her to get escorted around like an invalid, not when the other hard-assed alphas were standing around, seemingly so unconcerned about their own extensive injuries.

He let her walk by herself, even if they were basically headed in the same direction. She had to admire his will, letting her trudge miserably through the snow with her gait so obviously pained.

Keiko and Tatiana didn’t even blink when she reached them. Upon closer inspection, Hermione saw the real extent of their wounds.

Keiko was missing three fingers and had claw marks riding down her left leg. Tatiana suffered claws across her stomach and three ghastly gashes down one side of her face.

They were a miserable lot, but they would regenerate in quick time. Even Keiko would get her fingers back.

“Where are the other alphas?” Hermione asked. There had to be at least two other alphas by Hermione’s estimate.

She was right.

“Sasha decided to do inventory on the bodies and Ruth’s taken debriefing duties. They’ll have a full report for you by tomorrow night,” Keiko said.

Hermione nodded. As the alpha who issued the summons, she took the lead in the mission and was entitled to the basic reports. “Everyone accounted for on our side?”

“Yes,” said Tatiana. “The enemy was trained, but not coven-trained, and they didn’t expect us. It was a slaughter.”

Hermione didn’t miss the faint flicker of delight in Tatiana’s eyes. “Indeed. Keiko, you’re second on this. I want your full assessment report by tomorrow, as well.”

“You’ll have it,” Keiko replied. “Same email address?”

Hermione smirked. “No email. You’ll have to owl it to me.”

Keiko rolled her eyes. “Fine. Stupid… you wizards and your backwards…”

Hermione chuckled. “Just shut up and owl it. You’re going to have to get used to it, anyway. You’ll be working with wizards now, and this conflict could take weeks… months… years, really.”

Keiko’s and Tatiana’s deadpan gazes studied her, probably to determine if she was serious.

She was, and she stared right back at them to let them know it.

Tatiana blew a breath through her lips, as if giving in to a great concession. Keiko just looked away, resigned to the tragedy.

“Come now,” said Hermione in a silky tone. “It wasn’t so bad. In fact, I’m quite sure you were both satisfied with the way the humans handled themselves. They took care of their enemies and let us take care of ours. As we go along, we might even learn to help each other.”

“Right,” said Keiko, almost dismissively. “Your human killed himself a vampire. He’s not a bad slayer.”

“My hu—? Oh, you mean Harry. Yes, well, he’s… he’s quite talented…”

Keiko and Tatiana smirked lecherously.

Hermione frowned. “With his sword… that didn’t come out right, either, did it?”

“You will take us to your human and his captains, then,” Keiko said, looking all business once more. “If we’re going to work with them, we might as well be properly introduced.”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched and she could tell, even with Keiko’s and Tatiana’s impassive faces, that Harry had piqued their interest.

The charisma on that man, she thought, amused. Or maybe he’s just that attractive.

“Come with me,” she said, gesturing for them to follow her up the steps of the castle.

They did, getting the attention of a few of the Order members and several bound and gagged Death Eaters.

She saw Harry at the other end of the room with Charlie, Shacklebolt, and Ron. Ron’s arm was in a sling.

Broken, likely. There was only one healer in the house, and many were wounded. Ron’s arm, perhaps to the healer’s assessment, could wait.

Charlie and Shacklebolt saw them first, and Hermione could detect the horror in the two men’s gazes. She was pretty sure that she, Keiko, and Tatiana looked the stuff of nightmares.

Ron swallowed at their approach, his eyes switching warily between Keiko and Tatiana.

Harry was less rattled than everyone else, though his eyes briefly darted to Hermione’s companions. His gaze returned to her, and it was filled with concern. “You alright?”

She stifled a smirk. “Yes. I’m fine.”

Ron fidgeted, possibly taking stock of Keiko’s missing fingers, Tatiana’s mangled face and the raw claw wounds all three of them bore. “Erm… your friend’s missing some… yeah…”

Hermione’s brows knotted at that and she looked over her shoulder at the alphas. Their eyebrows were arched and all three of them exchanged confused looks.

Friends?

Sniffing, Hermione gathered her bearings. “These are my colleagues, Keiko and Tatiana. They’re alphas in the coven. There are two other alphas outside but they’re working right now.” She introduced everyone, and while the vamps extended courteous interest in the others (foregoing the fingerless handshake, to everyone’s relief), it quickly became apparent that they had come to assess Harry.

Hermione felt a bit apprehensive all of a sudden, realizing in no small way that this meeting could mean everything for how the vamps would treat the alliance. Keiko and Tatiana, as it was, were high enough in the ranks to influence the general opinion of the coven members.

Harry must not show fear, and while Hermione knew Harry was pretty damn good at being brave, it didn’t mean he didn’t get scared.

Harry fidgeted as he suddenly found himself between the two vamps, their gazes filled with curiosity and slow appraisal. He seemed a bit uncomfortable, but no fear perfumed the air near him. “Umm… so, Hermione’s colleagues, are you?”

“You can say that,” Tatiana said, peering at his scar.

Keiko crowded him a bit, possibly listening for his heartbeat; waiting for him to give off that distinct scent of insecurity and panic. Her eyes ringed with the intensity of her evaluation.

Tatiana was a bit more aggressive, showing more than a bit of fang, and it was no pretty picture, especially with half of her face torn to shreds.

“Erm…” said Harry, his eyes watching the fangs elongate. “How’s the coven’s dental plan? Comprehensive?”

Hermione had to take a very deep breath to keep from bursting out in laughter.

Well, Harry, that’s one way of telling ‘em.

The two vamps stared at him in mild surprise and their gazes flickered just the tiniest bit. They were not the most friendly of vampires, and perhaps they weren’t quick to laughter, either, but they had a sense of humor, and they knew enough not to take themselves way too seriously.

“He’ll do,” said Keiko.

Tatiana gave a curt nod. “I concur. We’ll owl you, Harry Potter, copies of the reports we will be submitting to Hermione. Is that to your liking?”

“Yes?”

Hermione tried not to beam. She wondered if Harry knew he had been tested, or that he had passed the first level of it quite well.

“Good,” replied Tatiana. “Keiko, best we go. We have to report to coven central.”

Keiko nodded. “Hermione, I’ll swing by with Lars and Michael when you get back to London. And for God’s sake, don’t owl me to let me know you’re back. Email me: Coven sakura at nova-craft dot com. Or better yet, pick up a phone and call me.”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched. “Nova-craft dot com?”

“Online computer role playing game,” explained Tatiana. “Keiko’s addicted to it.”

“Coven sakura?”

Keiko shrugged. “I want to come off as fragile and delicate.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Oh, you’re a real cherry blossom alright… from hell.”

A tiny smirk turned up the corner of Keiko’s lips. “True, but my online opponents don’t know that.”

“Ah, now it becomes clear. Unfortunately, it doesn’t change anything. I’ll still owl you.”

Keiko sighed but followed it with a soft chuckle before turning to leave.

Casting Hermione one last amused and pierced-lipped smirk, Tatiana followed after Keiko.

Harry watched them go.

“Will we have them in the general Order meeting?” Shacklebolt asked.

“We should,” Harry replied. “They’re our allies now.”

Shacklebolt didn’t look happy, but he said nothing, and even more surprising, he nodded.

“In that case, we ought to sit down and talk about a few other vamps you might want to invite,” Hermione said.

Harry nodded. “Done. As soon as we get back to London.”

She derived a familiar sense of warmth from what he said. “As soon as we get back to London.” Not so long ago, she would have dreaded those words, London being a place of loss and pain. Now it felt like home again.

She supposed the old adage was true, the one about home and the heart.

The doors to the castle were banged shut as the last of the Death Eaters were hauled in. Outside, the mist was nearly impossible to see through, and one would think nothing was happening there.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry hastened to his bedroom. He needed to pack what little belongings he brought with him. They were going to head back to London with the rest of the Order that night, and with all the Death Eaters to book and question, it was best to get back to London as early as they could.

And then there was the staff to destroy. Valuable relic of Gryffindor though it may be, they would have to give it up to the mercies of Strigoi and potion. That meant they would lose the staff forever, but it was a small price to pay to for the destruction of Voldemort.

And if it’s not the last Horcrux?

The thought came unbidden and he willed it away from his mind. It was too…

Devastating…

It wasn’t something he didn’t want to consider right now.

He was just about to turn the corner leading to his chamber when he heard Seamus’s voice echoing from behind.

Stopping in his tracks, Harry waited until Seamus caught up with him.

“Finally got a chance to talk to you,” said Seamus in an exasperated tone. “You’re impossible to get alone, Potter. Think you can work me into your busy schedule?”

Harry smirked. “Walk with me then. I haven’t got all night.” He stepped up the pace and Seamus followed.

“Right. I’ve been meaning to tell you since I got here, but the Death Eaters sorter got in the way.”

“Understandable.”

“Most. I’ve been looking at those files you gave me for the Hogwarts Express incident and I actually found something.”

Harry paused in his tracks ever so briefly before he resumed walking. “Well, that’s excellent, isn’t it?” That was somewhat of an understatement. His heart rate had increased quite a bit from anticipation.

“Yes. I’m very proud of myself,” said Seamus, drably. “I checked off the passenger roster with the Auror roster and I discovered an inconsistency.”

This was most interesting. “Go on.”

Seamus waved his wand and two folders appeared out of thin air, plopping into Seamus’s waiting hand. “These are two Aurors. One of them was on Shacklebolt’s original list of Aurors assigned to be on the train.” He handed the first folder to Harry. “The second Auror is not on that list.” He handed over the second one.

Harry took them and opened the first folder. It was the personnel file of one Roberts, Jeremy. His picture showed that he was a rather round fellow and he had a nervous tick on his upper lip. His hair was thinning. The second file showed one Turner, Stuart, and he was the young, fresh-out-of-Hogwarts Auror he had spoken to after the attack.

“What did Shacklebolt tell you about these blokes?” asked Harry.

“Shacklebolt took Turner on that train as a last minute replacement. He couldn’t find Roberts on the night of the trip.”

“And where are these two now?”

Seamus sniffed. “Detained for questioning. Shacklebolt said Turner wanted to be on the train, which frankly makes him even less of a suspect because hell… who wants to get caught between marauding fangs on a moving train, whoever’s side they’re working for? He’s more like an eager rookie wanting to prove himself; found himself way in over his head when the train got attacked… we all went through that. But I rounded him up anyway so you can question him. Now Roberts… well, he kept going to work after the attack, so it doesn’t exactly fit the profile of guilty, but… see, according to his timesheet, he did check in for work that day…”

Harry looked the timesheet over, flipping to the proper date. “But he didn’t check out. He has a relatively early start of his night shift and then… you said Shacklebolt couldn’t find him when it came time to dispatch to the Hogwarts Express?”

“Disappeared, it seems.”

“Incriminating.”

“There’s more. Turn to page six of Roberts’s Assignment Tracking Sheet, item two, subsection A.”

Harry did and under item two was the “Special Assignments” box. Subsection A said ‘Lottery Winner’, and beside it was the date and time the assignment was issued. Subsection B said ‘Express’. The date and time coincided with the fifteen-minute window Shacklebolt was entitled to when he received the information about the secret trip to Hogwarts.

Assignment Tracking Sheets magically updated as soon as assignments were handed out, so they were mostly accurate. There have been instances when the sheets had been manipulated, but in this case, especially if Roberts was hiding something, it should have been manipulated to not show he had been assigned on the train. Yet there was the entry, un-tampered with.

Strangest of all was that Seamus had directed him to the entry above it, which to Harry made very little sense to begin with.

“Lottery winner?” Harry asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s a nick name for a miserable assignment. You’ve never heard of it because you were never included in the lottery in the first place. Shacklebolt didn’t think it wise.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about Seam—“

“Names from the Auror, Hitwizard, and Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department are ‘raffled’ for this particular job. The assignee is different everyday, and there’s no particular pattern in who would be assigned and when. All everyone knows is that if you get assigned that week, you have a two-week grace period of not getting assigned to the task again. Sometimes… well, there’s a rumor that the person drawing the raffle could be paid off to postpone assignments, but that’s just a rumor…”

“Seamus,” said Harry a bit impatiently. “What’s the job?”

At that Seamus halted before he turned grim. “Babysitting. To guard Draco while he’s working in the Ministry archives.”

Harry frowned, mulling this new bit of information over. He could understand why Seamus suddenly involved Draco in this investigation. While in the last five years, Draco had done nothing for them to think that he would, or was, betraying the Order, it was still a fact that Draco had once tried to kill Albus Dumbledore in service of Voldemort. It didn’t help either that his father, Lucius Malfoy, was still an active Death Eater.

That Malfoy was remotely connected to one of the suspects of this particular investigation bore examination, even if there was no evidence to suggest that he was involved in any way.

“I’ll conduct interrogation for Turner and Roberts,” Harry said, tucking the folders under his arm.

“Should I haul Malfoy in, too?”

“No,” Harry said. “We don’t have anything on him to justify that. I’ll talk to him.”

Seamus smirked. “Talk?”

“Well, that’s how Malfoy and I consider it when we’re calling each other names and telling one or the other to ‘do this and that or else’… you get the picture.”

“Five years and I still couldn’t get over the fact that you and he are living in the same house and that you suggested it in the first place.”

“I couldn’t get over it, either, but hey, maybe this time I’ll have a reason to send him to Azkaban.”

“Thank Merlin for small blessings.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Don’t have parting words. Must sleep…

Oh, except maybe thank you, again. 10,000 times thank you.

Chapter 31 shall be written as soon as I wake up from the dead.

32. Chapter Thirty-first: Mole

A/N: I used to be a smoker. I’ve gone a year and five months without cigarettes. Before that I’d been smoking since I was fifteen until December 2004, and between 1998 to 2003, I was smoking two packs a day. At this point, I still get cravings and I still wish I could pick up a cigarette to smoke, but I know I’d feel guilty, because I’d dream about smoking, and then I’d feel bad gave in. So… what I’m trying to say is, in this chapter, when it comes to smoking, I am not being preachy, because lord knows, I want a cigarette so bad right now I wish I was the guy in this fic.

Lots of emotional stuff going on in this chapter.

And oh, dear readers, you have many, many things to thank tome_raider for. Aside from doing a brilliant job beta-ing and editing, she convinced me to write a particular scene. You’ll find out which scene, in the end. Thank you so much, tome_raider!

Okay, I realized that I haven’t done this in a while: Standard disclaimers apply (as if anyone would believe I own Harry Potter).

Chapter rating: NC-17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty-First: Mole

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Order of the Phoenix, once their worse wounds were properly treated, at least to first aid, immediately took themselves and the Death Eaters straight to the Ministry for processing. Gryffindor’s staff was taken by Remus, and he was tasked to spirit it away to the Department of Mysteries where the Strigoi chamber was kept.

Harry and his party stayed a bit to talk to Viktor a final time before he and his children were sent off to their new, anonymous life the following day.

Unspeakables from the Ministry arrived to administer to Viktor’s affairs. There were quite a few things to settle in terms of Viktor’s properties, and once Viktor had the papers signed, they would all be forwarded to Gringotts until such time as he decided to return from exile. The rest of the matters concerning Viktor’s new identity and home, though the necessary documentation had to be initially processed by the Ministry, could only be completed by Viktor and his secret keeper.

Harry was surprised when Viktor told them that he already chose a secret keeper, and that this person was someone he trusted unconditionally. That Hermione couldn’t hide her own surprise was testament to the fact that she wasn’t Viktor’s secret keeper.

With that, they said their goodbyes to Viktor and his kids.

Jaroslav and Todor sat seat-belted in their strollers, blinking wide-eyed at the strange people while their cousins, Stefanya and Gavril, fussed over them. Stefanya and Gavril were still unaware of their parents’ plight and it would be Viktor’s burden to make them understand. Perhaps that was what the small wrinkle on his forehead was for.

Hermione crouched down to the babies’ eye level to examine them. The boys stared at her, their hands reaching out curiously for her hair.

“Mai!” gurgled Jaroslav. “Mai!”

For a moment, Harry thought he was calling her by her name, but Hermione later explained to Harry that it was toddler Bulgarian for Mayka, which meant mother.

Hermione’s eyebrow arched at Jaroslav’s burble and she looked up at Viktor, smirking. “Your children need a mother, Viktor. You ought to get them one.”

He smirked back. “Even Jaroslav knows that was the plan from the beginning.”

Harry just pretended he didn’t understand that last bit.

Lucien and Solomon looked everywhere but at Harry.

Ron was not so tactful, wincing openly and nudging him with an elbow. Harry shot Ron an annoyed glare.

Hermione took it better than the rest of them. She stood, planted her hands on her hips and cocked her gaze. “Plans change, da?”

He smiled wanly, the tender look in his eyes escaping no one, right before he wiped his eyes expressionless. “Da.”

Seemingly satisfied with that, she nodded. “We have to go. Lots of things to do in London.” She looked over her shoulder at Harry.

Harry found that he could stifle his feelings of irritation for Viktor Krum as he stepped forward and shook Viktor’s hand, giving his goodbyes and sincere well-wishes.

Ron did the same, offering his left hand. His right one was still in a sling, though the potion he’d been given earlier was already beginning to heal it.

Solomon and Lucien, having mostly rid themselves of blood, looked extensively patched and bandaged, but they gave their goodbyes in the enthusiastic manner they did most things.

“I’ll miss mooching off of you, Krum,” said Solomon. “I think maybe those were the most comfortable six months of my life, living here. I’ll never forget that.”

Viktor looked terribly amused by this as he patted Solomon’s back.

Lucien grinned toothily. “Maybe I’ll go looking for you in twenty years or so. Stefanya ought to be old enough…”

Viktor did not look amused by this at all.

Solomon clapped a hand to his friend’s shoulder and shook his head. “Lucien, I tell you this because I am your friend and I would not lie to you: that’s just wrong.”

Hermione glared at Lucien before turning to Viktor. She gave Viktor a fitful embrace and kissed his cheek one last time. “Dovisdhane, Viktor. Vnimavia.”

He nodded, his wan smile softening his hard features.

She stepped back, squeezing his shoulders. “Az se gordeia s tebe.”

He seemed surprised by what she said, and amidst his sad smile, something profound lit his eyes. “Blagodaria.”

Hermione said goodbye to the children before they turned and left.

Their unregistered Portkey allowed them to leave from outside the wards of the Krum stronghold. Unlike their Portkey coming to Bulgaria, their departure from Bulgaria and their apparition point in London would be their choice. Given this flexibility, they didn’t have to travel down the mountain to leave from there.

Walking a bit farther away from the Krum property, Harry realized that their departure from outside the Krum perimeter meant that they would be leaving the snow mobiles in the guardhouse shed.

Hermione had shrugged when Harry mentioned this. “It’s just as well. Those snow mobiles were meant for me, Lucien and Solomon, for when we lived here and had to go to town every once in a while. Especially with Viktor gone, there’s really no use for them, is there?”

“I hope not,” he said, half jokingly.

She smirked.

Ron and her Shadow Kin walked ahead, trying to find a clearing through the trees where they could Portkey from.

Harry reached for her hand. “Does it hurt you that he chose someone else?”

She looked up at him, confused. “Sorry?”

“Viktor… and his secret keeper.”

Understanding beset her gaze and she shrugged. “A little, but if I’m to be rational, which I am, it’s completely logical he would choose someone more… secret. In retrospect, I’m kind of an obvious choice if the enemy got the notion to try and find him.”

“So basically it’s alright with you?” He wasn’t sure why he needed to know. Vestiges of insecurity, he supposed. This relationship with Hermione was still something “new”, even if they’d done it before. They were both different then, and now they were starting on a relatively clean slate. Besides, he felt no discomfort talking about these things with her; at least not anymore.

That Hermione spent six months with Viktor didn’t sting as badly anymore as it first did, but there will always be that undeniable fact that one doesn’t spend six months living with someone and not form certain unbreakable bonds. Even if Hermione and Viktor’s bond hadn’t been obvious all the time, it did show in the most profound moments, when it mattered, like when Viktor confessed his deception, and when Hermione said goodbye. Harry had felt very separate from her during these times, especially when they spoke in Bulgarian. It wasn’t her fault, neither was it Viktor’s, but it didn’t change the fact that he wished things were different, that Hermione and Viktor didn’t have their small little world that no one but them could penetrate.

He felt the pressure of her hand. That one motion was reassuring and he was reminded that he had a world with her all his own.

“More than just ‘basically’ alright,” she said. “In a lot of ways, I’m glad I’m not his secret keeper, because that’s one less secret I have to keep from you.”

He smiled wanly. “Lots of them, is there?”

“Well,” she said, grinning. “None you’d like to know right now, believe me.”

“Oh.”

“But some day I’ll tell you about them,” she said, pressing closer to him. “They’re not big secrets. You know about my big secrets. They’re little tiny ones about ex-boyfriends and mistakes and the things I’ve done that I’m ashamed of.”

“You shouldn’t ever have to be ashamed about anything with me.”

“I know.” She smiled. After a moment of silence, just before they got to the clearing, she said, “I told Viktor goodbye, and that he should be careful. I also told him I was proud of him, and he thanked me for it. I’m sorry you felt left out, but… I won’t be seeing him for a very long time, probably never again, and he did take care of me during a very low point of my life... he deserves to have something of me to take with him. Something he knows is his alone.”

He nodded, and he was grateful that she understood his feelings for what they were; that it wasn’t just petty jealousy on his part, but something more profound.

“Oy, hurry up, you two,” Ron yelled from the clearing, his voice breaking through Harry’s thoughts. “It’s not happiness to be freezing my bullocks off just because my best friends fancy themselves walking hand in hand in a park.”

Solomon grinned. “Ron Weasley: the Anti-Romance.”

“He’s just jealous because he hasn’t had sex in a while,” Lucien said.

“Honestly, Lucien, do you have to turn everything into sex?” asked Ron.

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

Hermione pulled Harry along to get to the clearing.

Harry produced the Portkey, set the destination and held it out for everyone. The vamps touched first before Harry and Ron activated it, sending them back to London with a whoosh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They stopped by Grimmauld Place to clean up before heading to the Ministry, and as they stepped through the doors, Tonks met them, telling them that Remus was at the Ministry and that she had been waiting for them so she could help side-along the three vamps.

“Where’s Cho?” Hermione asked as they trudged into the halls, hauling their overnight bags.

“Parents picked her up last night,” Tonks replied. “She’ll be fine—“

“Good riddance,” said Hermione without pause, break or rest. She went straight for the dungeons.

Solomon cast Harry an apologetic look before he followed after Hermione and Lucien.

“Territorial, isn’t she?” said Ron.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, reddening.

“Well, alphas tend to be like that,” said Tonks cheerfully. “For instance, as Remus’s Lupa, I’d trounce any female that tries to get their paws on him.” She said this all with a toothy grin, like it was the most normal thing in the world to say. That was the thing with Tonks. A lot of the things she normally said weren’t all that normal at all.

Draco emerged from the hallway, his gaze transfixed on something behind him. “Shite, what happened to Granger and her vamps? Got hit by a train or something?”

“Or something,” Ron said, walking past him to get to the stairs.

“The lot of you look pretty awful, too… well, worse than usual.”

Harry eyed Draco so suspiciously that it seemed to alert Tonks to trouble. She was the only one in the house, after all, who looked out for Draco’s welfare. Harry knew it was her blood-relationship with Draco that compelled her, but knowing Tonks, who was relatively kinder than the rest of them (notwithstanding her need to “trounce” females on occasion), Harry had a feeling she’d grown to genuinely care for the bugger in the last few years like a real cousin.

“What?” asked Draco warily.

Harry figured going to the Ministry was first priority now and he didn’t need to alert Draco to anything that might lead to him being more difficult. He cast restrictions on Draco’s anklet and summoned Draco’s wand.

“Oy!” Draco cried furiously. “What the hell, Potter?” He lunged at Harry to get his wand back and Harry put the wand away. He pushed Draco back with a mild spell, sending Draco stumbling to the floor on his ass.

“Harry!” Tonks cried. “What—“

“Let’s talk, Tonks,” Harry said, meeting Draco’s angry glare as he left the room. Tonks followed, looking extremely agitated.

Draco did not show an inclination to make any further protests. In the five years he’d dealt with Harry’s moods, he knew well enough that demanding the removal of restrictions from his anklet and yowling for his wand back would only make Harry more stubborn about it.

Harry entered the conservatory and Tonks stepped in after him, after which Harry closed them in and cast spells to make the walls and doors imperturbable.

Tonks glared at him. “What the hell is wrong with you, Harry? Even for Draco, that was totally uncalled for!”

Harry sighed, tossing Draco’s wand to Tonks. She snatched it from the air but continued to stare daggers in Harry’s direction.

“Might I remind you that he let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and that he tried to kill Dumbledore. Others have gone to Azkaban for less,” he said.

Tonks looked livid. “Might I remind you that Draco let those Death Eaters through because Voldemort threatened to kill his parents if he didn’t. All of us may think Lucius is a sick son of a bitch, but all Draco knew at the time was that he was saving his father and mother from death. His failure to kill Dumbledore might have caused him Narcissa’s life—his mother’s life, and by your admission, he failed because he couldn’t kill.”

“Is that what he tells you, Tonks?” Harry asked tiredly. “That he’s a poor little rich boy who had no choice?”

“No. He never tells me anything. He never tells anybody anything. He just goes about his business, acting like an arsehole to everyone.”

Harry sneered. “Well, of course not everyone, apparently.”

Tonks smirked. “True. He doesn’t spit in mine and Ginny’s coffees…”

“Doesn’t—ugh!” Harry hadn’t needed to know that.

“I was never blind to the things he did, Harry,” Tonks continued. “And I haven’t forgotten anything he’s done, or tried to do, but in the last five years, I’ve watched the lot of you bully him and push him around. He gets treated worse than a house elf by you, Ron and your friends. Look at him, Harry… he’s trapped in this house, only going out for work in the worse Ministry job imaginable. He has to ask permission every time he goes to the loo at work and it takes him a month of red tape just to go to one store in Diagon Alley because nobody would care to buy anything for him when he requests it. And when he does get permission, he gets fifteen minutes of supervised time—“

Harry felt no compassion whatsoever. “Like I said… he should be so lucky. He should’ve been sent straight to Azkaban.”

Tonks sighed tiredly. “He wasn’t sent to Azkaban and he’s been here for the last five years. In a trial, you don’t consider what should have been, you consider the facts: what he’s done, and what he could’ve done to make it worse but didn’t. Malfoy began paying for his sins that day he save yours and Ron’s life, and he’s been paying for it ever since. He’s no saint, Harry, but common decency—and Lord knows, his good behavior—should have at least earned him an explanation before you took his wand and placed those restrictions.”

“And what if I told you I have reason to suspect that he’s a mole planted by the Death Eaters?”

“Then haul him to the Ministry for questioning. I’m not going to stop you.”

Harry plopped back on a sofa chair and expelled another breath. He winced as he landed on his bruised rear end. “I can’t haul him in. I have no evidence to suggest he’s a mole; only suspicion.”

Tonks stared at Harry a moment. “But you’ll question him, anyway, won’t you? Off the record, I’d imagine.”

“Yes.”

Tonks’s shoulders slumped. “I can’t stop you, Harry, and between you and Malfoy, I still trust you more than I trust him, but you know… you can try asking him for answers before you clock him. I swear to you, Malfoy can be engaged in proper conversation… give or take a few insults.”

“Oy… it’s not as if Malfoy never hits first.”

“Only when you call his mother names.”

“And he’s a really dirty fighter.”

“Yes, well… that’s true, but try my way first, then you can sock him when he’s being a jerk, I suppose…”

Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Harry rose from the chair. “Look, I always try to talk to him first, but then he says something underhanded—“

Tonks scoffed. “Well, he only gets worse the more you show that you’re getting pissed. Cool it and he mellows… well, to a considerable degree, at least.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“Yeah, and you might want to use magic as a last resort. He sort of clams up worse when you hex him…”

“Does he like his tea with milk? Is he a Biscotti man or does he prefer scones?”

“There’s no need to be sarcastic. I’m giving you real advice.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe I should have Hermione question him with me. She has a better handle on his snarkiness than I ever did. With her telling him off, there’s less chance of me socking him in the face because she can be pretty damn funny about it…” He couldn’t help snickering at the idea, even if he knew he wasn’t going to push through with it.

“Fine, but make sure she doesn’t go for the jugular. Know what I mean?”

He scowled, turning serious. “Well, you can tell him to cool it with the racial slurs.”

Tonks sighed. “Look, it doesn’t work that way with Malfoy. You can tell him not to call Hermione a Mudblood, or not to call you Scarhead, but it doesn’t matter! He always finds a way to get someone’s goat. I’ve no control over Draco’s twisted mind, but you can control yourself, and if you’re serious about having Hermione interrogate him, you can control her. You know you can, Potter.”

“Whatever you do, don’t ever let her hear you say that.”

Tonks laughed. Harry frowned.

Her laughter dwindled as soon as she saw he was serious. “Look, I’m just trying to be helpful here, and perhaps I do feel some kind of compassion for the sarcastic little bugger. I’m the only one around here who gives a shit about him.”

“That’s for sure.”

“Don’t you give a shit? Just the tiniest bit? Just a teensy, weensy—“

“Hell will freeze over before I do.”

Tonks sighed. “Oh, well… can’t blame you for it, either.”

“I’ll interview him after we return from the Ministry.”

She waved Draco’s wand. “Should I give this back to him?”

“You may, if you wish, but I’d rather you didn’t.”

Tonks gave Harry Draco’s wand. “See, Harry? I trust you more than I trust him.”

“Thanks,” said Harry with just the slightest hint of a smirk. Breaking the enchantments on the doors and walls, he let Tonks step out of the conservatory first before he followed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Ministry was alive with Aurors, Hit Wizards, Ministry officials, and news reporters when Harry and his housemates arrived through the phone box elevator.

The reporters, who had been busy scrounging bits and pieces of detail from harried personnel, dropped whoever they were interviewing and rushed at him with frightening enthusiasm.

Notepads with Quick-Quill Quoters were shoved in his face and the reporters shouted unintelligible questions.

He cast a series of subtle crowd-control spells and pushed a path for them through the small herd.

Curious looks were cast at the hooded figures that followed Harry, Ron, and Tonks but no one seemed to take all that much interest in them. A Trivialis charm almost always took attention away from most things, but it worked best when there wasn’t something shockingly interesting to begin with, so a Trivialis probably wouldn’t work on Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, or on Hermione Granger, who was reported dead five years ago and was now a vampire, but a Trivialis could manage to dampen the oddity of three faceless, hooded figures.

When they reached the Auror department doors, they were let through before the doors were sealed shut once more.

Tonks sighed with relief, immediately separating herself from them to attend to her duties.

Seamus met them on their way to Harry’s desk just as Hermione, Lucien and Solomon pushed off their cowls.

“Turner and Roberts are ready for you, Harry,” said Seamus. “Who would you like to interrogate first?”

Harry gave it a brief thought. “I’ll be by Roberts, first. Get the preliminaries out of the way.”

Seamus nodded. He turned to the rest of Harry’s companions. “Ron, can you lead everyone to the debriefing rooms?”

“Yeah, sure. Are Charlie and Ginny there yet?”

“They are. Listen, Hermione, a few of the Quill Pushers aren’t keen about debriefing you vamps… they’re sort of afraid that you’d rip their throats out in the middle of the interview,”

Hermione smirked, planting a hand to her hip. “We get that a lot.”

“Er… yeah. What I’m trying to say is I think they’d feel more comfortable if Ron kept each of you company while you’re being debriefed.”

Ron rolled his eyes at this but said nothing.

Hermione shrugged a shoulder. “That’s fine. Whatever.”

“You’re being unusually accommodating,” said Seamus.

“Well,” began Lucien. “She finally got laid, Cho’s gone from Grimmauld Place, and armed combat always makes her a tad congenial.”

Hermione stepped on his foot. “Once again, why does everyone think my private life open for discussion?”

Solomon affected surprise. “What, didn’t you get the memo?”

Seamus nudged Harry on the ribs and wiggled his eyebrows. “Oh-ho, Potter. You two back together, eh? Not entirely surprised, really.”

Harry scowled. “There are a hoard of reporters outside who would kill for that sort of headline so if you don’t mind, shut-it, alright? And that goes for you two, as well.” He shot Lucien and Solomon piercing looks.

“Fine, oh alpha of our alpha,” Lucien said.

Hermione scowled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? He’s not—“

Harry sighed exasperatedly, too harried to deal with the dysfunctional issues he and Hermione had amidst their budding relationship. He nudged Ron and Hermione towards the right direction. “Go already. I need for you to do what you came here to do. Help me out, alright? I have to work.” He cast a pleading look at them.

Hermione rolled her eyes and let Ron gently usher her along, Lucien and Solomon following them.

“Well, you seem to have a handle on her,” Seamus said when they were a fair distance away.

Harry felt the irritation in him well unbidden. He grimaced, sighed with annoyance and said, “Whatever you do, don’t ever let her hear you say that!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry flipped through Roberts’s personnel file as he glanced surreptitiously at Jeremy Roberts. Harry’s first suspect was seated on the lone chair in the room, the back and arm rests of the chair leaving the man no choice but to face forward. The room was dimly lit but for the soft spotlight trained to the chair from above it. A marbleized sphere the size of a human head sat on a pedestal in one of the room’s corners. There was no other furnishing or décor. There was no table. There were no windows. The door leading in and out of the room was nondescript, almost blending into the maddeningly plain beige of the walls. The chair faced the barest wall of all. Not a speck of dust clung to it. Not a single distinguishing mark marred its perfect surface.

Any Auror knew that that same wall was glamoured to appear solid. It was a one-way glamour, on the other side of which investigating Aurors and the head of the department, Kingsley Shacklebolt would be watching the interrogation taking place, assessing the situation to better break the suspect.

In the Wizarding world, suspects didn’t get lawyers unless they asked for one. They were, of course, told that they could employ an attorney and have such attorney present in all interviews and meetings, but they could wave the right, and that was permissible under Wizarding law. Representation only became mandatory upon the onset of the Accused’s trial. It wasn’t a perfect system, but there weren’t that many defense lawyers in the Wizarding world to begin with. The few who pursued careers in law were either amazingly brilliant or painfully incompetent. There wasn’t a middle ground, or if there was, they were probably the incompetent ones grown better by experience, or as the case may be, by “Trial and error; more of the latter than the former.” At any rate, Wizards didn’t like lawyers in general. Lawyers had very Muggle roots, and for that alone, a lot of Wizards were wary about the concept of entrusting one’s defense to someone else.

Roberts waved his right to representation.

Harry could see it wasn’t helping Roberts that he knew what was behind that wall.

All Aurors were trained to hide their nervousness, and a good number seem to master the techniques involved, but a lot of these so-called masters had “tells” anyway, like how a poker player would have that barely discernible twitching of the eye, or a soft foot-tapping beneath the table. Some Aurors have tells more subtle than others. Roberts belonged to the “others”.

Harry could make out the slightest twitching of Roberts’s big toe under the cover of his boot. Harry would wager his wand arm that the man had a coin stuck beneath his big toe. It was a common enough technique, passed on from one Auror-in-training to another. The presence of the coin centered all nervous ticks on the big toe hidden by one’s shoe. It was effective enough if the observer didn’t know where to look.

Too bad for Roberts, Harry was really good at his job.

“How’s it going, Roberts?” asked Harry, his tone calm and casual as he leaned back against the wall looking at Roberts’s file.

Roberts’s gaze shifted to him but he maintained his relatively relaxed posture.

Harry could see Roberts’s tell twitching a bit more. The nervous tick didn’t mean Roberts was guilty, of course. Most persons made to sit in the interrogation chair felt unnerved, whether they were guilty or not, but it was always to the interrogator’s advantage when he knew his subject had a predisposition to crack.

“Fine, Mr. Potter,” said Roberts.

Harry paused before cocking a tiny smile. “You don’t have to call me Mr. Potter. You never did until today.”

Roberts was only behind Harry in the academy by a few weeks and they had interacted a few times while in training. They practically left Auror training camp together. Harry knew Roberts looked at him with the same aggravating awe most Aurors in the department had, so Harry wasn’t going to let anyone in the department get away with calling him “Mister.”

A faint flush colored Roberts’s cheeks. “Sorry. I just—I’m a little confused, is all. Why am I here? Have I done something wrong?”

Harry closed the folder in his hand and crossed his arms over his chest. He showed very little emotion beyond quiet anticipation. “Maybe. That’s something I’m trying to find out, now.”

Roberts frowned, withdrawing into thought, as if he was looking back on his own memories. Finally, after a moment’s silence, he looked up. “I haven’t done anything.”

Harry gave a mild, one-shouldered shrug as he paced lightly across the room, glancing briefly at the one-way wall as he went. “You’ve conducted an interrogation before, Roberts. What do you think my first question will be?”

Roberts eyed him warily before replying. “You’re going to ask me where I was and what I was doing on a given date and time.”

Harry cracked another tiny smile and nodded. “Sixth of October, between three PM and your next shift the following day.”

Roberts’s brows furrowed, thinking. “I went to work… my shift was at two. I left a little after five…”

“Why the early leave?”

“I felt…” His brows furrowed again. “… odd. I think I had a temperature. I figured since my shift with Draco Malfoy was over, I’d go home.”

Harry chose his words carefully. “And so you left in the middle of your shift without telling anyone?”

“I—yes. I forgot, I suppose. I was feeling really bad.”

Harry pondered this a moment, keeping his eyes trained to Roberts thoughtfully. Under his ponderous stare, Roberts seemed to grow agitated. “Roberts, you have a rather excellent record here in the Ministry, and you didn’t have bad marks in the academy, either. I looked your records over and I have no reason to believe that the favorable reviews by your colleagues are wrong. I’ve never seen you skip a day of work; I’ve seen you come in for work wounded from a previous night’s raid; you have a reputation for being dependable; and quite frankly, you’re about as strong as a bull. I’m finding it rather… hard to believe that you’d walk out of work barely four hours into your shift because you felt ‘odd’ and not tell anyone you’re leaving. At the very least, you should have left a note with Shacklebolt’s assistant.”

“You’re questing. You have nothing on me.”

This was true, but Harry wasn’t rattled. This was common enough during interrogations. Questions were built from answers, and answers were always one nudge closer to the truth. Harry’s only just begun. He still had plenty of time.

“I’ll give you a moment,” Harry said calmly, heading for the door. “We’ve a long night ahead of us.”

“Are they going to send in the bad cop now?” mumbled Roberts.

Harry chuckled. “I think it’s going to take more than a bad cop to scare you, but in case you’re wondering, I’m afraid I’m all you’ve got, boring as that may be. I’ll see you in a while, Roberts.”

Harry left the room and conferred with Shacklebolt, Moody and Seamus from the other side of the wall.

Roberts was still seated and he was frowning to himself. His eyes shifted to his left as he stared at the ground, his toe twitching more apparent now.

“Well?” Harry asked them.

“Either he’s a really good liar or he’s telling the truth.” Seamus said.

Harry turned to Moody and Shacklebolt, staring at them inquiringly.

Shacklebolt glanced back at Roberts. “Hard to say at this stage, I suppose.”

“I couldn’t pin point what’s wrong with him,” Moody said, swaying on his wooden leg. “It seems like he’s telling the truth but… there’s something…”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “Something. We’ll give him some time to stew. Where’s Turner?”

“Interrogation room F. Bloke’s a nervous wreck. Been smoking nonstop,” said Seamus.

“Smoking?”

“Cigarettes.”

“Muggle cigarettes?”

“Yes.”

“Cor. When did he find the time to pick up the habit? He’s barely out of Hogwarts…”

“Said he got it from his mum.”

They trouped to Turner’s room and sure enough, when Harry entered the interrogation room, it was filled with cigarette smoke. The smoke raked up Harry’s nostrils and irritated his nasal passages, causing his eyes to water. Harry had to cast a spell that would keep the smoke away from his face.

The room was exactly identical to that of Roberts’s.

Turner held an ashtray gingerly in one hand and a cigarette in another. His pack of Marlboro lights and the tiny matchbook that accompanied it sat on the floor by his feet.

His cigarette was at its end, nearing the filter, and while his hands were relatively steady, the fact that he was smoking at all spoke volumes.

He set the ashtray down and took his pack from the floor. Flipping the pack over, he shook a stick out with a deft maneuver and took the highest protruding stick between his lips. He used the lit stub of his last cigarette to light the new one. Blowing the smoke out between his lips while still holding the cigarette in his mouth, he set his pack back down, picked up the ashtray and got rid of the fag.

Harry blinked the last remnants of smoke from his eyes. “Blimey.”

“S-Sorry,” said Turner. “Bad habit. I’ve tried to quit. The patch was working, I swear, but this… well, I thought I’d smoke again just this once.”

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose, assessing Turner for a few seconds. Sometimes, the really fidgety and nervous ones were harder to decipher than the calm, quiet blokes. “My name’s Harry Potter, we spoke briefly on the Hogwarts Express, after we were attacked—“

“Merlin knows you don’t have to introduce yourself Mr. Potter—“

Harry cleared his throat. “It’s just Potter, actually. Do you know why you’re here, Turner?”

“No. How would I? No one’s told me a bloody thing. They sent my friends over to my flat to pick me up in the dead of night. They said I’m a suspect and that they have to haul me in. They didn’t even tell me what crime I’m being accused of!”

“You’re not being accused yet,” Harry said. He glanced at Turner’s file. “You asked for representation.”

Turner nodded, blowing out smoke.

“Are you afraid, Turner? Is that why you need an attorney?”

The marble at the corner of the room crackled slightly and spoke. “You don’t have to answer that, Stuart.”

Harry cracked a lopsided grin. “How’s it going Macmillan?”

“Fine, Potter. You?”

“Perfect. I’ll be right out to process your papers. Just give me a second.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Harry looked at Turner. “You’ve been implicated in the attack of the Hogwarts Express. That’s why you’re here.”

Turner’s eyes widened, his hand shaking slightly. “But I—I was on that train!”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make you innocent. Not in the least.”

“I still have nightmares about that assignment!”

“Potter,” came Ernie Macmillan’s voice. “That’s enough for now, alright?”

Harry smirked slightly, turning to the door. “You understand, Turner, that I’ll be harder on you because you have representation.”

Turner said nothing as Harry left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry stared at Roberts intently, watching the man’s face as it once again fell into confusion.

An hour and a half had passed since Harry first asked Roberts where he was the night of the train attack, and while Roberts had stuck to his basic story, details were beginning to get a bit blurry between noon of October sixth to ten AM the following day, when he woke up with an almost blinding headache.

In any other instance, it would have been a strong indication of lying, but there was something about Roberts that was compelling Harry to actually think the confusion was not Roberts’s doing.

Harry was beginning to get a sinking suspicion that Roberts had gotten used.

“How’s your social life going, by the way?” Harry asked, predictably startling Roberts into a few seconds of silence.

“Alright,” Roberts replied. Even if he probably thought that this was completely irrelevant to the interview, Harry could see that Roberts was thankful for the respite from restyled questions that asked the same thing over and over.

The new line of questioning wasn’t random. Harry had a theory, and this was how he was going to pursue it. ”Seeing anyone, lately?”

“Well I—no one steady, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Go out on a lot of dates, then?”

Roberts thought about it for a few seconds before he gave a soft, derisive chuckle. “I wouldn’t say a lot… I’m not exactly reeling them in…”

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Works better that way, then. You remember every single one of their names?”

A flush colored Roberts’s pale cheeks. “Of course.”

“Who were most memorable to you?”

Roberts frowned. “Look here, that’s perso—“

“Not in this room it isn’t. Who were most memorable to you?”

Shooting Harry a daggered look, Roberts talked about Electra Swansea, Pippa Anderson and Lynette Moore.

Electra was an Antique books trader. Pippa was a dressmaker and Lynette was a Muggle physical trainer.

“How’d you meet them?” asked Harry.

Pippa was the dressmaker who mended his Auror robes, and having shown an interest in Aurors, Roberts had found the courage to ask her out for dinner. As it turned out, she was pleasant company. She was interesting, intelligent and he would have liked to see her again, but she had just gone through a bad relationship and was not so eager to jump back into another one. They were still “friends”, but Roberts hadn’t asked her out again, even though he wanted to.

Lynette, the physical trainer had approached him. She asked him out. She picked the place. She told him she didn’t eat meat. She told him a whole lot of things. He had been a bit too overwhelmed to tell her anything. He felt that if he said anything, she would punch him on the jaw and knock him out.

“I swear, her arms were bigger than mine,” Roberts said, blinking dazedly at the mere memory.

Harry pondered this. “My girlfriend could punch me on the jaw and knock me out. Heck, she can beat the crap out of half a dozen men with one hand tied behind her back…”

Roberts stared at him in surprise.

“Her arms aren’t bigger than mine, though,” Harry continued. “They’re quite delicate, actually. So you forget that she can do that sort of thing.”

“Umm, that’s nice…”

“Yeah, real handy in a fight. How about Electra? You haven’t told us about her.”

At the mention of Electra’s name, a deep flush rose in Roberts’s cheeks. “The collector… well, she’s—erm, what I mean to say is…”

“Best lay you’ve had in years?”

Roberts’s eyes widened, as if amazed that Harry understood.

“I’m a bit partial to bookworms myself,” Harry said nonchalantly. “How did you meet Electra?”

“B-Blind date.”

“Ah… now we’re getting somewhere. Who arranged the date for you?”

“Friend of mine.”

“You have to be more specific than that, Roberts.”

Roberts swallowed, growing quiet. “Umm… well…”

Harry waited.

Finally, Roberts looked resigned to the fact that unless he answered the question, neither of them was going to leave the room. “Turner. Stuart Turner.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Potter! Potter, put him down this instant!”

Harry could hear Ernie Macmillan’s voice through the marbleized globe at the corner of the room, but it really didn’t do much to intimidate him into putting Turner back down. He had hoisted Turner off his seat by casting a simple levitation spell by the collar of his shirt, but Turner was terrified and he wasn’t doing anything to fight the spell off.

The floor was littered with cigarette ash, burnt out fags and the smoldering remains of Turner’s last stick.

Harry wasn’t going to hurt Turner. If he did, it would jeopardize any case they might have against him, but he could certainly scare the little twit if he had to.

Ernie was an excellent lawyer, and he would defend Turner to the best of his abilities, but the thing Harry liked most about Ernie was the man’s understanding of the present situation; the war as it was happening around them. He was a lawyer, but he thought like a soldier, too. While Ernie wouldn’t hesitate to slap charges on Harry for manhandling a suspect, nor would he compromise his client’s chance for a case dismissal grounded on cruel and unnecessary force under detention, he was always willing to issue warnings before he did it.

“I swear to you, Potter!” Ernie said in a commanding tone. “If you don’t set him down now, I’m going to have his case dismissed so fast that you’ll be reeling from it until next week!”

Harry dropped Turner back into his seat. He didn’t need to hurt Turner any more than he already has. Turner was ready to piss his pants.

Turner’s hands were trembling and he struggled to get one of the last two cigarettes in his pack. He dropped the sliver twice and his matchbook was down to its final stick.

Harry lifted Turner’s gaze with a subtle nudging spell. “Where did you meet Electra Swansea, Turner?” His intensely penetrating gaze had Turner blinking and desperate to pull away.

“E-Electra?”

“Come now, Turner. You can’t seriously be thinking of denying you know the woman.”

“I don’t—I wasn’t going to deny—I know Electra, but only by acquaintance, I swear! I know nothing about her!”

“You usually set your friends up with women you know nothing about, Turner? Rather mean of you, don’t you think?”

“Set… oh! I—yes. I mean, no! I just—my girlfriend… well, she isn’t my girlfriend… but I really fancy her—“

Harry shook his head. He swore that women were completely aware of the power they had over their men, and while many of them weren’t so cruel as to abuse this power, they used it when they deemed it necessary, and men could only guard themselves against it to a certain extent. “You fancied Electra?”

“No!” Turner cried. “I fancy this girl, see. Her name’s Brittany Watson. She works as a restorer for the British Museum’s Magical Artifacts division and Electra’s someone she’d been dealing with for quite some time, now… Electra sells and buys old books, see, and Brittany’s… well, she and Electra talk every now and then. Electra happened to mention than she was single and looking….” At this, Turner’s brows furrowed. “It wasn’t like a conspiracy, Mr. Potter! Brittany had a friend, I had a friend… we thought we’d set them up! That’s all! And from what Roberts has told me, it worked out pretty well… they went out a few more times after that…”

“It worked out well, alright,” Harry grumbled. “She screwed all of you sideways. At any rate, you better be telling the truth, Turner. I’m going to confirm everything you said, I promise you.”

Turner begged him to leave Brittany alone but Harry ignored him as he stormed out of the room. Slamming the door behind him, he told Seamus to haul in Ms. Brittany Watson and check up on Electra Swansea.

“I reckon it’s not her true name or identity,” Harry said. “But she might have left some kind of trail anyway.”

Seamus nodded, taking off to do his work.

Ernie frowned. “I hate it when you push it, Potter. You know I do.” With that, he stalked into the interrogation room to talk to Stuart who was trembling on his seat.

Shacklebolt and Moody engaged him in discussion.

“What’s the theory, Potter?” Shacklebolt asked.

“Roberts is the key,” Harry said. “I think his memory’s been tampered with. He’s quite sure about what he remembers of that that day, but there are gaps that even he couldn’t quite puzzle out. That headache of his cinched it. All of it is common enough occurrences in memory alteration, isn’t it?”

Moody nodded. “I thought as much.”

“I’m thinking Roberts’s was incapacitated around noon that day of the train attack; before he went to work. There are no signs of him being Imperiused and judging by his account, staying at home and in bed all night, I think they had him Stupefied from noon until ten AM the next day. When he woke up, they altered his memory from the time they Stupefied him up to that very moment he was awakened, and then they left him in his flat to go about the rest of his life as normal as he pleased.”

There was hardly any question as to who “they” were.

“Feasible,” Shacklebolt said. “But why let him keep memories about going to work? Why couldn’t they have just let him call in sick?”

“Because they needed him to be at work.”

“Then why Stupefy him in the first place?”

“Because someone else was at work for him,” Moody supplied.

Harry nodded. He knew Moody would catch on. He’d been the victim of the same ruse, after all.

“Polyjuiced,” Moody continued. “They Polyjuiced him. Why the girl, though? They could have just taken a few hairs off him when they had him Stupefied.”

Harry smiled slightly. “They needed to know about him; his schedule; his habits. If they were going to alter his memory, they needed it to be as familiar to him and everyone else as possible. They hadn’t counted on Roberts getting assigned to something else that day… careless of them, but good for us, I suppose.”

It was, perhaps, the one thing that bothered Harry. Everything else had seemed so carefully planned, yet whoever it was that had impersonated Roberts hadn’t been meticulous enough to do a simple punch-out from work and leave a quickly scribbled note of “Feeling ill. Leaving work early. Signed, Roberts,” with Shacklebolt’s assistant.

Maybe he forgot in his hurry to get away…?

Or maybe not…

Harry frowned.

“You understand this means we have something on Draco Malfoy,” Shacklebolt said gravely. “The only reason they would Polyjuice Roberts was to get to Malfoy, and seeing as Malfoy isn’t dead, it’s likely that he’s working with them.”

Harry thought as much and some part of him felt oddly… disappointed about the confirmation. “Yes, he ought to be questioned, but I’ll do so in the capacity of the Order. If they’ve been using Draco as a mole, we might need him as bait, and I don’t want to have to go through on-record red-tape to make him one. It’s bad enough that we’ve been infiltrated in this manner. The more this is off-the-record, the better we can swing this, don’t you agree?”

Shacklebolt and Moody looked at each other a moment before nodding.

“Very well then. I’ll keep this off the records for now,” Shacklebolt said. “But I’ll have to keep Turner and Roberts detained until we’re done using Draco.”

“That’s fine. They might have to know why they’re being kept, though. If we’re right about all this, they didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’ll take care of them,” said Shacklebolt. “You do what you have to do, Potter.”

Nodding, Harry headed back out to the floor. He checked his pocket watch. It was almost four in the morning. It would be sunup soon, but it was enough time for him to sneak in some minutes alone with Hermione before he went back to work.

He found her, Ron, Lucien and Solomon waiting for him at his desk. Nearby, Seamus was scribbling furiously on some forms and sending out inter-office paper airplanes to various people in the Ministry.

“How was the debriefing?” Harry asked Hermione, taking his desk seat as he stifled a weary sigh. She was leaning on the edge of his desk beside his seat, the proximity of her calming him already.

Solomon smirked. “Fine. The interviewer only wet his trousers once.”

Lucien laughed.

Harry eyed them suspiciously. “You’re serious?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “No. He’s kidding. It went relatively well. The interviewer looked like he was going to hurl a couple of times—in terror, you understand, but he held his own admirably. He got through the entire thing in once piece. Hermione played nice.”

Hermione frowned. “Of course I did! I don’t toy with people, you know! Stop confusing me with Yasmin! I’m not like her!”

Harry could see that her aggravation were real, not affected. He rubbed the back of her thigh discreetly to sooth her. “We know you aren’t. Ron was just teasing.”

This seemed to calm her down, and the apologetic look Ron cast at her helped, too.

“It’s almost sunrise,” she said. “We should be heading back to Grimmauld Place if there’s nothing else left to do here.”

Harry nodded. “Let me just find Remus. I’ve a quick question for him, then we can go. Ron, think you can grab Tonks for a bit for the return trip?”

Ron glanced around the room and spotted Tonks a few desks away. “Be right back.” He left to get Tonks.

“Everything alright, Harry?” Hermione asked as he rose to start looking for Remus.

Harry smiled wearily. “Yeah… I’m just—well, frankly I’m feeling rather out of sorts. Malfoy’s just been implicated as the mole.”

A twinge of pain passed across Lucien’s face when he heard it, but he said nothing, his pale cheeks burning at the fresh memories.

Hermione seemed unmoved at first, then her gaze softened. “You’ll tell me all about it later, when we get back to the house?”

“Yes. I see Remus right now. Give me a few minutes.” He gave her hand a squeeze before leaving to meet Remus across the room.

They sought a relatively private area and Harry cast subtle wards around them.

“Is the staff in the Department of Mysteries?” Harry asked.

Remus nodded. “Yes. We need a few hours yet to make sure that the Strigoi is starving enough to want the essence in the staff. We’ll probably destroy the staff sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

“Whatever you do, don’t open the case without me. The chamber will need special warding to contain the effects of the staff… this thing isn’t like the others, Remus. It’s alive and it’s dangerous. Hermione said I neutralized it somehow when I… had my encounter with it, but it might have just been weakened, and it could have regained its strength between then and now.”

“I understand. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

“Thanks, Remus.”

They separated, and by the time Harry got back to his desk, Tonks and Ron were already there.

Pulling their cowls back on, the three vampires fell into step behind Harry and they braved the press once more, reemerged in Muggle London and left from the nearest Apparating point.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As they filed back into the Grimmauld Place living room, Tonks turned to Harry pointedly.

“Are you still going to question Malfoy tonight?”

Harry cracked a tired, lopsided smile. “Yes. More than ever. He’s been implicated.”

Bitter disappointment flashed in Tonks’s eyes. “I see. You going to tell me ‘I told you so?’”

“It’s not like that,” Harry said, and he was surprised to note that he meant it. “I’m not glad that I might be right, Tonks.”

She expelled a breath and nodded. “So you’re still going to keep this inquisition off-the-record?”

“I have to.” He didn’t have to explain to Tonks why.

Tonks stared at him a moment before turning to head for the stairs. “Are you going to take my advice, Potter?”

“Maybe.”

“Good enough. I’ll be in Remus’s study if anyone needs me.” She left.

Ron’s eyebrow arched. “Are you going to do this alone…?”

“Yeah.”

Ron patted his shoulder on his way to the stairs. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry. I’m turning in. Unlike some people, I like to sleep while the sun’s still down.”

Hermione bumped him gently with her shoulder as he passed her and he laughed softly before leaving. She told Solomon and Lucien to go ahead without her.

They obeyed without a word.

He remained silent for some time until Hermione stepped close and touched his jaw, eyeing his face appraisingly. He wondered if she was going to kiss him, and perhaps he was expecting it, because he was surprised when she took his hand and pulled him up the stairs. “Come on.”

He pushed back the wave of anticipation her invitation caused him. “Hermione, we can’t right now. I’ve loads of things to do—“

“Shut up, Potter. I’m not going to shag you. Well… not yet, at least. At this time, you need a shave, and I’m going to take care of that for you.”

“What—“

“Hush.”

He obeyed and he took a moment to be utterly amused by this idea. “I don’t use those commercial, ‘safety’ razors, you know. It’s not something readily available in Wizard Drugstores, if you know what I mean.”

“I know that, Harry,” she said, entering his room. “Now, please take that chair and bring it to the bathroom.”

He laughed softly and did as he was told. He set the chair down in front of the full length mirror and began to remove the upper layers of his clothing, stripping down to his undershirt. Several moments later she came in with two face towels. She had loosened her blouse from her trousers and had popped a few more buttons open. If he looked a certain angle, he could see the slight swell of her breasts and the lace of her bra. She was barefoot and her toenails were painted red.

Lord, she’s sexy…

Her eyebrow arched. “What?”

“Nothing. Just enjoying the view.”

She smiled a bit sheepishly, letting her gaze go over him. “So am I.”

Just a bit closer and I could grab her, then, oh, maybe… what’s the word? Ravish her. Yes. Ravish would be a good way to describe what I want to do to her right NOW.

But perhaps she saw the look in his eyes and she smirked mischievously, keeping her distance as she primly folded the towels and placed them on the counter.

She opened the medicine cabinet and spotted the tub of shaving cream. She took it and gave it a quick examination.

She chuckled and held up the product. “Geo F. Trumper’s rose?”

He cleared his throat, flushing as all lewd thought left him in his mild embarrassment. “It smells good.”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed. I’m impressed, actually. It’s a right classy brand. Makes you quite the English gentleman.”

“Yes, well…”

She began to bustle about. She let the faucet on the sink run until the water was warm then she plugged up the basin, filling it a quarter to the brim. Taking the shaving brush, she soaked it in its warm bath for several seconds before taking it out and shaking it lightly of its excess water. Carefully, she took a fingertip’s dollop of the cream and wiped it on the bristles of the brush.

“Splash some hot water on your face then sit back and relax,” she said as she lathered the cream in a mug.

Grinning, he did as he was told and he sat himself down.

She stood in front of him, nudging his legs further apart so she could stand between them.

He placed his hands on her hips and tilted his gaze up to her. “You’re amazing. Do you know that?”

She began to brush the shaving cream on his face with gentle circular motions. “No one’s said it to me quite like that.”

He could feel the brush strokes on the underside of his jaw. “Quite like how?”

“Just… like that. Like I can be doing the most ordinary thing and you’d be… saying it like you mean it.”

He rubbed her hips. “I do mean it.”

“I know. That’s why it’s so special.”

On any other day, he would be wondering if she was being sarcastic, but at that moment, he detected the softness behind the ferocious rings of her eyes. He caught the tiniest smile just before she finished with the cream and turned away.

She went to the counter and set the brush and mug aside to pick up the ebony handle straight-edged razor. “Face forward, Potter.”

He did and he saw that the cream was a thick opaque lather on his face and neck. Behind him, she draped the towel on her arm as she flipped the razor open. Gingerly, she encircled him with her arms, tilted his head back a bit, and began to shave the underside of his jaw. The feel of the blade against his skin was smooth and sure. She finished with the first pass, cleaned the blade off on the basin of water and wiped the razor dry on her towel deftly before running the blade over his skin again.

After the second pass, she gently pushed some hair off his forehead with her fingers. She looked at him through the mirror. “Are you going to talk to me or what?” she asked with a cock of her eyebrow.

He smiled slightly, taking her free hand and holding it lightly over his chest.

Harry felt that things were beginning to move faster now. There was hardly any time to waste talking about feelings, but there was something ineffably Hermione in the way she was going about it, easing him; showing him she cared very deeply. She was grooming him; it was a primal ritual, and the fact that he could sit there, his vampire girlfriend holding a razor in her hand, and trusting her unconditionally with it, was wicked, sexy and heart-wrenching all at once.

She cleaned the blade and continued to shave.

“All these years, I’ve never trusted Malfoy,” he began wearily. “I always thought of him as some enemy, and that by keeping him close, I could watch him; make sure that he doesn’t fuck it up for everyone. I never ever thought he could be redeemed. But I suppose… I suppose five years of close proximity with him had its effect on me, after all, much as I hate to admit it. Maybe some form of trust has… spawned in some dark, moldy corner of my mind…”

“It’s not in your nature to foster hatred and distrust, Harry,” she told him gently, tilting his head one way so she could shave the side of his face properly.

“Is that what it is, then?” he asked, cocking a wan grin. “I thought maybe it was my saving people thing… thought perhaps I could beat Draco into some kind of… well, I don’t know, really. Everyone needs saving at some point. I just don’t know from what with Draco.”

“Perhaps you wanted to save him from himself,” Hermione supplied, cleaning the blade off, drying it and proceeded to shave his other side.

He laughed softly. “Yeah, something like that. I guess you hear enough hero stories about yourself, you begin to believe the bullcrap…”

She clasped his shoulder then very carefully did his chin. “There’s a lot more to it than just wanting to redeem Draco, Harry. Even if you wanted that, you aren’t naïve enough to completely set your hopes on it. We all have a reason to want to make angels of demons. I do it because I believe that if I can look past people’s faults, then everyone else is capable of looking past mine, and perhaps I can convince them and myself that I’m still human inside, even if I’m this way…”

“Hermione—“

“Let me finish,” she said gently, working on his upper lip. “Your saving people thing, Harry… it’s part of it, but there’s something deeper that drives this particular situation with Draco and, as you mentioned before, Snape. Dumbledore believed in them. He believed in Draco and in Snape, and so you don’t want Dumbledore to be wrong. You need for him to be right, because if he’s right, then it’s reassurance that all this, from the day Dumbledore died up to now… it’s still part of Dumbledore’s plans, and that he hasn’t completely abandoned you just yet. You said so yourself, Harry… you sometimes think Dumbledore was begging Snape to kill him that night. If that’s true, and Snape and Draco are trustworthy, then Dumbledore wouldn’t have died in vain. He had a reason, and it’s to help the right side win this war…”

Harry expelled a breath as he absorbed her words. He could say that it might have helped them better if Dumbledore had lived and stayed, but after all he’d been through, he knew that things weren’t quite so black and white. “What am I going to do if Draco is a traitor? Does it mean all hope is lost?”

“You’re made of stronger stuff than that, Harry.” Her tone was scolding, mildly disdainful, and he couldn’t miss the hardening of her gaze, just on the edge of disappointment in case he failed her by submitting to his insecurities.

He smiled sheepishly and nodded, properly chastised. “Yes, I am.”

She squeezed his shoulder again and cleaned off the blade before pulling the plug on the sink to drain it of its dirty water. She turned the water on cold. “Clean up.”

He did, and when all the cream was gone, she patted his face dry and coaxed him to sit back down. He did without protest.

This time she straddled him, sitting comfortably on his lap to gently massage moisturizing cream on his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of her gentle hands and the weight of her on him.

She finished her massage with a slow, languid kiss, her arms snaking possessively around his neck. Now he was really enjoying himself, and he realized that between stirring shaving cream and kissing him, she had worked something else into a fine lather.

A voice inside him was saying that he couldn’t possibly do right by her. There were important things to accomplish. He wanted to give her the loving she deserved, when there was more time to give the loveliest parts of her the proper attention. He thought maybe he should stop; save it for another time; a better time, but the swirling of their tongues was wreaking havoc on his willpower.

His hand slid to her bum and he squeezed, eliciting a soft moan from her.

He couldn’t possibly stop after that.

She pulled back, only to get pulled back in, his lips insistent on keeping contact.

“Bet you don’t get this sort of thing at the barbershop,” she said between kisses.

“I don’t think I’d like this treatment quite as much from the stodgy old man who cuts my hair,” he said, pulling her closer so she would be pressing on his hardness.

She gave a soft laugh, her hips rocking against him.

A guttural groan rose out of him involuntarily. He began to undo the buttons of her top while his lips traced the underside of her jaw. She made a soft sound of approval and her blouse fell open. Her black lacey bra was made of a thin, see-through material, and he loved it.

“We shouldn’t be doing this, you know,” he whispered whilst pressing his cheek and brushing his lips on her breasts. “I have responsibilities…”

“Well,” she whispered back, biting his ear lightly. “So do I, the most important one being my responsibility to keep the leader of the Order sane and happy, at least in the next five minutes.”

“Five minutes!” He laughed softly, sliding his fingers up her spine to undo the clasps of her bra. “That sounds dreadful. I know you want it to last a bit longer than that.”

“Only if you want it to.”

The clasp clicked free under his fingers. “Oh, baby, you know I want it to.” The bra fell away and in the next few seconds, he was a bit too preoccupied with her breasts to speak.

The happy little sigh that escaped her was intensely stimulating, and he closed his eyes, letting sound and touch stir his desire. It didn’t take much. He was just aching to fill her, his cock hard enough against her to make her know it.

She leaned back as she rocked to a sensual cadence.

“I don’t think you’re helping my sanity any,” he said in a voice hoarse with need. He undid her belt, and with a quick spell, he loosened her knickers and trousers so she didn’t have to move so far to get them off.

“Oh, but you’re quite obviously happy,” she breathed, eyeing the front of his trousers while slipping nimbly out of her trappings.

“Deliriously,” he murmured as he pulled her back on his lap.

They shared an intensely heated kiss and he marveled at how perfect her skin was beneath his palms; how all traces of battle had disappeared. She was pale and flawless, like alabaster, but pressed against him, she was alive, soft, and yes, even warm.

She pushed away from him to coax him out of his shirt and he pulled his shirt over his head while her hands undid his belt and trousers.

He struggled a bit, pushing his trousers off, and she helped him. He’d only pushed his trousers down partway when she thrust her hips, taking him into her.

There was just no thinking about details after that.

She was moving so wonderfully against him, and he could do nothing but let her.

Hands to her hips, he trailed his lips and tongue along her neck and shoulders. She whispered encouragement in his ear as he whispered appreciation right back.

For several minutes, that was all they did. Whispering heated nothings to each other as he admired parts of her with the touch of his hands, lips and tongue.

She was lovely, and brilliant, and oh so wicked. He marveled at how this witch was his, and how glad he was that he was hers.

He shifted his hips, and the warmth surrounding his cock felt even more amazing.

Reaching between them, he made gentle circles on her clit. The sound that escaped her was so erotic that he touched her more insistently. The rhythm of her thrusts changed, and oh, how he loved it.

Her pheromones kicked in. She gasped his name, her hands gripping his shoulders.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer so that her breasts were pressed against him. He clamped his mouth on the side of her neck, rasping his teeth against the tender flesh then laving the spot with his tongue.

The moan that escaped her was a sound he lived for.

Looking over her shoulder as he sucked gently on her skin, he saw them on the mirror. It was beyond hot. The gentle ripple of feminine muscle and bone at her back, the sultry curls of her hair, the movement of her hips, and seeing full well exactly what it was they were doing was mind blowing.

His fingers worked faster in response and she gasped in approval.

Her next thrust had him pushing right back; once, twice and she tightened around him just when his own waves of pleasure rushed through his body in wonderful release.

The next few seconds passed in blissful recovery.

Coherent thought crept back into his mind and he began to make sense of her satiated purring as she sat slumped against him on the chair.

His breathing wasn’t quite even yet, but it wasn’t laborious. She had, after all, done most of the work, but judging by the placid smile on her face, she wasn’t going to complain about it.

“Hmm. Wasn’t that nice?” she said.

“Nice? Try amazing.” He kissed her lips softly, running his fingers through the luscious strands of her curls.

She smiled between kisses. “That, too…”

They snogged lightly for a few more minutes before she finally pulled away.

The separation left him forlorn, but someone had to get a move on if they were going to get out of that chair at all.

He pulled his trousers back on as she dressed. When she was done, she looked wonderfully disheveled.

He helped her put away the shaving materials as they left to head out of his room. It was still dark out, but she hadn’t forgotten that he still had things to do.

She stopped at the threshold of his door and gave him a gentle kiss. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Are you kidding? I feel like a million galleons right now.”

She chuckled softly. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded.

They stared at one another for a few more indulgent moments before she bid him a good morning and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco was understandably scowling something fierce when he opened the door to his bedroom.

Harry barged right in, shooting Draco a warning look as he went. He held a bottle of Ogden’s and two shot glasses. He went to the tea table by the window and sat on one of the chairs.

Why Draco bothered to have a set like it in his room, Harry never bothered to find out, but now that he was there, he had to ask.

“What’s with this tea table, Malfoy?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m just curious.”

Draco did not stop scowling. “It was there when I got here, Potter. And frankly, I could’ve had a pink canopied bed and I still wouldn’t give a shit. This house is a temporary arrangement for me. I don’t care if I stay here another ten years. It will keep on being a temporary arrangement for me, so I don’t bloody care what the décor is.”

“Better here than Azkaban, don’t you think?”

Draco snorted. “I don’t know about that. If I had been put away in Azakaban, I would’ve escaped by now.”

Harry gave a soft, derisive chuckle. “Azkaban may not have any Dementors anymore, but it’s a dismal place, Malfoy. You’re kept alone in a cell for years and years, with no one to talk to; not even the guards. You don’t hear who’s in the next cell, or whether there’s somebody there at all. Your whole stay there, they’ll make you think you’re all alone in that miserable, dank, dirty rock. Believe me, Malfoy… there are worse things in this world than Dementors.”

Draco stared at him for several seconds before his gaze shifted to the Ogden’s. “If you came here for another drinking game, then you can bloody well take your whiskey and shove it up your arse. I’m sorry if Granger isn’t fucking you—no wait, that’s changed, hasn’t it?”

Harry was going to pretend he didn’t hear that. “Sit your lily-white arse down and stop whining. I have every reason to grab you by the neck and strangle you right now, but I’m not going to do that. Tonks asked me not to and the lady doesn’t ask for much, after all.”

Draco snorted. “Tonks ain’t no lady.”

Harry glared at him and Draco raised his arms, palms out.

“Her words, not mine.”

Somehow, Harry could believe that, but that didn’t get Draco off the hook. “Sit.”

Shaking his head in resignation, Draco did. He eyed the bottle of firewhiskey distastefully, nudging it slightly away. “What do you want from me, Potter?”

“I’ll ask you questions and I want you to answer them truthfully.”

“I already told you… I’ve never had to lie for anything.”

“Good. Then tell me everything that happened on the sixth of October.”

“Sixth of October?”

“You know… the day we left for Hogwarts.”

At that, Draco’s gaze hardened before it went completely and utterly cold. “What do you think happened?”

Harry chuckled derisively and shook his head. “Don’t give me that bullshit, Malfoy. I’m tired and I’m at the edge of my limit. I could be with Hermione right now instead of being stuck here with you, listening to your Slytherin drivel and not being able to hex you for it because I promised Tonks I’d try to talk to you first before I start beating you for answers with a bludger.”

Draco sneered. “How magnanimous of you.”

“I’m not planning to try very hard.”

Perhaps Draco saw that it wasn’t a bluff. “I went to work then I went straight back to Grimmauld Place. We had dinner together. You know I couldn’t have gone elsewhere.”

“What happened at work?”

Harry saw the flicker of uncertainty and guilt in Draco’s gaze, and it struck Harry as incredible.

Teeth gritted, he stood so suddenly that it knocked his chair back and he reached across the table to grab Draco by the collar of his pajama top.

Draco gave a yell as Harry slammed him back against the wall.

“Don’t pretend you feel guilty about it, Draco, because you feel nothing. You’re a cold, cruel son of a bitch who told the enemy that we were on that train. How did you know? Who told you where we were going and how we were going to get there?”

Draco seemed even more surprised at what Harry had said. He blinked several times before struggling to remove himself from Harry’s clutches. “G-Get off me!”

“You knew where we were going even before I did. Who told you, Malfoy?”

“Nobody told me!” Draco yelled. “I—I just knew alright?”

“What do you mean by that? How can you just know? Who the fuck told you—“

“I SAID NOBODY DID! Goddammit, Potter, let me go!”

“How can you know and not have someone tell you?

“I just know things, alright!”

“How the hell—“

“I just do! I know what to say to hurt a person when they think nothing can hurt them again. I know it when a man is cheating on his wife or that his wife is fucking the gardener. I know you were shoved in a cupboard under the stairs as a child—“

Harry slammed him back against the wall, probably to shut him up, and at that point, Harry felt he wanted to say something, but he wasn’t sure what.

“I see secrets, Potter,” Draco said. “Not all the time, and not when you’re really, really good at keeping them, neither can I do it consciously, but secrets jump at me from people’s subconscious minds. It’s how I can take a knife and twist it into a person’s heart. How do you think I got so good at baiting you and idiot Weasley? How do you—“

“Shut up. Shut up, Malfoy!”

Draco did and Harry had to gather his bearings. He let Draco go and he stepped back. He didn’t even realize he was breathing deeply until he took a moment to calm down.

“You hear secrets…” Harry said in shocked disbelief. “I’ve read about Wizards like you. It’s a rare gift. Almost believed to be a myth. You’re an Inaudio.”

“Yeah, and I feel so special.” Draco sounded anything but. “I suck at it, apparently. I can’t ever reach out and get them, but often, secrets weigh too heavy on some people’s minds, and the mind couldn’t resist relieving itself of some of its burden. People keep some secrets under a tight lid, but there are some secrets that couldn’t be contained. It sees me coming and the secret jumps me. I rarely get the full story, though. It’s usually just an image accompanied by a name, and the rest of it is worked out by my twisted, fucked-up mind. Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Who did you get the secret from, then? About the meeting? And the train?”

Draco swallowed before he replied. “Remus. He was thinking about it all morning that day.”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to let the colossal implications of Draco’s “gift” swallow him whole.

So many secrets. So many…

“All this time…” Harry began, quietly. “All these five fucking years, you son of a—“

“Oy, I could have used those secrets to buy back the favor of your enemies, Potter!” Draco yelled. “But I didn’t do it! I may be a lot of things, Potter, but I’m not stupid. You’re the only thing that stands between me and certain death. Your enemies became my enemies the day I failed to kill Albus Dumbledore, and I believe that the only reason my father is still alive is because he offered up my life in exchange for his.”

“But with the power you have, you’ll be more useful to them alive.”

“Well, they have to know about the gift, first.”

Harry puzzled out what Draco meant for the next two seconds. “You never told your father.”

Draco snorted. “If he knew, he’d be on me so fast… well, I’m not going to be anybody’s cosmic Extendable Ears, if you get what I mean. I rather like keeping this… well, secret. I didn’t tell mum, either, but that’s only because dad would’ve found out from her. It’s not as if I was born with the gift, you see… well, maybe I was, but it only began to manifest itself in spurts when I was thirteen… lucky thirteen. It… developed in the last year, but still, it’s not something I do well.”

Harry paused to consider his words. “You could use your talent to gain back the trust of the Death Eaters.”

Draco eyed him for a moment. “You don’t get it, do you? Why do you think I’ve never told anyone about this? People don’t want their secrets known. Even the most honorable Gryffindor has secrets they’d rather not let the light of day see. Sure, I could be useful to Voldemort now, but one day, he’s going to have a secret he wouldn’t want anyone knowing about, and because he sees the sighted world through his fucked-up, one-eyed view, he’ll think I could use that secret against him, and he’ll kill me. You don’t have to be Voldemort to think that way, either. If it’s not Voldemort, it’s someone else. So where does that leave me? Constantly kissing someone’s arse for protection? It’s not a life I particularly desire, as you might understand.”

“Well, right now, they want you killed anyway.”

Draco shrugged. “That’s a damn shame, but it’s their loss, not mine. I don’t owe them any favors. I work for myself, now. I stopped being loyal to the Dark Lord the moment he wanted me killed and frankly, the only reason I haven’t turned you over to him is because you’re my best chance at living through this fucking war. That and the fact that Granger will slice my head off if I even try.”

Harry felt his anger bubble up his chest. His eyes must have been blazing, because Draco paused, watching him warily.

“Who did you tell about Hogwarts?” asked Harry.

Draco stared him straight in the eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You know one thing and then you don’t another. Convenient.”

“I’m telling you Potter, I don’t know. I don’t even know if I told anyone, for that matter. All I can remember is going to work and—and feeling odd. I lost a minute. Maybe two. That’s all I know.”

Harry hated that he saw truth from Draco’s eyes. Things might have been simpler if Draco were lying. But no; things were never that easy for him. He stepped towards Draco and pressed his hand to Draco’s forehead.

“Potter, what are you—“

“If you don’t want to get killed, Malfoy, you’re going to shut up and let me have a look.”

Draco expelled a trembling breath and Harry closed his eyes, concentrating hard and reeling in his Legilimens just so he didn’t liquefy Draco’s mind in the process.

Harry’s mental magic crept along the edges of Draco’s conscious thoughts before he reached out, touching ever so lightly.

The gentle contact opened Draco’s memories wide open. Harry peered in, not daring to step past the boundaries of Draco’s mind lest he step on something that could damage Draco forever. The veils draped all around swayed back and forth. And then Harry saw it, lightly floating just within Harry’s reach. It was a familiar worn and tattered potions book: Advanced Potion Making by Libatius Borage. As it turned over lazily, he saw, scribbled along the bottom of the back cover in small, cramped handwriting: This Book is the Property of the Half-Blood Prince.

Harry found what he was looking for.

“Oh, it’s you,” Draco grumbled at the sight of Roberts. He’s had Roberts guard him before. The man was about as interesting as Professor Binns’s History class. He turned back to cataloguing the pile of books at his feet, wondering when he was going to get a chance to see Elizabeth McQuillen again. He could do with a quick shag.

Sometimes, being an Inaudio had its advantages. When he found out Elizabeth McQuillen had slept with her husband’s brother, he had been quick to use the information for his benefit. He never exchanged his silence for a shag, of course. A shag was cheap currency. He made her his gopher. Everything he needed buying outside of his prison, he asked Elizabeth to fetch. It was an easy enough task for her. He never asked her to buy anything illegal. They were just everyday essentials, really. Lotions, a new blouse, hair gel, that neat new book about wines, éclairs… the shagging she chose to give, herself.

It was no skin off his back, anyway. Who was he to turn her down? Besides, she was pretty good at what she did. Draco found it extremely amusing that she wasn’t content with her husband’s brother; that she had to shag the Ministry prisoner, too. He doubted that she stopped with him, either. He recalled being called “John” in the throes of her ecstasy, and that was neither the name of her husband nor his brother’s.

What a nympho… and Merlin bless her.

He looked at his pocket watch. Just two more hours before he left this dump for Grimmauld Place.

God, it must be a bad day, if I look forward to going back to that depressing house…

He couldn’t wait for this war to end. He couldn’t wait for that day he could cash in on his “good behavior” and be set free when he could take his sizable trust fund and run away to some quaint, high-brow town in Tuscany, set up a vineyard and live like a gentleman. He wouldn’t have to put up with plebes like Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley, nor would he have to listen to the Weaslette’s incessant scolding. If he had to hear her speech about “reforming” one more time…

Fuck. Me. The way she talks… does she think I don’t like myself? I love myself just fine, thank you very much!

“The way you keep to that ledger… one would think you actually like this job,” said Roberts in an oddly silky tone.

Draco cast him an annoyed look. “It’s the fucking career of my dreams.”

“Such language, Mr. Malfoy. It almost makes me want to deduct house points from you.”

There was something definitely odd about Roberts today, and something unmistakably familiar.

Drawn by instinct, Draco’s hand crept to his wand underneath his robe. “Too bad we’re not in Hogwarts…”

“Indeed. There were too many things in Hogwarts that you could have learned if you had stayed for your seventh year. You had great potential. However desperate your attempts to let Death Eaters in, but I have to admit… that closet was ingenious.”

This is not Roberts. Draco whipped out his wand, a hex on his lips, but his wand jumped out of his hand before he could yell out an incantation.

Moving purely on survival mode, Draco dove for his wand, knocking books, chairs, and quill-stand in the process. As he was buried under a pile of tomes and as ink stained his shirt and trousers, he felt the effect of a hex fall heavy on his body.

He stiffened, unable to move. He had been paralyzed, and for a brief moment, Draco was terrified of what might befall him.

All these years, growing more secure of his safety every day, thinking that he was one day closer to freedom, only to find himself dying in this Merlin-forsaken archive where most people have forgotten there was even such a room in the Ministry…

Harry Potter and Seamus Finnigan will write off my murder as: Died of Boredom.

The books were being removed from him, and the chair was moved aside.

Roberts, or the one impersonating him, flicked the quills off with the tip of his wand. He stared distastefully at the splotch of ink on Draco’s clothes before Scourgifying it.

“I never pegged you as paranoid, Mr. Malfoy,” Roberts said with a frown. “Desperate, yes, but since when have you become Wand Happy? I think you’ve been spending too much time with Potter and Weasley.”

The diction was unmistakable, even with Roberts’s grainy voice.

It’s getting more ironic by the minute! I’m going to be killed while working the most boring job in the world and my murderer is the man who saved my arse from Azakaban in the first place! It’s so hilarious I could slit my throat!

Well, I couldn’t right now… but if I could, I would.

“Ever the sarcastic one, aren’t you?”

Oh, Legilimens, is it? Well, read this: Bugger you, Snape. And bugger your boss, you oily son of a bitch!

Severus Snape’s eyebrow arched while he plucked Draco’s wand from beneath the pile. He slipped the wand into his pocket and stepped back, away from Draco’s body. “I’m going to release you from your bindings, Mr. Malfoy, but I advise you not to make a fool of yourself by jumping about and screaming like a hoyden. Agreed?”

Now, let me just nod… but oh! I can’t nod, can I? Because I’m fucking paralyzed!

Snape tutted and ended the incantation.

Draco growled and sat up as the spell left his limbs. In his irritation, he picked up a book and flung it across the room. It collided with the wall and it fell with a splat.

“Would you care to throw a tantrum for a few minutes? I’ll wait until you’re done,” Snape said.

Draco glared at him. “What are you doing here? What do you want from me? If you’re going to kill me, just get it the hell over with.”

“That last bit sounded as stupid as a Weasley.”

Draco ran a hand through his hair, growing more annoyed by the second. “So you’re not here to kill me. What are you doing here, then?”

Snape smirked. “Saving your life, as usual.”

“Last time you did that, you abandoned me in a sodding cave with leftover beef jerky.”

“The Dark Lord wanted you killed, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Woopedy-doo, I’m in league with Harry Potter… tell me something I don’t know, Professor.”

“Are you even listening to me, boy? He wanted you killed. Wanted. Past tense.”

“You are a grammar God.”

Snape sniffed disdainfully.

Draco rolled his eyes. “What changed then? Did my father beg for my life?”

A sneer curled Snape’s lips. “I’m afraid it’s nothing as warm and fuzzy as that. I told the Dark Lord that instead of killing you, we should use you… as a spy. I told him you live in Harry Potter’s house, and that you’re just biding your time, waiting for the opportunity to use that to your advantage. It took some convincing, but the only reason he sent me and not Bellatrix was because I managed to make him believe that you’re useful.”

Draco wrapped his mind around Snape’s words before he began to laugh. At first the laughter was quiet; a private joke meant to be shared with no one, then his laughter jumped out of his gut and he began to roll on the floor, arms to his stomach.

Predictably, Snape did not join him in his glee.

He laughed for several minutes until the last vestiges of hilarity left him. Snape was patiently waiting for him to calm down, and when he did, he began to explain.

“Ho man… the irony of my life. My father and my aunt want me killed. I’m being sheltered by the people I hate. I’m a fucking librarian of forgotten books and now my former professor is telling me that I could be a super secret spy against the very ones who are sheltering me! Oh, the choices I’m given! Fuck one or fuck the other, in the end, either side would fuck you right back! The devil has it in for me, doesn’t he? I bet you’re going to tell me that my mother’s sleeping with him.”

“Your mother is dead, Draco. The Dark Lord killed her when you failed to kill Albus Dumbledore.”

Draco felt his mirth leave him, cold grief rushing through him in waves. Overwhelming sadness like he’d never felt before pulsed through his veins, and for a moment, he thought he was going to pass out. He had always thought that was a possibility, but to have it confirmed was something else entirely.

Mum’s dead.

He never realized that finding out that the last person on earth who ever loved you was dead could be so crippling. He never knew how horribly empty the thought of no one left alive to love him felt. He never realized that thinking his mother was alive actually made him feel like he wasn’t alone. Never, until now.

He felt the sting in his eyes, and it was becoming unbearable.

No. Not in front of Snape. Anything but that.

He steeled himself, and the pain wrenched in his gut, but he bore it. He’d borne quite a few things in the last five years, and all of it had been practice for this moment. He could not show weakness. Not now.

“That’s too bad,” he said, only the slightest quaver in his voice.

He picked himself off the floor and began to rearrange the books. The tedium of it was suddenly comforting, something he could do without thinking, and not-thinking was good right now. Not-thinking could translate to not-feeling, sometimes. Block everything out.

After a silence that seemed to stretch to eternity, Snape began to speak again.

“The Dark Lord will want information on Harry Potter’s whereabouts. He will need to know when and how Harry Potter can be captured. The Dark Lord wants him alive, so you’ll do nothing so foolish as to try and kill him yourself. Do you understand this, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco didn’t even know he was clenching his fists so hard until the sting of broken skin pierced through his rage. He turned his murderous glare at Snape, his lips trembling with fury. “What makes you think I would help your precious Dark Lord, Professor? What makes you think that I would start sucking his cock now, when he’s taken everything away from me? In what UNIVERSE do you think I’d turn into Saint Draco and service the man who nailed me to the fucking, cheap-arse, rotting wooden cross?! I would never do his bidding again. He could kiss my pureblood arse or torture me insane for all I care. I’m NOT going to be V-Voldemort’s monkey again!”

Snape gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “Are you afraid that Harry Potter will find out—“

“Frankly, YES! But in case you misunderstand, it’s not him I’m afraid of. Oh, no. After you fuck with the Dark Lord and stare down the eyes of a vampire bitch, you don’t scare that easily anymore. I need to have a place to live without having to worry about getting stabbed in my sleep, Professor. Grimmauld Place, however pathetic my existence there is, actually gives me a peaceful night’s sleep. Do you understand that much? I need—I need to live through this goddamn war, so I can—I’m going to live in Tuscany and buy a vineyard with my trust fund and make wine!”

Snape’s lips pursed. He looked more constipated than usual. “Lovely, I’m sure. But try to understand, Mr. Malfoy. If I go back to the Dark Lord empty handed, there won’t be a nice little house in Tuscany. There will be nothing, because you will be dead. After all these years, we finally figured out how to get to you. You don’t think we’re going to try it this way again? I promise you. The next time a Death Eater comes Polyjuiced, it’s not going to be me.”

“Then, if you don’t mind me saying, Professor, I’d rather take my chances with Potter,” He didn’t think he’d ever live to see the day he’d say that, but there is was. This was, without a doubt, the lowest and most pitiful point in his life.

A frown creased Snape’s brows. “Have it your way, Mr. Malfoy.” He raised his wand.

Draco was surprised he wasn’t as frightened about death as he thought he’d be. He expected he’d be Avada Kedavra-ed. It was the only way a self-respecting Wizard should die by wand-curse. So it caught him completely off-guard when Snape whipped his wand towards him and he felt the presence of magic snaking through his mind.

It lasted only a few seconds, and though Draco tried to fight the invasion back, it was no use. He didn’t know how.

When Snape released him, he felt lightheaded and faint. His knees buckled from under him and he collapsed, his vision spinning.

Next thing he knew, Snape was holding out a handkerchief.

“Wipe the blood off your nose, Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said. “You don’t want it getting on your shirt.”

In spite of himself, Draco took the handkerchief. “W-What did you do to me?”

Snape folded his arms over his chest, eyebrow arching. “So, Potter and the rest of his governing board are going to Hogwarts. And interestingly enough, Granger’s back… with her Shadow Kin, to boot. Potter’s no fool, is he? Because she’s not going to let anything happen to him.”

Draco didn’t reply. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs as he hung his head between his shoulders.

“They’re going to use the train to Hogwarts,” Snape continued. “Bold move, and it might have worked, if you hadn’t been around to tell on them.”

“I didn’t tell on them.”

“It doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t. They’ll think you did, and so will the Dark Lord. This information you have… provided me will be enough to buy you some time. And who knows, Mr. Malfoy… the Dark Lord may grow to trust you again.”

“I don’t need you or your stinking Dark Lord.”

“Oh, I don’t intend for you to need him. It’s dangerous to need someone, because in the end, you’ll only have yourself.” Snape bent over to pick up a book from the floor. The book was blue, old, and just a bit bigger than a man-sized palm. He read the title page. “Foul Fowls and How to Keep Them Out of Your Attic. An interesting book. You should give this a read.” He opened the book, appeared to study it for a few seconds before closing the book again. He slipped the book into a shelf. “I’ll put it here, in case you decide to look it over.”

Draco snorted.

Snape reached into his robe and pulled out a pocket watch. “I think I must be going. You’ve been a great help, Draco.”

“Fuck you.”

Snape eyed him for a moment. “Are you so sure, casting your lot with Potter?”

“No, but he didn’t kill my mother.” Draco was surprised he was able to say it with such a steady voice.

Snape conceded it with a resigned nod of his head. “Fair enough. We will see if you made the right choice, Draco. Test your hero’s mettle. If he finds this encounter in your memories and unlocks its clues, then maybe Harry Potter is worth his salt, after all.”

Draco scowled. “What the bloody hell—“

“Praeterittum.”

And the memory closed in itself.

Harry released Draco from his hold and Draco collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

Sweating, Harry gasped for breath as he stared at Draco’s pale and placid face. He took a moment to absorb what he had seen.

Praeterittum was a cousin-spell of Obliviate, but instead of erasing a memory, it hid it. It was usually impossible to find such memories amidst the jumble of thoughts in a person’s mind, but Snape had made sure he would find it. Snape had made sure about many, many things.

“If he finds this encounter in your memories and unlocks its clues…”

Harry had already spotted the more obvious one: Fowl Fouls and How to Keep Them Out of Your Attic. The others would need some thinking, but they probably wouldn’t be so difficult to figure out. He had already found the trail to looking into Draco’s mind, now all he had to do was put the puzzle together.

There was little point in thinking whether the memory had been altered, or if Snape was manipulating everyone. The former was moot, the latter was obvious.

Draco began to stir, giving an agonized groan. “FFFFFuck…” He rolled over, hands to his head.

Harry’s lip twitched as he watched the man on the floor, struggling to get up. He managed to summon his compassion and was surprised he found it so easy. Reaching out, he grabbed Draco’s arm and hefted him to his feet.

Draco struggled to wrench his arm away but Harry held on.

“Oh, get over it,” Harry said, dumping Draco on the nearest chair which happened to be the one for the tea table.

Draco sank into the chair, leaning his elbows on his knees as his hands cradled his face. He was taking deep breaths.

“How much do you remember now?” Harry asked.

Draco was silent for a moment. “Everything.”

Harry swallowed, feeling more sympathy for Draco than he had ever thought possible. “I’m sorry about your mum.”

Silence again before Draco replied without leaving the solace of his hands. “Piss off.”

Harry wondered if Draco was crying. He didn’t care to find out, but he didn’t feel like abandoning Draco, either.

The world, it seemed, was coming to an end if he felt the need to offer Draco consolation.

Harry poured firewhiskey for them both, and taking one filled shot glass, he nudged it at Draco.

Draco looked up. His eyes were dry, but a profound sense of loss had—unbelievably—softened them. He stared at the offered whiskey for a moment before he took it and knocked it back. His eyes watered momentarily, but the tears didn’t spill.

Whether or not the tears were for his mother or the sting of the whiskey, Harry would never know.

Harry knocked back his own shot and set the glass down. “Is it true what you said about McGonagall and Dumbledore, then?”

Draco blinked, brows furrowing. “Sorry?”

“Five years ago, at that meeting in Ireland. You said McGonagall and Dumbledore—“

“Oh.” At that, Draco actually laughed. “No. That wasn’t true. I spied McGonagall having a teenage crush on her Transfigurations professor, who was Dumbledore at the time, but that was it.”

“So you lied.”

Draco scoffed. “Hardly. I didn’t think anyone would take me seriously. Really, Potter… can’t you take a joke?”

“Not from you.”

“This is why the Mudblood is so much more fun to have around than you are.”

Harry actually felt no irritation for what Draco said. Maybe it was because Harry knew Draco was grieving, and that right now, the only thing holding Draco together was his sarcasm, his off-color jokes and his grating sense of arrogance.

“Don’t call her a Mudblood,” Harry said, turning to leave. Before he exited the room, Harry set Draco’s wand on the dresser, and without looking back, he stepped out in the hall and closed the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: It’s exhausting to make a person out of a little shit-faced imp, I’ll tell you that.

As for the bathroom scene… well, you MUST thank tome_raider for that one. There was no shagging, initially, but tome_raider presented logical arguments for me to write the love scene, and she knows fanfics, so I listen to her most of the time! Hehe.

On yet another note, I watched X-Men: Last Stand, and all I could think was that Ben Foster (Angel) looked like Draco. Talk about making angels of demons…

33. Chapter Thirty-Second: Allies

A/N: Sorry this took so long! Goodness, we had internet-connection problems all weekend! I don’t even know if it’s going to let up so I can only really surf when the connection lets me. :( Anyway, here it is, and I hope you like it. ^_^

Special thanks to tome_raider who did an excellent job betaing! ::hugs::

AND tome_raider would like to express her own thanks to everyone one of you who showed your appreciation for her efforts in the reviews. She’s very grateful.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty-Second: Allies

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry whisked himself to the Ministry shortly after his conversation with Draco, reporting most of his findings to Shacklebolt, Remus and Moody. They were, of course, appalled, and Remus felt horrible.

“It was my fault, then,” Remus said, his eyes filling with despair.

“Don’t be foolish, Remus,” Moody had said in a tone of voice that bespoke of dire things. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even the ferret’s fault. It was Snape. That oily, good for nothing traitor.”

No one outwardly disagreed, but Harry wasn’t so quick to put a label on Snape just yet. The “oily, good for nothing traitor” had done many things, but Harry wasn’t so sure about the reasons behind them anymore. He decided it was best if others thought of Snape as a traitor. Harry would venture on this strange territory of Snape-ambiguity on his own and hope that the hoard of anti-Snape Order members would be enough of a safety-net in case Harry found himself utterly and completely wrong.

After Harry processed the papers for Roberts’s and Turner’s “detainment”, Remus took it upon himself to order Harry to get some rest.

“Frankly,” Remus began. “I’m dead knackered, and I’m a werewolf. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how you feel, Harry. I think nothing short of a coma would do you good.”

Harry had to admit that at seven in the morning, he was finally feeling the effects of the long, embattled day. It felt like lead was seeping into the marrow of his bones, making each step he took heavier by the minute. He was more than willing to take Remus’s advice, but he needed to make one last stop before he went back to Grimmauld Place.

He needed to go to the Ministry archives, and perhaps wanting to make sure that Harry went straight home afterwards, Remus went with him.

Harry looked back on his memories and tried to remember the exact spot Snape had been standing. It had been a shelf where candlelight winked and flickered just beyond Snape’s shoulder. Harry followed his recollections and found the book he was looking for. It was still where Snape had put it, its dirty blue cover distinct among the musty beige and brown-spined tomes.

He took the book in his hand and shook it by its front cover. A tiny, unmarked envelope fell out of its pages. He dropped the book and scrambled for the envelope, hastily breaking the seal. He pulled out the encased letter and turned up blank stationary. He muttered a revealing spell. What he saw next had him cursing at Snape all over again.

The words, “Did you think it would be that easy?” bled on the surface of the water-marked parchment.

He cast some more intermediary revealing charms on it, but each attempt was mocked and laughed at by the Snape-made epistle.

“Why am I not surprised?” Harry said with a tired sigh.

Remus mirrored his weary tone. “Take the letter and we’ll figure it out after we’ve gotten some rest. It’s waited in the last week and a half and it can wait another few hours, I’m sure. We’ll meet at the Ministry at four-thirty tomorrow. I’d pick an earlier time, but I have some research work to finish at the MRI. Can’t put it off, I’m afraid, as I’ve been doing just that these past few days. It needs finishing, mainly because this is the only job that’s kept me for this long.”

Harry certainly wasn’t going to argue with that. Remus had been working for the Magical Research Institute for the last two years, and the fact that the institute had kept Remus in spite of his wolfy problem meant a lot to the mild-mannered educator. He had a career, and far be it that Harry would get Remus sacked from a job he loved.

They left the Ministry, apparated to Grimmauld Place and dragged themselves into No. 12 where they passed out in their respective beds.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry practically jumped out of his sheets in scandalized astonishment when he realized what time it was.

“Merlin!” he cried, the words “Four fifteen P.M.” from the Wizard clock mocking him. The mischievous clock rarely gave the time so straightforwardly, but perhaps knowing it would cause more mayhem spelling out the actual time, it chose to do so at that moment.

Eight hours! Harry thought in disbelief. He had forgotten to set his alarm clock, so it was no one’s fault but his that he had overslept. He had agreed to meet Remus in the Ministry at four-thirty and Harry had hoped to be at the Ministry an hour earlier.

That’s not happening, he thought sourly.

He rushed through his shower, dressed and grabbed a slice of Molly’s homemade bread from the pantry. He still had some of the slice clamped between his teeth when he arrived at the Ministry apparating station.

Harry jumped into the late afternoon rush and crammed himself into the Ministry phone box. As soon as he stepped out of the box and into the Ministry, he braced himself against the reporters who were screaming disturbingly accurate questions.

“Did you escort vampires into the Ministry earlier this morning, Mr. Potter?”

“Is it true that Hermione Granger isn’t dead, but undead?”

“How much truth is there in the rumor that the Ministry has allied themselves with Dark Creatures?”

“Are you a Blood Flunkie, Harry Potter?”

That caught Harry’s attention and he turned to see none other than Rita Skeeter, the deceptively benign smile on her face reminiscent of the malice that plagued him in fourth year. After Rita had been forced to lie-low by Hermione’s bold blackmailing tactics, she reemerged with a vengeance, hell-bent on turning Harry into a dangerously fanatic wannabe, a laughably barmy fool, or both, in generally circulated print.

The one consolation Harry had was that because the Daily Prophet—in which Rita was gainfully employed—lambasted and laughed at him by turns, with the token “lauding” on occasion, the general perception of the once-reputable paper had shifted from credible to attention-grabbing sensationalism. People were now more inclined to believe in the Quibbler in spite of their having retained their “Creature Sightings” section. The Quibbler’s straightforward reporting and educated editorials were beyond reproach. Their views were based on truth, whether or not the truth was favorable. The Quibbler did not hype Harry Potter. The Daily Prophet took care of that, ad nauseam. The Quibbler’s accounts of Harry Potter were incident to the events.

Harry did however notice that the Quibbler was partial to Ron Weasley, particularly when describing him. Harry would swear that an article had called Ron “statuesque and pleasant-featured” at least once. Ron adamantly denied this was true. But all that that was another story altogether.

Right now, amidst reporters sent from all over Europe, Harry was stifling the glare that threatened to jump out of him en route to the Auror Department. He decided he wasn’t going to answer Rita Skeeter’s question, wordless or otherwise, just because saying or showing anything in response would be giving her the satisfaction of having affected him.

He finally reached the department doors and Harry closed himself in.

The floor was alive with activity, and even from the receiving area, Harry could see Seamus busy on their conjoined desks.

Seamus didn’t look up from his work at Harry’s arrival, but the Irishman gave him a greeting.

“Hullo, Potter,” said Seamus in a distracted tone. “Got through the press in one piece, did you?”

“Barely. Rita Skeeter was there with Quick-Quills blazing.” Harry slumped in his seat while depositing his messenger bag on his desk. “What got you in so early?”

“Brittany Watson. They hauled her in this morning and I conducted her interrogation.”

“Nice. What did you find out?”

“Nothing new. She corroborated Turner’s story and I found out she likes butterscotch ice cream with chocolate on top. She’s got killer legs, too.”

Harry shook his head, propping his chin on the heel of his palm in weary surrender. “Seamus, Seamus… we ought to send you to Hagrid’s and get you neutered. The woman is a suspect…”

“Well, at first, yes, but when it was apparent that she wasn’t… you know how it goes, Harry. I had to apologize, make it up to her, invite her to coffee, etcetera, etcetera…”

“Yes, of course,” Harry said dryly. “I always said the interrogation room was a singles bar under duress.”

“It wasn’t as if she was unwilling. She wanted me. I could see it in her eyes.”

“Sure she did.” Though Harry wouldn’t put it past any woman when it came to Seamus.

Seamus smirked. “Now, before you condemn me to Auror-Ethics Hell—“

“I was thinking more along the lines of Randy Bastards Anonymous, actually. I’m nothing if not progressive.”

“You ought to be. You’re sleeping with a vampire.”

“Touché. Go on, then. As you were saying…”

“I asked her about Electra Swansea. Electra and Brittany have had a decent working relationship for several moths now, and apparently, ‘Electra’ isn’t a made-up identity. She’s been in the antique books industry for years, and while Brittany generally thinks well of her, Brittany did notice that Electra was a bit of a blood snob.”

Harry made a face.

Seamus nodded. “You see where this is headed, eh? Probably got recruited by Death Eaters some time back. We’re still trying to find Electra, but it seems no one has seen her since she last went out with Roberts. It’s either the Death Eaters ‘got rid’ of her or she’s in hiding with them. It can go either way, I suppose, depending on how much she could be of use to them, but as far as her normal life goes, she’d expired the use of it. She can’t be Electra Swansea anymore.”

Harry gave a weary sigh and accepted the sad fact. “Well, that’s done, isn’t it? She’s on the wanted list but that’s about as much we can do right now.”

“Pretty much.”

“And how about the bloke in charge of the Lottery? Have we questioned him yet?”

“Mad-Eye did. It was the funniest thing. Two cantankerous old men railing at each other. Boyd’s still angry as hell about it. He’s been taking bribes from Aurors for years, you understand, mostly in kind, like tickets to see this and that, tasty treats, cigars… he took whiskey from Roberts. Ask Roberts why he had his shift with Malfoy postponed; bet it was to see Electra.”

“Naturally,” Harry muttered. “When women go wrong, men go right… after them.”

Seamus laughed. “Speaking from experience?”

“From Mae West. Muggle actress. You ought to look her up.”

“D’you have her Muggle number?”

“I meant look her up in the Muggle database, stupid. The woman is dead.”

Seamus sighed. “The tragedy of a single man is losing a woman to death and marriage, especially if the impending marriage is his.”

“You’re the only bloke I know who considers marriage a worse tragedy than death.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with Remus, is what, or maybe Hermione.”

“Frankly, I think she’s more afraid of marriage than I am.”

“Oh, I can believe that coming from Mr. I’m Wearing A Ring That Matches Hers.”

“Ah, noticed, did you?”

“Well, of course! I always check a woman’s ring finger first, both hands, because some just get the side wrong. Ever since that incident with Annette and her husband, I’ve learned to be more careful. I wasn’t planning to get with Granger, you understand. I know she’s off-limits, but the ring-thing is instinct. Then I see the same ring on you. Way to mark your territory, Potter. Ingenious. Sappy, but ingenious.”

“I am not marking my territory.”

“Oh! Of course you’re not!” Seamus winks at Harry in an exaggerated fashion.

Harry didn’t even bother to argue.

Seamus kept on and Harry helped him with his reports. They probably didn’t get a lot of things done, considering their conversation was more interesting than work, and an hour had passed before Remus finally showed up.

It surprised Harry that he had hardly noticed the hour go by, and he realized that if it hadn’t been for Seamus, he would’ve been worried sick about Remus.

The weary werewolf was hardly ever late for anything unless he was in trouble, but judging by the look on Remus’s face, nothing untoward had kept him.

“I am terribly sorry for being late, Harry,” Remus said hurriedly, shuffling papers about as he struggled to right himself from the gauntlet that was the press outside the Auror Department. “But I got held up by something at the MRI; something very interesting and scholarly that I’m afraid will bore you both to tears if I tell you about it, but I think I’ll talk to Hermione about it later.” His smile was broad with anticipation.

Harry was reminded of the time he first watched Professor Lupin teach. Tired and worn out as Remus had been due to his condition, the kind professor had been smiling and eager that day he taught at Hogwarts as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. It was a moment where Remus Lupin was happy enough to forget that he was a werewolf.

Remus looked like that professor from long ago, right now. It was impossible for Harry not to smile back.

“Well, now,” said Remus after having gathered his bearings. “Are we ready to go to you-know-where? I expect our little pet is hungry enough to feed on you-know-what.”

Seamus frowned. “’You-know-how’ I hate it when you two talk like that.”

Harry smirked. “Sorry Seamus, but this stuff’s classified.”

“The last time I was told something was classified, my unmarried cousin Clarissa began to show three months later and all hell broke loose in our Catholic household.”

“Don’t worry Seamus. I can tell you right now, with reasonable certainty, that I’m not pregnant. Can’t vouch for Remus, though.”

Instead of protesting, Remus laughed it off and shook his head.

Harry thought he sounded the slightest bit giddy but decided to say nothing about it. Gathering his warding notes, he lead Remus to the lifts.

They descended to level nine and were met by Dedalus Diggle, one of the most senior members of the Order of the Phoenix and the head of the Department of Mysteries. He was, perhaps, one of the most secretive men Harry knew. Dedalus had, after all, shadowed him for years before Harry started at Hogwarts and never once spoke to Harry before that. It was some time four years ago that Dedalus was appointed head of the Ministry’s most mysterious department (so to speak—or unspeak, as the case may be), making it entirely possible for the Order to conduct business within Ministry walls without the “Ministry” (namely the Minister and his cronies) knowing what exactly was going on.

That McGonagall believed Dedalus never made sense did not seem to affect his ability to shanghai an entire Ministry department.

“The Ministry might not be very useful as a government, but it’s got excellent facilities, and well… the Ministry ought to be good for something, you know!” Dedalus had once said.

And so they made use of the level nine facilities, taking advantage of its mysterious nature; its power to keep secrets from the Ministry itself. To have the Head Unspeakable on one’s side was a great thing, indeed.

Dedalus lead them through the soundless halls of the department. The entire level was barren of work-place chatter, though each and every closed door had at least one Unspeakable working behind it. Unspeakables did not “meet up” at the water cooler to talk about the daily news, or even how the weather was like outside. Unspeakables were never seen taking coffee or bathroom breaks, though the coffee pots ran out of coffee and the toilet paper in the loos had to be replaced on a daily basis. Unspeakables rather liked being alone, contemplating the meaning of life when they weren’t researching it in one form or another.

This was how secrets were kept, give or take various forms and levels of Fidelius charms cast by each and every Unspeakable in even more varied ways that was perhaps necessary.

The Strigoi was quartered in the department Beastiary, alongside the strangest, most unidentifiable creatures Harry had ever seen. They were caged in different ways, probably depending on the beast’s abilities as far as escaping was concerned. All of the creatures were unnamed, or at least unlabeled, and Dedalus had flat-out ignored Harry’s questions regarding the creatures’ origins and soubriquets, but Harry would almost swear that the pig-like beast with the spiraling horns was a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.

The leaden chamber upon which the Strigoi had been quartered was solid and opaque on all sides except for the glamoured wall from which they looked into the cage. The glamour was never as clear as they wanted it to be. Lead had always been resistant to magic, and it was probably one of many reasons guns and magic didn’t mix, and while the magic did nothing to affect the lead’s properties, lead certainly had its effect on magic, though in many cases only to a mild degree. The glamour was about as mildly affected as far as lead went. The ill combination of magic and lead made for a soupy viewing window, so while they could still see what was going on inside the Strigoi chamber, details were most definitely fuzzy.

It was a strange contrast, that lead would be resistant to magic yet be so effective in containing something magical. One couldn’t spell lead, so a Strigoi wouldn’t be able break through it to suck the essence of the living creatures it shared the Bestiary with.

At the moment, the Strigoi had taken the shape of a small cow. Since they caught it, it had gone through various transfigurations, trying to decide which would best serve him. Usually, he took the shape of smaller farm animals—cow, sheep, dog, pig or donkey—so it could blend into the surroundings and go about his business unnoticed, but the chamber had provided him no incentive for camouflaging. Harry suspected that it merely liked to have a shape, rather than float about like an indiscernible mist.

Nearby, mounted on stilts, was a locked trunk. Inside the locked trunk was the sealed and warded case containing Gryffindor’s staff. When they were ready, the staff would be placed into the Strigoi’s leaden cage and opened from there, because while it would be deadly to cast spells on the staff, it would be safe to use spells on the case. So it was imperative that when they opened the staff inside the chamber, there were wards placed to keep the staff’s power from hurting everyone around it.

Dedalus said he would make the last minute preparations for the potion they would need for the procedure and he was off, leaving Harry and Remus in the chamber.

Taking a seat on one of the many storage crates, Harry opened his notes and pulled out his computations. Remus took a nearby crate and examined the computations with him. Together, they configured the wards so that it could be used on the leaden chamber. They had a sample block of the same lead upon which they tested the adjusted wards.

It was as difficult as Harry suspected. Twice, Dedalus had returned, asking them if they were ready for the potion. Twice they’d said that they needed a few more minutes. Dedalus hadn’t pestered them a third time and it had been an hour since Dedalus last appeared. The properties of the lead made everything uncertain, and he wished Hermione were there to lend brainpower.

“Maybe we ought to go back to Grimmauld Place and consult with her,” Harry said as they came up short once again. He looked at his watch. “It’s already dark. She’d be awake.”

Remus nodded. “Couldn’t hurt.”

They took their leave of Dedalus, telling him that they might come back in a few hours. He made no fuss about it. The man practically lived in the Department of Mysteries.

They were able to leave the Ministry without incident, having skipped the reporters, and they made straight for 12 Grimmauld Place from the apparating station.

Harry went to the library to find Hermione, and true enough, she was there. A pile of books surrounded her as she sat lengthwise on the couch by the hearth. She was reading a book about dark magic while Lucien seemed to be examining her toes. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that he was giving her a pedicure, or painting tiny images on the red of her nail-polish.

Nearby, Solomon sat on the floor, his back to the couch and he was singing in a surprisingly soulful voice. His instrument was a harmonica, and he was singing the blues.

“Ain’t got her nail technician…

Ain’t got the time…

What’s a she-vamp to do?

To keep it looking fine?

She gotta do with what she got…

Boy, it ain’t that much

He’s a beauty-school drop-out!

Maaaan ain’t got the touch…”

“Shut-it, you! I’m not that bad!” Lucien cried with a deep scowl. “And I only dropped out of beauty school because Felicia did. I only went there for her!”

Hermione paid all this no mind as she sat engrossed in what she was reading. She had her thumb between her teeth and her focus didn’t waver from the page. She did, however, acknowledge the arrival of Harry and Remus without looking up.

“Hi, Remus,” she chimed half-absentmindedly. “Harry, darling, you’re early.” Her foot fidgeted and Lucien complained.

“For God’s sake lady, hold still!”

Harry stifled an exasperated sigh. “Hermione, can we see you in my study? It’s important.”

Solomon didn’t flinch, continuing to blow into his harmonica as he turned a questioning eyebrow at Hermione.

Lucien did the same, looking up from his work without letting go of her foot and his paint brush.

She nodded and stood, sliding her feet into black slip-on platforms. Harry let her lead while in the background, Lucien sang to Solomon’s music.

“His name is Harry Potter

‘Boy Who Lived’ is how he’s known

But according to our alpha

The Boy’s man to the bone!”

Solomon blew a broken chord at that and laughed.

“Lucien!” Hermione cried, spinning in place to face them. A mortified blush rose in her cheeks as she glanced surreptitiously at Remus.

Lucien grinned, obviously pleased with himself.

Harry hastily hustled Hermione and Remus out into the hallway, the faint sound of harmonica wafting through the doors as Harry pulled them shut.

“And here I thought nothing can embarrass me anymore,” she muttered, walking briskly in the direction of Harry’s study. “I swear, Harry, I haven’t been talking to them about you and your bones… LORD that sounded awful, didn’t it? I’ll shut up now.”

Harry felt a flush rise in his cheeks, especially when it became more apparent that Remus was trying, but failing, to look grave and serious.

As soon as they reached the office, Harry let her take the seat behind his desk. He spread his notes out in front of her and he and Remus hovered over her shoulders as Harry explained their predicament over the Strigoi cage’s warding.

She looked at them, utterly confused. “What are you two on about? Of course you’ll have problems sticking the wards on the lead, but you don’t have to put the wards on the lead cage do you? Viktor didn’t use a cage at all for the staff. He just put the wards.”

Harry and Remus looked at one another in surprise, appalled that they hadn’t figured that out themselves. They laughed, embarrassed, and they had no choice but to admit that they’d been utterly daft.

“I’ll have to configure the wards to accommodate the presence of the lead, though. We can’t have too wide a perimeter of wards around the cage because that would just make the work more difficult. Give me a day. I’ll try to figure something out.”

“What would we do without you, Hermione?” asked Remus sheepishly.

“Drown in a pool of poisoned magic, apparently,” she muttered, laughing lightly as she looked the notes over.

Harry caught Remus’s inquisitive stare.

“What does the staff do?” asked Remus.

Harry proceeded to explain to Remus what happened the first time.

“And after the incident,” Remus said, looking to Hermione. “You handled the staff yourself? Did it have any effect on you?”

Again, Hermione’s face froze over, and Harry scowled.

“What aren’t you telling me about that, Hermione?” Harry asked straightforwardly. “Something happened to you. Ron said so—“

“Ron’s overreacting,” she said curtly. “I just felt a bit odd handling the thing. You know it has a bad effect on everyone, but you neutralized it, so it wasn’t so bad, then. It has no lasting effects anyway, so just let it go.”

“But—“

“I said let it go, Harry. You’re wasting time worrying over nothing.”

They stared at one another stubbornly for several seconds until Remus cleared his throat and spoke. “In the meantime, perhaps we can decipher the information Harry gathered this morning from Malfoy. We ought to put his memory in a Pensieve, don’t you think? Examine it more closely.”

Harry still had his gaze locked with Hermione’s while he nodded. He finally pulled away, incensed at Hermione’s stubbornness. He was inclined to believe that when it came to trusting that she could protect and handle herself, he had made progress in leaps and bounds, but it irked him that she seemed to think it didn’t give him the right to worry about her.

Just because she’s a bad-ass vampire, it doesn’t mean nothing could harm her, he thought sourly.

“Harry, you ought to show Hermione the letter,” said Remus.

Her eyebrow arched.

Harry undid the lock on one of his drawers and gave her the letter they found in the Ministry archives. “I’ll go get Malfoy while you try to break the spell on that one.”

They looked at him in mild surprise.

He shrugged. “No time like the present.” He left, hoping Remus would explain some of what Harry had gleaned from Draco and the origins of the letter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“What do you want this time?” Draco asked when Harry knocked on his door.

Harry didn’t dally. There was absolutely no need for niceties when it came to Draco. “I’ll need your memory for my Pensieve. I’d like Hermione and Remus to see it.”

Draco’s eyebrow arched. “Let me see if I’m understanding this right, Potter. You decided that you want them to see my memory? Don’t you need some kind of court order for that?”

Harry glared at him. “Not really, no. Technically, you’re a detainee of the Ministry and having that status, we can extract any memory of yours that we need. You can either make it easy for all of us and cooperate or I can beat the tar out of you and force you to comply. Either way, I’m going to get that memory.”

Draco glared right back. “You’re an arsehole, you know that?”

“I wouldn’t be if you weren’t so damn difficult all the time. Would it hurt you to be cooperative every once in a while?”

“Yeah it would, actually.”

Harry stamped down his rising temper. “Are you going to show the memory or not?”

Draco scoffed. “Why should I?”

“It may mean lives saved, Malfoy.”

“Only life important to me is mine, so you’re going to have to find a better reason to—“

Harry’s fist inadvertently clenched. “Listen to me, Malfoy. You’re going to cut this bullshit right now. You can’t fool me, because I was in your head this morning. I felt the things you felt, and as impossible as it seems, even to me, I happened to discover that you actually have something of what could be called human decency—“

Draco’s eyes flashed. “Oh, and how did you figure that? Because I was sad for mummy? You know nothing about what I felt. You don’t know anything about me, Potter. So you can just shut up—“

“Easy way or hard way, Malfoy. Choose. Right now. I haven’t got the luxury of time.”

Draco’s lips pursed, his anger evident, but he pushed Harry aside and walked the path to Harry’s study, his back rigid from silent protest.

Harry tried not to be too pleased with himself as he followed in Draco’s wake.

When they arrived at Harry’s study, Hermione shot Draco a ferocious glare.

“Hey there, Sunshine,” Draco sneered, dropping into one of the chairs. “Missed me?”

She scowled, like she was annoyed that she had to do this dance with Draco again. “Like a wooden stake through my heart, I missed you.”

Draco chuckled, turning his gaze to Harry. “D’you want to know why she broke up with her last boyfriend, Potter?”

Her nose lifted haughtily. “You’re the worse kind of vampire there is, feeding on people’s secrets. Why didn’t you tell anyone you were an Inaudio? Liked the power too much, did you? You sick, sadistic, degenerate bastard—“

“I’m not the only power whore in this room,” Draco said silkily. “It sucks when you realize that you’re not your own alpha anymore, doesn’t it? Even Lucien and Solomon know it…”

Her eyes blazed with anger and Harry could only stare at her in surprise. Draco had used his “talent” again and had most definitely hit a nerve. If Harry understood it correctly, Draco took thoughts and images to form his own conclusions, and while he was probably right most of the time, there were times when Draco merely made a person believe that he was thinking one thing or another, and therein lay Draco’s true talent. He knew how and where to embellish malice and intent. He could tell when the exaggeration would be too much, and he drew the line and pushed it just before it reached its limit.

Perhaps Draco was pushing it with Hermione. Maybe he was embellishing on a fleeting thought, because Harry couldn’t fathom Hermione resenting him for taking the lead.

Then again, you don’t want her knowing that you can “handle” her, do you?

Hermione was right. Draco was a sick, sadistic, degenerate bastard.

She always did have a way with words, especially when it came to describing Draco.

“Alright, you two…” Remus said gently.

Draco jerked his head in Remus’s direction. “Hell, he knows it.”

“I said that’s enough, Draco,” Remus said more firmly. “We have important things to accomplish. If you’ll settle down, you won’t have to suffer our company for very long.”

“You present a compelling argument,” Draco replied. “Potter, do what you have to do.”

Shooting him a withering glare, Harry motioned for him to come closer to the Pensieve.

Draco stared into the luminous pool with a blank expression, his grey eyes turning silver by the reflection of the liquid light.

Harry took his wand and pressed its tip to Draco’s temple.

Carefully, while still reeling in the power of his Legilimens, he extracted the imprint of the memory from Draco’s head. He dragged it out, snipped it and let it go over the Pensieve, tapping on it once to nudge it into the ethereal pool.

Draco stared at the thread of memory as it dissipated into the swirls of thought. “I can still remember it,” he said, and Harry detected a hint of despair.

Harry nodded. “Of course you can. There’s still an imprint of it in your head because I didn’t erase it. It isn’t like your usual Obliviation.”

Draco scoffed. Harry wasn’t sure what it was for because Draco didn’t say. Draco simply turned and sat back down on the chair he had occupied earlier, falling silent.

Harry gestured for Hermione in a business-like manner. “You first.”

She complied without a word and together, they looked into Draco’s memory.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Remus’s turn, and as he and Harry peered into the memory, Hermione turned to Draco and pondered what she had seen.

So the ferret’s human, after all.

Draco was, at the moment, the picture of apathetic depravity. He sat like a rich, spoiled brat would if his parents had made him sit in on something he had no interest of attending. Every tense muscle in his body screamed rebellion, yet staying put was his way of saying, “So you forced me here. Happy?”

“I’m sorry about your mum,” she said blandly. She meant it, but she could not muster a sympathetic tone for him. Even if she hadn’t seen the memory through Draco’s eyes, or through Draco’s thoughts, she saw exactly what was going on behind his cold grey eyes when Snape told him of his mother’s death. She had seen that look in her own mirror all too many times in the past.

Some people didn’t like the cold, but Hermione had learned a true appreciation of it; how it dulled the pain. Draco had, it seemed, learned to appreciate it, too.

Draco scoffed. “So it’s true. You and Potter do think alike. He said the same thing to me.”

She stiffened. “Harry and I do not think alike. We know what the other is thinking without having to literally read each other’s minds—“

“How sweet.”

She pursed her lips. Draco liked it when he provoked people. She was not going to take the bait again. “Do you want revenge for her?”

He gazed at her with surprise.

“Do you?” she insisted.

He wiped the surprise from his expression and frowned. “What’s it to you?”

“You know who can help you get that revenge.”

“Is that why you’re fucking him, Granger? So that he could give you the revenge you’re looking for?”

She didn’t let his words provoke her. “I don’t need anyone to serve my revenge for me, Draco. I can very well go after the man who murdered my parents and destroy him myself, and I promise you, I will kill him if it’s the last thing I do, but you… you can’t kill Voldemort. You know you can’t. You haven’t the power or the strength—“

Draco glared at her. “I do so—“

“Shut up! You have nothing. Your so-called talent is a joke and you haven’t the skill to measure up. Voldemort will take one look at you and he’ll step on you like you were a bug beneath his shoe. You’re nothing to him.”

His eyes flashed with outrage. “Well, look who’s the sick, sadistic bastard, now.”

“If you help Harry—help him in every way you could, you’ll get what you want. I can’t say that it will be enough to heal the wounds, Malfoy. Revenge has a tendency to make false promises, but you want it done, anyway, and Harry can destroy Voldemort where you couldn’t even give Voldemort a cold. Swear your loyalty to Harry and he’ll deliver your revenge. Who knows? You might even find inspiration and purpose. Harry can do that. You’ll find that it will save your soul more times than you realize.”

“Spoken like a true hero’s whore.”

She raised her nose haughtily, saying nothing and sparing him a withering glance. She did not feel that she should honor what he said with a response. She had said all there was to say and she was done.

He glared right back, as if it annoyed him that he hadn’t gotten a rise out of her from that last bit, because that was what he wanted, and that was his power, after all; his ability to incite anger, or hatred, or distrust. He didn’t like failing in all three.

They stayed transfixed in that glacial silence until Harry and Remus emerged from the Pensieve.

Harry took one look at them, noted the Arctic stillness, and said, “I don’t even want to know what happened.”

“Malfoy’s done now,” she said snootily. “He should go.”

Draco’s eyes widened with shock. Perhaps he had expected her to tell on him with Harry. That she showed how little he had affected her was obviously unforgivable. She could see that she had finally gotten Draco Malfoy angry. In fact, she had never seen him so furious. It was immensely satisfying.

Draco stood, his eyes trained to her with fierce hate. “I wasn’t waiting for your permission, Granger.”

She sneered as she began to speak in a vicious tone. “Good night, Malfoy. I know you’ll be thinking about what I said and it’ll make you toss and turn—“

“Go to hell,” he hissed, stomping off.

“Bet you we’ll see each other there,” she said after him as he slammed his way out of Harry’s office.

“Bloody…” began Harry in disbelief. “What did you say to him?”

“Something that needed saying,” was her only reply. “So Remus… what did you think of His Royal Arseness’s memory?”

“Disturbing,” Remus replied without hesitation. “I’ve heard Harry tell it, but seeing it is different. Snape really did betray us, didn’t he?”

Hermione arched an eyebrow. “That’s… debatable. You heard him, didn’t you? He knew I was there. He knew I had my Shadow Kin with me, and most of all, he knew I wouldn’t let Harry be taken. Yet the vampires they sent to fetch Harry couldn’t have possibly measured up to me, Solomon and Lucien. Snape needed to give Voldemort information, and he did, but the information was incomplete. If Snape had told them the whole truth, the older vampires would have readily volunteered to get rid of me so that Harry could be taken. Instead, Bellatrix could only get Silvia and her cronies to go. Low-level vamps. Bellatrix certainly seemed to have gotten a bad dose of Crucio for the failure of the mission. Maybe Voldemort punished Snape for the lack of information, too.”

“You imply that he’s helping us,” Remus said.

Hermione snorted. “Well… the train attack wasn’t intended to help us, I agree. While we were able to get some information from Silvia and Paolo, Snape’s motives, I’m afraid, are more complicated than that. I have to wonder if he really meant for his charade to save Malfoy’s life. I mean, what the hell does he care for the spoiled little snot?”

“You have a point,” Harry muttered, though he couldn’t help but wonder sometimes if the odd alliance he’d seen between Draco and Snape in the past didn’t have more to it than it appeared.

“What I do believe”—continued Hermione—“is that he used his meeting with Malfoy to communicate with us. He needs to limit direct contact with Harry, so that whatever it is he’s planning, he won’t easily get caught. He could have just given the letter straight to Malfoy, but then that would have resulted in three possibilities: One, Malfoy might never give the letter at all. Two, if we assume for a moment that Snape is looking out for Malfoy, that might have gotten little Malfoy in more trouble with the Order and Voldemort’s camp. Three, assuming that Snape really is trying to help the Order, the letter is evidence that Malfoy would have of Snape communicating with Harry, so if Malfoy so decides to try to get back in Voldemort’s good graces, all Draco has to do is bring that letter to Voldemort. Snape’s roundabout way through Draco’s memories is more effective and less prone to leading to catastrophic results. As Snape said, it tests your mettle, which implies that if you couldn’t figure it out, then there’s no point in helping you in the first place, and I’m pretty sure, Harry, that he left some kind of trail to lead you to look into Draco’s mind. Am I right?”

Harry nodded, having already concluded that Snape had deliberately left the Ministry that day without bothering to have “Roberts” clock-out. Whether Snape thought about doing this before or after he found out that Harry and his travel-party would be vulnerable targets on the Hogwarts Express, Harry didn’t know, but Snape was smart enough to figure that whether or not Roberts got assigned on the train on guard-duty that evening, his sudden absence from work on the afternoon prior to the attack would be investigated, and it would mark a path straight to Draco.

She brought out the letter and held it up. “I assume you couldn’t break the incantation on this?”

“I couldn’t.”

She nodded. “You wouldn’t be able to. He used the same method on this letter as he did with the one he gave Viktor. The ink’s spelled to recognize my magical signature. I can read it plain as anything.” She slid the folded parchment from its envelope and opened it. She held the letter out and let him watch as the words bled to the surface of the paper.

Harry frowned. “Are you sure you hadn’t missed any knickers when we were in Hogwarts?”

Remus looked scandalized.

Hermione felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “Oh, for--!”

“I’m just saying!”

“I stand by my theory that he uses my test papers and whatnot. Honestly, Harry!” She yanked him to her side so he could read the letter better as she held it.

Ms. Granger,

Being that we are both in no way friends of each other, I will get right to the point. I have spelled this ink to reveal itself only to you, and when you do activate the message, I would be alerted of this fact, thereby it would be possible for me to make arrangements for when I can finally meet with Mr. Potter. I’d have most willingly given him the choice for the venue, but as this method of communication precludes him from taking that necessary precaution, I will have to do the best I could on the matter of the venue. Forty-eight hours from the minute the words on this letter are revealed, Mr. Potter is to meet with me in Godric’s Hollow Anglican Church, third pew from the pulpit. I’m sure he knows which church I speak of. I’m going to say that he must come alone, but he probably won’t. Just make sure I see none of these bodyguards, or else I will not make an appearance. You understand, of course, that I chose hallowed ground to keep the lot of you undead freaks away. Take comfort in the fact that the precaution goes both ways for us.

I expect that by the time you read and unravel this message, things have begun to move quicker in the war; things would have progressed. Make no mistake about it. We are coming to a head, and soon, the Dark Lord will make his move. You ought to have made Potter ready by now. It is what Yasmin expects of you after all, is it not? Whether by love or violence, I frankly do not care. Potter better have a trump card, because the Dark Lord has kept his all this time.

I will be at the meeting place at precisely the same time you begin to read this, forty-eight hours hence. If Mr. Potter is not there within half an hour of the prescribed time, I will assume that he does not want to see me. I assure you that members of the Order will not be able to capture me, so do not even attempt that route. At any rate, my usefulness to the Dark Lord is fast coming to an end. I am at the cusp of completing my work for him, and when I’m done, I expect he will not keep me alive for very long, so if I were you, I would not waste this opportunity. If this war continues well after I’m gone, I assure you, all is lost, and you will have nothing of your precious Harry Potter left to save you.

Severus Snape

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry felt his stomach knotting at the words. Snape always had the power to knife true anxiety through his heart.

He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm. “This could be a trap.”

Harry nodded. “But what if it isn’t?”

Remus looked troubled. “I don’t know if you should risk it.”

“I should,” Harry said, and he knew, deep down, that he would even if Remus and Hermione told him not to.

Harry met Hermione’s gaze and she stood there, searching beyond the green of his eyes. She said nothing to contradict him. She knew better than anyone how he thought, even after having been separated from him for years.

Remus was less adept. “But Harry, Severus is a traitor! You can’t seriously—“

“I have to see him. The information he has is potentially tide-changing—“

“You don’t know that for sure!”

“Other people have died for less.”

Remus’s facial expression hardened. “I hate to say it, Harry, but the fate of the Wizarding world didn’t rest on those people’s shoulders. We couldn’t afford to lose you. We just couldn’t. If something happens to you—“

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” said Hermione resolutely. “Harry will do this whether we want him to or not, so I’ll let him. At least this way I can protect him.”

Harry couldn’t help but give her hand a grateful squeeze. She shot him a piercing gaze and he understood that she was doing this under protest. She didn’t want him to meet with Snape, but all she could do was take care of him because he’d go meet Snape anyway.

Remus’s tense shoulders finally sagged and he shook his head. “Very well. I’ll speak to Shacklebolt then. Make arrangements to ensure your safety.”

Harry had to chuckle. “The way all of you talk… you’d think I couldn’t protect myself.”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched. “If Godric Gryffindor and Albus Dumbledore could fall, then so could the great Harry Potter. The first two got done in by treachery, by the way, and you couldn’t have picked a worse man to trust.”

“Who says I trust him?”

She said nothing, but she gave him a meaningful stare, complete with the arching of her eyebrow. He shot back with a sardonic sneer all his own, to which she rolled her eyes and grimaced.

“My goodness, it’s true, isn’t it?” Remus said with mild disbelief. “You can speak with your eyes! Ron hates that, you know.”

“Well,” said Hermione loftily. “He can understand it too, if he paid more attention… where is he at, anyway? Is it usually like this with him? He’s here then he isn’t?”

“Only when he started dating Gabrielle, I suppose…” replied Harry as he thought back on it and realized that it was probably true. Ron’s schedule only started being erratic two and a half months ago.

“I don’t know how he could stand it, frankly,” Remus remarked in a weary tone. “He couldn’t possibly have that much time on his hands: going to work in Romania, visiting a girlfriend in France, and taking care of family in London… I’m not even going to try and sort out what in Aslan is going on with him and Luna.”

“Wow,” Hermione said. “When you put it that way, Ron’s life is absolutely soap-opera worthy, isn’t it?”

“If you think that’s a soap opera, wait till you hear about my life,” Harry said.

She pinched his shoulder playfully but made no other objection. She instead sat herself down behind Harry’s desk and began to look over the warding notes. “I’m going to work on this, for now. Let me know when you’re ready to discuss the plans for Harry’s meet-up with Snape.”

Remus nodded. “We ought to call an emergency meeting with Kingsley, McGonagall and Arthur. This is going to take some explaining, and Kingsley…”

“It’s about time we told him about the horcruxes,” Harry said, then he smirked. “I had a rather eye-opening conversation with Shacklebolt the other day and I think he’s finally decided I’m less of a menace than he first thought I was.”

Remus eyed him suspiciously. So did Hermione. He hadn’t told her the details of his conversation with Shacklebolt.

Harry chuckled mysteriously. “He’ll be quite teed-off when he finds out about the horcruxes, though, particularly because everyone on the board except him knows about them. And I expect that it’d take no less than enthusiastic arse-kissing to gain back his good graces. We’ll probably need to beg and grovel a bit. It’s not something I’m looking forward to.”

“I’ll bet,” Hermione said.

He cracked a lopsided grin before looking to Remus. “I’ll meet you in your study in a minute, Remus. I just have some things to discuss with Hermione.”

Remus didn’t even blink. “I’ll go ahead then. See you in a while, Harry.”

When Remus was gone, Hermione shot him a slanted look.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “What have I done this time?”

Harry laughed softly, sitting himself on the edge of his desk on one side of her. “Channeling Ron now, are you?”

“Am I? That wasn’t my intention. You just have this look in your eyes, see…”

“Two things,” he said, quietly. Though there was still a hint of a smile on his lips, he knew his eyes conveyed concern.

“Hit me with it, then. One at a time, please.”

He nodded. “Do you think I’m usurping your alpha status?”

Whatever she was expecting, it hadn’t been that. First she seemed surprised, then she flushed very brightly, tearing her eyes away from his gaze. “I already told you that you have some kind of power over me, Harry… you can probably tell me to jump through hoops of fire and I’ll do it.”

He smirked. “Oh, will you?”

She looked up at him, laughed at her own metaphor and looked away again, embarrassed. “You know what I mean…”

“Do you resent me for it?”

“Harry, it’s compli—“

“Do you resent me for it?”

She sighed. “I can’t resent you for it, can I? I love you, and I promised I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, and I even said I loved loving you this way, but I suppose… well, everyone’s beginning to see it, now, and it’s beginning to undermine my authority. I have no idea where it’s going to take me, but I hate it that I can’t just sit back anymore and let you have it all. It didn’t used to be this way. I used to be completely content to let you lead and tell me what to do, but now it’s grating at my vampire instincts…”

Harry stamped down the swelling tide of anxiety her words brought him. “So what are we going to do about this? I don’t want you to resent me, Hermione.”

“I don’t know what has to be done. It seems silly and petty to put boundaries on your authority…”

“It’s not silly and petty. Not to an alpha vampire with Shadow Kin and a werewolf.”

She groaned. “Please don’t figure Remus into this.”

“He’s your werewolf, whether you want to accept it or not.”

“Tonks will have my head for it.”

“Tonks understands more about her husband’s instincts than you give her credit for. She’ll scratch the eyes out of a female who tries to get into Remus’s pants, but she’s not one to fight were-nature when it comes to his vamp master. She’ll expect you to exercise your authority within reason, and I know you know what those boundaries are.”

“Female?”

“That’s what Tonks calls the lot of you. She tends to use were-lingo when it comes to Remus.”

She smirked. “Does she call herself Remus’s bitch?”

“I don’t even want to know. So what do you think, Hermione? Do you want me to back off on your territory?”

Her smirk morphed into a frown. “I don’t know, Harry. You shouldn’t have to worry about my alpha issues.”

“I will, anyway,” he said gently. “We’ve learned from our mistakes, haven’t we? Back then we thought our problems would sort themselves out because we were in love, and love could supposedly move mountains.”

“Erm, yeah. That’s… the theory…”

He grinned at that. Neither of them wanted to sound like the cynical one, but they weren’t exactly a couple oozing sunshine and rainbows, either. “Well, we know better now. It won’t fix itself, and if anyone could do anything about it, it’s me. You’re right; you can’t ask me to set boundaries. I’m going to have to set them myself, and I’ll know where those boundaries should be, given a situation. I’ll be more careful.”

She opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but she hesitated and finally nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate it, Harry. I appreciate it a lot.”

“Good. Then we can talk about the second issue. It’s a doozie.”

She made a face. “That’s not good. Anything that makes Harry Potter hesitate must be big.”

Carefully, he took her hand.

“Oh, dear. Handholding…” she grumbled.

He laughed softly. “Shut it. This is serious. This is about me, you, and my over-protective tendencies.”

The levity faded from her eyes and while she didn’t frown, her lips did purse ever so slightly. “What about it?”

“I admit that I’ve overdone the protective bit in the past, and it was one of the biggest reasons our relationship fell apart before.”

She gave a wary nod. “Yes, and we’re fine about that now, aren’t we? You’ve shown you can step back and let me fight, bear pain, and take a three-hundred pound werewolf solidly on the gut. Your development is, to say the least, revolutionary. Textbook punctuated equilibrium.”

Harry sighed and made a gently halting gesture. “Alright, stop that. You’re doing that misdirection thing again.”

She reddened and had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry. What I mean to say is… I thought we were past this issue? Or rather, you were past this issue.”

“I’ve been trying very hard,” he said. “And it’s not easy, Hermione. Whether you’re a vampire or not, I think I’d go barmy if someone sliced your arm off before my eyes. I still can’t stand the thought of anyone hurting you, whether the blow can kill you or not, and its difficult for me to stand by and watch. I managed to puzzle out the times when you truly need my help from when you don’t; when helping you is necessary from when doing so would jeopardize those I have an immediate responsibility to protect. And so when Ron tells me something happened to you that time you touched Gryffindor’s staff, I want to know, and the least you can do is tell me, and not shut me down.”

For a moment, she looked like she was going to be horribly stubborn about it and simply clam up, but she glanced away with reluctant surrender. “When I shut you down, it’s not because I think you have no right to be protective. I’m just—well, I don’t want you to worry about me so much, that’s all. You have loads of more important things to worry about and frankly, I feel like I should be the least of it. I’m immortal, for goodness’ sake…”

“More important things to worry about? Least of my worries?” he asked in a tone of disbelief. “You’re joking. Hermione, you’re the most important person in my life, and you’re always at the forefront of my mind. Do you think I can just set you aside in my thoughts and say, ‘Oh, I’ll worry about her later. She’s not going anywhere. Besides, she’s immortal?’ It doesn’t work that way. I know perfectly well that I’ve got responsibilities beyond you and me, but you’re—Merlin, do I even have to explain this to you? I can’t even explain it to myself! No bloke should ever have to be this gone on the woman he loves. Then again, all blokes should be this gone on the woman they love. Understand what I’m saying?”

She was staring up at him in wonder. “Not exactly, but goodness, please keep going. Right now I just want to shag your brains out and bear all twelve of your children… well, after a fashion, anyway...”

That disrupted his train of thought for a few seconds before he gave in to it and laughed softly. “The point being… I still worry about you, whether you want me to or not. I’m working on how I should react to it in each situation, but it doesn’t mean I’ll ever learn to worry less. So when I ask you about how things went, about what happened, I’d appreciate it if you tell me the truth.”

She expelled a soft breath and she met his eyes again, but this time, the stubbornness was gone. She seemed resigned to giving him what he asked of her. “Fine. I’ll be nicer about it. Old habits, I suppose. Nobody’s had to worry about me for anything in the last five years. One gets used to toughing it.”

“I bet. Now tell me what happened when you held the staff. Ron said you got sick.”

She made a face, briefly, like a child being forced to admit that she’d aided and abetted the pranking of the crotchety old lady next door. “It was painful at first, but I ignored the pain and just shoved the staff into its case. I couldn’t have held the staff for more than a few seconds, but I think it sort of… sort of left some residual traces of it in me because even after I closed it in its case, I felt like it was making me expel something… and I did expel it...”

Harry couldn’t help it. He stared at her in horror, his anxiety getting the better of him. “Well, do you have any idea what it was?”

Her brows knotted. “No… yes… I’m not sure. It was something warm and—and life-giving, I suppose. Whatever it was, I just knew it wasn’t the sort of thing that’s supposed to come back up, you know? It came out of me and instead of feeling better, I felt worse. I had to take a breather, and that’s saying something from someone who doesn’t need air to live, you know…” If she was trying for levity, it didn’t work. “When I gave Lucien blood, I was totally sapped. It’s not usually like that when I give blood for healing. Solomon was relatively fine after he gave some to Lucien, and normally, I’d be just as well off, but I guess the staff had more of an effect on me than I wanted to admit.”

He studied her intently, trying to see if maybe there were any residual effects from that time that he might have missed seeing. It was most troubling, because what could a vampire possibly do without if it wasn’t blood? Strangest of all, the effect on Lucien hadn’t been the same. The staff had sucked life from Lucien. It didn’t make him expel anything, but then again, perhaps it was Lucien’s prolonged contact that made the difference? Plausible, but as Harry recalled, the moment he took the staff from Lucien, all effects it had on Lucien ceased, and one would think Lucien would feel more of the so-called “residual magic”. Perhaps it had to do with Lucien’s Muggle origins.

I suppose that could be the determining factor…

Harry clung to that last conclusion, even if it did very little to appease his worry.

“I’m alright now, Harry,” she said, probably understanding the look in his eyes. “I feel no lasting effects, so you can just stop thinking about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Are you—“

“Okay, Potter, now you’re just annoying.” She was smiling when she said it, but he got the hint.

“Right. Sorry. Got carried away there for a second.”

“It’s alright. Besides… I should be so lucky someone worries, eh? That’s how I’m going to try to look at it, anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“So are we done?”

“God, I hope not.”

She grinned and stood, draping her arms over his shoulders. “So… how long did you say Remus was going to wait? This office desk is just screaming to be defiled. Haha! Get it? Office desk, de-filed?”

He laughed, his hands sliding over her bum. “I get it. Boy, do I get it…”

They came together in a steamy kiss, and just when Harry was about to sweep everything off his desk to “defile” it, a knock sounded at the door.

Hermione was still planting kisses on his neck when he cried, “Who is it?”

Draco’s voice began to drift through the thick mahogany door. “There are a bunch of vamps outside the house and they used me as their pager again with their funky mind-powers. I really, really hate it when they do that, Granger. This is the second time. I’m not a messenger boy! So maybe you can put off nookie with your Boy-Toy Who Lived for the meantime and tell your friends to please leave me the hell alone. Mmm-kay? Thanks.”

Harry heard Malfoy’s footsteps receding.

“Shit,” Harry and Hermione hissed in unison as they scrambled to right themselves.

“Need company?” Harry asked.

She sighed. “No. It’s probably just Keiko and her Kin. I owled her earlier this evening. Solomon and Lucien’s company will do.”

“Right… I have to go to Remus’s study, anyway. You’re distracting as hell, witch.”

She shot him a parting wink just before she sailed out of his study.

He left his office and went to Remus’s study.

Remus was speaking to Kingsley through the floo when Harry arrived. He joined in on the discussion. Several minutes later, Shacklebolt was already agreeing that he would floo McGonagall and that Remus would floo Arthur when a knock sounded on the door.

The visitor was called in and it was Lucien.

“Harry, Hermione told me to tell you that her initial estimate of vampires in attendance outside appeared to be off.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. “By how much?”

“Oh… by about eight vamps.”

Harry winced. So less Lucien, there were about thirteen vamps standing on the front lawn.

“I expect we’ll need Obliviators,” Remus said.

“Yes, I’d expect so,” muttered Harry. “Any hostiles?”

Lucien hesitated. “Well, they’re not looking to slice our heads off now if that’s what you mean.”

Harry pondered this a moment. “Does Hermione want me to go out there?”

“She’d rather you didn’t, you understand, but the others want to meet you and Hermione doesn’t want them coming into the house. I really wouldn’t recommend them coming in here either. Those McLeods always make me nervous.”

“McLeods?”

“Of the clan McLeod. Oldest living Scottish clan there is upon which the fictional immortals of ‘Highlander’ were based. Of course, in the story, they weren’t vampires…”

Harry wasn’t sure he understood what Lucien was talking about, but he knew about the McLeods from their human history. He hadn’t realized that they had a whole vampire side to their clan. “Remus, I better go…”

Remus gestured for him to go ahead. “I’ll call for the Obliviators.”

Harry followed Lucien to the front of the house and sure enough, the large group stood clustered in the middle of the lawn.

He could tell that Hermione was the focal point in the group. He recognized Keiko among them, two other women and curiously, a child. Apart from Solomon, Harry recognized none of the men.

He didn’t like the idea of going into that group without knowing a blessed thing. Eyeing the group from the window, he spoke to Lucien. “Think you can brief me about them? Swiftly, please.”

“Absolutely. You know Keiko. She brought her kin with her. That huge, blonde barbarian is Lars. The trendy one with the faux-hawk is Michael.”

“Faux-hawk?”

“Fake Mohawk. Now, that tall Mediterranean featured bloke is Ambrose. He represents the Brotherhood of Osiris. He’s the S.O. of the Brotherhood’s master vamp Gabriel.”

“S.O.?”

“Significant Other. They’ve been together for more than a hundred years now. It’s true love. Ambrose brought his kin, Blythe and Caitlin. Blythe’s the dark one with the hot blonde highlights in her hair. Caitlin’s the one with the sexy bob.”

“Got it. Is that a child they have there? I thought child-vamps were an aberration?”

“Yes, but Poppy managed to live four hundred years without anyone accounting for her head. Even Silvia couldn’t touch her. Besides, if Silvia even tries, Cecil will have the murdering of her. Cecil’s that tall bloke with the long red hair. Blind as a bat, but he can see things no one else can and he’s second to Basil Sigismund, Vamp Master of the Blood-Kin of Ramses.”

“And those men in kilts are the McLeods?”

“Right. Duffy McLeod’s one of the youngest of the vamp-side of the clan, but he’s gained a respectable reputation as an ambassador. Those blokes with him are Ronan McLeod-Brodie and Nes McLeod-McGowan, both cousins of his. Ronan’s older than Duffy by about seventy-five years. Nes is practically newly-turned. Two years. Eager little bugger…”

Harry nodded, taking careful note. “Alright. Anything else?”

“’Bout covers it.”

“Then let’s go.”

When Harry emerged with Lucien, all eyes turned to Harry, their vampiric gazes sizing him up. He imagined he wasn’t a very imposing sight. Sometimes, especially in a fight, he liked being underestimated. Right now, he could tell, even without reading their minds, that they were thinking along the lines of, “Thought he’d be taller, by the stories,” or “Bit scrawny, isn’t he?” He shrugged it off. He was used to that sort of thing.

One of his shoelaces was untied and he had a neurotic urge to drop down and tie it.

Stifling the itch, he approached the group and looked back at them all with casual ease. “Evening.”

He probably could have thought of something better to say, but well…

Hermione didn’t seem to mind it in the least. “Everyone, this is Harry Potter.”

There was a ripple of murmured greetings. They were all probably a bit too fascinated by the swotty-looking human with the glasses.

Cecil, whose smoky eyes seemed to look past him, cocked a smile. There were strange tattoos on the back of his hands, and they were wrapped lightly around swords hung at his hips. He turned in the general direction of Poppy and nodded.

At this, Poppy, the child, approached Harry and held out her hand. “How do you do, Mr. Potter? My name is Poppy. Were it not for your rather impressive reputation and Hermione Granger’s endorsement, my alpha and I would not have come here.”

Harry took her hand and shook it. Her hand was tiny. She could not have been more than seven years old when she was turned, yet her child-like voice spoke adult words with adult intonations. Her eyes were ancient.

One by one, the vampires introduced themselves. The hulking McLeods practically crushed his hand in their firm grips.

With introductions done, Hermione arched her eyebrow expectantly. “Well, you’ve met him. What now?”

The vamps looked at one another before they turned their gazes at Cecil.

“He’s strong,” Cecil simply said.

Harry hadn’t quite expected that.

“He killed Edward,” Lars said, nodding. “Convincingly. He can move as fast as us. Saw it with my own eyes.”

Ronan frowned. “Edward’s twa bubbles aff the center.”

“Wit are ye haiverin aboot?” said Duffy. “Ha many humans d’ye ken wid take on a vamp. Lad’s got stones lak bludgers, even if I’d norm’ly say it wis a right stupid thing fer him tae dae...”

Ronan scowled.

Harry hadn’t understood any of that in the least.

“He’s killed six others before that,” Ambrose said gravely.

“Awa ye go,” gasped Nes. He grinned and pounded Harry on the back. “Haud up yer heid like a thistle! Six! Nae bat fera human!”

Harry was completely lost. “Had up my what?”

“It’s not just his killing abilities that recommend him, you know,” Hermione said haughtily.

Poppy eyed Harry intently.

“What else recommends him?” asked Caitlin in a cheerful, air-headed manner.

Blythe grinned. “Yes. We’d like to know.”

Hermione glared at them.

“He’s not afraid of us,” said Keiko. “And he leads his humans well.”

Harry was getting a little tired of everyone talking about him like he wasn’t there. “He is wondering what the hell this is all about.”

“Their masters are considering allying themselves with the Coven for this war,” said Hermione, looking at him as if he should have known this. “Ambrose, Cecil and Duffy have come here to—well, assess you themselves. They will return to their masters with their recommendations.”

Harry wasn’t sure if he was overly excited by this tidbit. “Yeah, one moment… Lucien?”

Lucien flushed and tried to get behind Solomon. Solomon shoved him away.

Finally, Lucien replied. “Yes?”

“I reckon that might have been useful information earlier. No, wait… I’m pretty positive it would have been useful information earlier.”

“Sorry,” muttered Lucien, shamefaced.

Harry sighed. There was nothing to be done for it. He turned to the other vampires. “Look, as far as incentives for you to join the cause go, I’m not at liberty to give more than what the Coven negotiated. At any rate, I think the Coven’s demands covered vamp-kind in general, so at least in that sense, the Coven wasn’t just thinking of themselves, but I’m telling you… whatever Voldemort promised Janus, and the vamps that joined him, is a lie. Voldemort doesn’t believe that anyone but human wizards have the right to live. If he wins this war, you and your kind are sooner or later going to find yourselves being summarily exterminated while you sleep. He’s going to find your hives and covens and resting places and he’ll burn you in your coffins. It’s a fact. He’ll kill you all. I always said this wasn’t just a war for humans anymore. The werewolves have acknowledged this; now you have to understand that Voldemort doesn’t like sharing his spoils. I’m not just asking you to stay away from him, I’m telling you helping us win against him is vital to your survival and everyone’s way of life. Tell that to your masters and then decide if you’ll join us.”

Eyebrows arched all at once.

Ronan nodded gravely. “There’s aye a somethin’.”

Harry looked at him in frustration, “I’m sorry but… I can’t understand what you and your clansmen are saying!”

Duffy smirked. “Least someone fina’ly admits it. Ronan, Nes, we’d best go.”

The two clansmen nodded.

Duffy looked to Harry. “May yer lums reek lang and weil.” After which Duffy and his clansmen bled back into the dark and disappeared.

Harry didn’t even ask. Duffy could have been cursing him to eternal damnation and Harry never would have known.

“He said that on purpose to confuse you,” said Ambrose with a disapproving shake of his head. “He didn’t even need to say it! But be that as it may, they’re dependable allies, those McLeods. If they ever get the notion of giving their loyalty to this cause, your Order will be well tended. I will bring your message to my master, Harry Potter, and you will know our decision in a night or two.”

Caitlin pouted, twirling a finger in a lock of hair as she stamped her foot lightly on the lawn. “But it’s Gabriel’s birthday tomorrow and stuff like that always puts him in a funk! He’s no fun when he’s moody and angsty.”

Ambrose smiled, tolerating her dramatics. He gave an unhurried gesture, waving off Caitlin’s protests. “I rather like it when Gabriel is moody and angsty.”

Blythe rolled her eyes. “We’re at the cusp of war and all you can think of is buggering. Good show, Ambrose.”

Ambrose shrugged lightly. “I have my priorities straight.” His voice was quiet and unperturbed. He was grinning, but he meant what he said.

Well, my priorities are pretty damn well in perfect order, too, Harry thought mischievously, his eyes roving briefly to Hermione.

“In the words of John…” continued Ambrose.

Blythe’s eyebrow arched. “From the Bible?”

“No, from the Beatles: All you need is love.”

The man makes worthy points. Harry didn’t even know he was smirking until Hermione nudged him.

“We’ll get back to you, Harry Potter,” said Ambrose before turning to Hermione. “Remember what John said.”

She gave him a questioning stare. “All you need is love?”

“No, not that John. Elton John. ‘People should be free to engage in any sexual practices they choose,’” He gave Harry a pointed glance. “Man, woman, vamp or human.” He left, giving Hermione a wink.

With that, an SUV pulled up in the curb. Ambrose and his kin slipped into it and the SUV drove off.

Harry looked expectantly at Cecil and said, “Any parting words, Cecil?”

“Yes, actually.” Cecil held his hand out to the little girl. “Poppy, I’m hungry. We should go.”

Poppy smirked and took her alpha’s hand.

They simply walked off and Poppy waved goodbye to them over her shoulder just before the mist swallowed them whole.

“And you?” Harry asked Keiko. “What’s your dramatic exit going to be?”

Keiko exchanged looks with her kin.

Michael shrugged. “I hadn’t given it any thought. I’ve been thinking about that candy shop we passed on our way here and I’m desperately craving for some chocolate.”

Keiko’s brows knotted. “We have no time for stopovers after this. We have to escort The King back in his cave, remember? Another tabloid reported a sighting, which means he got past the wards again. Honestly…”

Harry’s eyed widened in wonder. “The King? Which king got turned?”

Solomon laughed. “The one of rock and roll.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Wicked.”

Keiko frowned. “Not wicked. I don’t know why he moved to England in the first place. They were perfectly happy to have him in Memphis, but no… he had to come here and now I have to baby sit him. But, that’s neither here nor there. As the king says: A little less conversation, a little more action, please.” She handed over scrolls of parchment, first to Hermione, then to Harry. “Our reports, complete and unabridged.”

“What is it with tonight and famous people quotes?” Hermione muttered, taking the offered scrolls. “Listen, I’d like Yasmin updated about what happened tonight. I’m a little confused as to why the Brotherhood, the Blood-Kin and the McLeods came to me instead of her, but if she finds out from someone else that they did, she’ll throw a hissy fit—“

“They came to you, Hermione, because Yasmin couldn’t be found.”

Harry was mildly surprised by this news.

Hermione looked baffled. “What do you mean by that? Yasmin keeps her own schedule, I know, but she can always be found through Henry, and she would always make time for the three biggies, especially the Brotherhood.”

“Yes, but she didn’t this time. Nobody knows where she is. Not even Henry.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous. Henry’s lying. He always knows where she is.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. Always?

“He doesn’t, this time,” said Keiko. “He’s the one who started asking around in the first place. He hasn’t heard from her since six days ago. The man’s a nervous wreck, and Henry’s not pretty when he’s nervous.”

Hermione began to look pissed. “Well, that’s just perfect, isn’t it? What’ll the Coven do if this war goes down and she’s not around? I can’t believe this! That stupid bitch is doing this on purpose! She’s punishing me, is what!”

“Or,” said Keiko calmly. “She really is just missing. Maybe someone finally decided to do her in. It was only a matter of time. The woman’s not exactly a crowd favorite, if you know what I mean.”

Hermione exchanged incredulous looks with Harry.

He shrugged.

Hermione turned her gaze back to Keiko. “How can you just stand there and say that calmly? Do you even comprehend the repercussions of her death? Who’s going to run the coven? Has anyone even bothered to consult with the Oracle keepers?”

Keiko scowled. “Well, of course. They said the Oracle hasn’t said anything, ergo, it isn’t worried.”

“Of course it isn’t worried! It’s an Oracle! It doesn’t have any feelings! God, have you all gone daft?”

Keiko cast her a dry look. “At the very least, the Oracle would say something like, ‘Hey, here’s your new Master,’ or something like that. It won’t let the Coven go to hell, you know. Honestly, Hermione, the way you talk, you’d think you were worried about her.”

Hermione sighed exasperatedly. “You don’t even want to know the things I’m worried about. Look, if you can, have a team try to find her. Get Diana and Sergio to lead. They’re our best trackers, after all. Goodness, I can’t deal with this right now. I’ve too many things on my plate.”

“Fine. Tatiana said someone was going to come up with the brilliant idea of organizing a search party for Yasmin sooner or later. She didn’t think it would be you, though. One would think you’d be glad to rid yourself of the bitch.”

Hermione glared at her. “Just do it.”

Keiko expelled a breath, probably to keep her patience.

Harry realized that Hermione hadn’t lost her bossy touch in the least.

Keiko turned to Lars and Michael. “Ladies, let’s go.” She stomped off and her kin followed. They trudged down the sidewalk with no mist, no dark, no car, no nothing. They simply disappeared around the corner.

Hermione growled and headed straight for the house. “Unbe-fucking-lievable! Can you believe Yasmin? First she dumps this mission on me, then she fucks with my Shadow Kin, then she disappears!”

“Ouch,” Harry said. “Surely getting ‘dumped’ with this mission isn’t all that bad, is it?”

She had the grace to blush. “Well, of course not. The good things that came out of this mission far outweigh the bad, but you know what I mean, Harry. The Brotherhood, the Blood-Kin of Ramses and the McLeods could very well decide to ally themselves with the Order, but we’ll still need Yasmin to control them. Without her, things can go from bad to worst!”

Lucien and Solomon winced. She had squeaked. Squeaking from Hermione was bad.

Harry held her by the shoulders to calm her. “Relax. Maybe she is avoiding all of them. Maybe if it’s you that summons her, she’ll respond.”

She did seem to calm down in his gentle grip. “Maybe. I can try emailing her… find a Starbucks and connect from there… owl, perhaps. God, she’s such a bitch…”

“I know. It’s going to be alright. One question, though. I never bothered to ask because… well, I suppose the bits and pieces you’ve said had an explanation or two that made me shrug them off… it didn’t all actually click together until now.”

Her eyebrow arched. “What is it?”

“Remember that time Lucien went missing? We went to Henry, because you said Solomon and Lucien go to him when they need their shit cleaned up. Does that mean you’ve been to London in the last five years?”

Hermione frowned. “No. It means Lucien and Solomon have been to London in the last five years. Why?”

Harry felt anger boiling inside him, not at Hermione, but at Henry. “I thought so. See, that’s the thing. It occurred to me a while ago that you referred to Henry as some kind of confidante to Yasmin, the way you said that he always knows where she is…”

“Well, yes. Of course he would. Henry’s Yasmin’s Shadow Kin, and she based him in London.”

Harry was hitting bursting point. “Shadow Kin? How long’s that been so?”

“Oh, almost five years now.”

“Almost five years. Right. That’s just fantastic, isn’t it? Because it means that Henry’s known your whereabouts for—oh, the whole time you were gone!”

She thought about it briefly. “Well… I wouldn’t say he knew the whole time. Yasmin moved us around a lot, and most of the time, Henry didn’t know exactly where we were.”

“But he could contact you if he needed to?”

“Basically.”

Harry took deep, calming breaths. He let go of Hermione and turned away from her to try and control his rage.

It was no use. Porcelain and crystal décor began exploding all around and Hermione had to yell over the din for Harry to reel in his magic. Lucien and Solomon ducked for cover.

“Harry! What the hell—“

“He knew! All this time, he knew! He’d been playing me for years! He could have just told me where you were, but no! He had to send me on wild goose chases—I’m going to kill that bugger if it’s the last thing I do! No wonder I couldn’t find you! He’s been pointing me in the wrong direction the whole time! That buggering, good for nothing, son of a—“ The chandelier above them blew and most of the candles toppled to their waxy demise as pieces of crystal and bronze showered them like fairy crap.

“Harry calm down!” She shrieked. “Look, Henry couldn’t wank off if Yasmin didn’t tell him to! He does what he’s told, Harry. He only played you because Yasmin probably told him to! Harry, for God’s sake! Settle down!”

Harry heard footsteps, and moments later, Remus and Draco were there demanding what the hell was happening.

In retrospect, his anger was useless. Everything was done and over with. He had Hermione back, they were together, he had Gryffindor’s staff, and he had vampires fighting on the side of the Order.

Oh, but what I would give to whoop Henry’s sorry arse!

Harry kicked at the debris around him and sent a few other cut crystals exploding with residual magic.

“Arthur fucking Pendragon! Potter’s finally gone mad!” Draco cried. “Granger, control your human!”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Hermione hissed. “Harry, listen to me. You should just calm down now. There’s nothing we can do about all of it. It’s done and you can’t turn things back. I always thought Yasmin had an agenda, but I couldn’t begin to measure the extent of it yet, and now she’s gone missing when she knows we might need her. There’s a reason for everything she does, and usually it’s for the good of vamp-kind, but I have to admit that lately, I don’t know which interest—or whose interest—she’s protecting, anymore. This is why I’m freaked out about finding her, Harry. We need answers, and that’s just one issue. There are a bunch of other things we have to deal with in the meantime. We have to concentrate on what we can do right now. Harry, are you listening to me?”

“YES! God, yes! Can you just PLEASE—“

“Don’t yell at me.”

He stopped, pursing his lips before letting go of the tension in his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

Everyone seemed to release a breath after that.

“It’s alright,” Hermione muttered, approaching him cautiously.

He saw her eyes rove to the mess around him and he actually mustered a laugh. “I’ll fix it all later, I promise.”

“I wasn’t thinking that… well, yes, I was, but I wasn’t going to nag you about it…”

“Stop the presses,” Draco muttered audibly to Remus.

Hermione planted a hand on her hip and eyed Draco with furrowed brows. “I don’t get that. What do you mean by that?”

Draco actually looked stunned for a moment and looked to everyone in the room.

Lucien was idly pushing around some bits of porcelain with his toe and Solomon was suddenly so very interested in the pile of melting candles nearby.

Harry said nothing, waiting and wondering if Draco dared.

“Well, you said—then I said…“ began Draco, but perhaps thinking better of it, he threw up his hands and sighed exasperatedly. “Forget it. It doesn’t sound as clever anymore.” He left.

When he was gone, Hermione smirked triumphantly. “Ha! I so had him!”

Harry should’ve known, but even Solomon and Lucien looked surprised. They laughed for a bit, but Harry thought they sounded more relieved than tickled. He supposed they’d been on the receiving end of Hermione’s wrath enough times to know what it really entailed.

Remus shook his head, smiling with mild acquiescence. “I’ll be in my study if anyone needs me.” He disappeared through the arch and Harry heard Remus’s footsteps as he ascended the stairs.

“So how about it, Potter?” Hermione asked. “Ready to be productive? I don’t know about you, but I want to get to the bottom of all this right quick. If I’m going to be Yasmin’s and Snape’s pawn, I can either take it sitting down or I can give them hell for it. And as Duffy McLeod would say, ‘Mak a kirk or a mill o’ it.”

Harry laughed at her Scottish burr. “And that means what, again?”

She grinned. “It means the choice is yours. The choice is always yours. Don’t you ever forget that.”

He smiled, because of course, she was right.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Some references where references are due:

Props to John Travolta and William Hurt for their conversation in the movie Michael (yes, I was one of the 15 people in the world who saw it).

Michael: Remember what John and Paul said.

Frank Quinland: The apostles?

Michael: No, the Beatles. All you need is love.

Elton John did say, “People should be free to engage in any sexual practices they choose. They should draw the line at goats, though.”

Elvis Presley did sing, “A little less conversation. A little more action, please.”

Mae West did point out that, “When women go wrong, men go right after them.”

But Seamus took his cues from me when he said, “The tragedy of a single man is losing a woman to death and marriage, especially if the marriage is his.”

Deciphering those impossibly Scottish terminologies and burr:

Twa bubbles aff the center – Means someone who is stupid or simple.

Wit are ye haiverin aboot? – “What are you haiverin about?” Haiverin means talking nonsense.

Ha many humans d’ye ken wid take on a vamp – “How many humans do you know would take on a vamp?”

Awa ye go – Expressing disbelief. Like “Get outta here!”

Haud up yer heid like a thistle! – “Hold up your head like a thistle!” Be proud!

Nae bat fera human! – “Not bad for a human!”

There’s aye a somethin’ – When there’s talk of disaster, tragedy or adversity, this is the response.

May yer lums reek lang and weil – “May your chimneys smoke long and well.” It’s like wishing someone good fortune instead of saying goodbye.

Mak a kirk or a mill o’ it – “Make a church or a mill of it.” It does mean, “The choice is yours.”

34. Chapter Thirty-third: Daemon

Author’s notes: Lots of exposition. Hopefully, I was able to break it down so that it isn’t confusing, or boring.

I know I promised this sooner, but suddenly there were all these errands!! So sorry about that. But here. I most certainly hope you like it.

Thank you so very much to my wonderful beta. She got this to me so much earlier than I released it, so it’s totally not her fault! We both thank you for all the kinds words, the reviews, and the amazing response.

Also, thank you so much to the folks who seconded this fic for the Master List. ::great big hug::

Chapter rating: R

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Thirty-third: Daemons

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The nights preceding the meeting with Severus Snape were filled with activity. After Harry and Remus explained everything to McGonagall, Arthur, and Shacklebolt, plans were quickly made to ensure Harry’s safety. Explaining the circumstances of the horcruxes to Shacklebolt turned out to be surprisingly easy. Shacklebolt didn’t show as much displeasure about it as they expected he would, though he was miffed.

“I’d rather not waste time dwelling on the fact that you should have trusted me with this information. However, be that as it may, perhaps I do understand why you did not. We shall leave it at that.”

Harry was grateful for his boss’s no-nonsense personality. Shacklebolt, at first glance, was an inflexible man who followed the rules with hair-splitting precision, but having worked with him in the last five years, Harry knew better. Shacklebolt stuck to his wands when he believed in something, and while he may seem rigid and unyielding, he was, in fact, just incredibly deliberate about his choices. He placed careful thought on the causes he supported, the decisions he made, and the people he trusted. Once he decided that something was right, he would adhere to it without fuss or folly. Hence, he wasn’t going to throw a hissy-fit because he was only now told about the Horcruxes. The important thing was he was told. Anything else would be useless drama.

In the meantime, Hermione used most of her waking time creating the wards for the Strigoi chamber. By nine of the following night, she was reasonably certain that her computations would hold and she recommended that they put the wards up immediately.

“That thing needs destroying,” she said, the way one would say that a plant needed watering, or how the laundry needed hanging out to dry. They’d been too long amidst conflict, it seemed, to so calmly pronounce the destruction of a rare and precious artifact, or worse yet, to call it a “thing”.

Gryffindor would bemoan the loss of his staff and Ravenclaw would bemoan their complete disregard of history.

So they hurried on over to the Department of Mysteries, set up the wards, shoved the case in the Strigoi chamber and unraveled the staff by simply knocking the cover off the case with brute magic. There was no need to remove the staff from its warded nest.

The wards outside the chamber held. The wards were perfect. Hermione had done it again, but as was the tendency of most disasters, the problem only became evident when it was too late to do anything about it.

Everything looked fine in the beginning, of course. Harry, Remus, Hermione, Dedalus and Shacklebolt watched as the Strigoi eagerly approached the staff. The staff pulsed with power and the Strigoi latched on to it looking immensely happy about its meal. The staff’s glow began to recede to a dull sheen, and Shacklebolt actually said, “It seems to be working.”

But that indeed qualified as speaking too soon. The moment the words escaped Shacklebolt’s mouth, the Strigoi gave a terrified shriek.

Harry was immediately alarmed. He didn’t even know Strigoi had a voice to shriek with.

When the staff appeared to flare with magic, Harry could do nothing but watch, stunned at how the creature morphed from one shape to another in rapid succession, sometimes cross-morphing into two or three animal-forms at once. The Strigoi flailed and struggled, obviously trying to detach itself from the staff, but it could not.

Harry felt the grip of Hermione’s hand, the panic in her eyes. He doubted if she felt concern for the creature; he could tell that her fear stemmed from somewhere else—knew that the press of her fingers on his arm was not for the dying Strigoi. He felt an overwhelming need to do something, just so she wouldn’t be so afraid for him; just so she could see that he wasn’t at the mercy of Voldemort’s Horcruxes, and that he wasn’t about to give up anytime soon.

“Good lord, is it supposed to do that?” Shacklebolt cried.

“No,” Harry said, raising his hand and pressing it to the wards. If he was going to detach the Strigoi from the staff, he had to cast his spell within the wards. As it was, the lead cage was going to wreak havoc on his accuracy. He was about to push through when Hermione yanked him back.

“Don’t,” Hermione hissed, getting between him and the wards. “We don’t know how badly your magic would react to the staff’s magic. We can’t risk it, Harry. Let it go. The process has failed and there’s nothing we can do about it now.”

“She’s right,” Remus said, his brows knotting with worry. “She’s right…”

The creature faded as it turned into mist, thinned, and scattered into nothing.

The staff pulsed once more then it settled, the thrum of its power pushing lightly against the lead and the wards surrounding it.

“It appears we’ve encountered a set-back,” said Dedalus with surprising calmness.

“Indeed,” said Harry wearily. With the Strigoi gone, Harry walked through the wards, unaffected by the staff’s power. He could see the others through the wards; saw the fear in their eyes as he felt his scar tingle. It was probably glowing again.

He undid the sealing charms on the lead chamber and got as near to the staff as he dared without touching it. With mild magic, he gave his wand a small flick and replaced the cover on the case.

The staff’s power was shut in, the faint traces it left in its wake receding almost immediately.

He could see Hermione moving to cross the wards and he shot her a warning glare.

No.

She saw it, understood it and sighed even as she glared right back.

He wasn’t going to let her through the wards with the danger just so recently contained. He might not feel any residual magic, but there still might be, and considering what Hermione had told him, it had a very negative effect on her.

Harry left the case in the chamber and removed the glamour. The chamber now looked nothing more than block of lead.

He stepped out of the wards and ran his fingers through his unruly hair. “Merlin… as if we didn’t have enough problems.”

“At least we didn’t blow up an entire Quidditch Pitch, this time,” muttered Remus.

Shacklebolt looked askance at them. “Should’ve known you had something to do with that. No wonder McGonagall hadn’t a kind word to say about you two for weeks after that.”

“Ron was there, too,” Harry said. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe there was merit in distributing the blame, after all.

“More’s the pity. That means three people, not just two, were fool enough to explode an entire Quidditch Pitch accidentally.”

“I reckon we’ll not be trying to dunk that staff in the potion, then?” Dedalus asked thoughtfully.

“Not unless you want to make a crater out of the Ministry,” said Harry.

Dedalus smirked. “Don’t tempt me.”

“We’ll keep the staff here for now. I’ll get Ron to come over and put his best sealing charms on it… in the meantime, we better start research on how to destroy that thing.”

Remus nodded. “I’ll search through the archives of the MRI.”

“I’ll contact McGonagall and explain the situation to her,” said Shacklebolt. “Perhaps she can start research on it as well.”

Harry took Hermione’s hand as he told them they’d be in 12 Grimmauld Place, looking through the Black family library.

“My place is here,” said Dedalus. “And you can be sure I’ll put my best resources on it.”

Their prospects certainly weren’t bleak, but did they have the time to spare? They could only hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They hastened to the library at 12 Grimmauld Place and scoured the shelves for whatever material that might help.

Harry dug out one of the many books Bill Weasley had recommended to him for curse breaking and piled them all on the long work table. Hermione hauled books about forbidden potions and magical poisons. Lucien and Solomon carried all the books for her.

They had a sizable stack of books by the time they were done with the first pass, and it wasn’t long before he and Hermione were engrossed in the books’ darkly worded pages. Lucien and Solomon had their own books, and while they did make an effort to focus, Harry could tell that their minds often wandered.

The rasp of old paper as Hermione flipped the pages of her book was the only sound that broke through the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

Harry found it surprisingly easy to focus on his work. He thought maybe he’d be distracted and aware, having Hermione so near and in the one place she was totally herself, but he discovered that her presence was more reassuring than distracting, and that this productive silence they shared was comfortable.

They scribbled notes on their parchment, checked cross-references and flagged pages, all the while sitting side by side and making full use of what time they had.

It was two hours later that Solomon finally stood up and said, “That’s it. I need a break. May I, Hermione?”

She exchanged brief glances of amusement with Harry before she said, “Sure, Sol. Take as much time as you need. Harry and I can handle this. Lucien, you want to go with him?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Lucien muttered, following Solomon.

They both promised that they wouldn’t be long.

When they were gone, Harry leaned back on his seat and took off his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Found anything yet?”

She bit her lip. “We’ve only been looking for two hours…”

He smiled tiredly and realized with mild amazement that he’d had his hand on her lap during several intervals as he read passages and quilled citations. He rubbed lazily at her thigh with belated awareness, knowing that in spite of the dire times and everything that was happening around them, he was so very glad that the sense of reassurance he felt was reminiscent of the companionable silences they shared all those years ago. Though there were many things that they couldn’t ever have back, the most important things had never left them. It went into hiding for a time, maybe, some feelings hiding deeper within them than others, but retrievable, and that just bolstered his belief than spending the rest of his life with her would never ever come close to being as dismal as she predicted.

“I love you,” he said quietly. He’d said it to her before, yes. He couldn’t even count how many times, but this felt like that first time he told her, when her arms were elbow-deep in soap-suds and she was washing dishes the Muggle way. At that time, it was all he wanted to say to her. No explanations; no justification; just that it was, and he meant it with all his heart. She had looked up at him over her shoulder, utterly mesmerized, like she couldn’t believe that he’d said it, like she’d never dared to hope he’d feel such a thing for her until that moment.

It had happened only five years ago, yet it felt like ages since, having gone through so much, but now seemed more real; more certain in spite of the million uncertainties. He remembered every single thing that had gotten them to this moment, but he still wouldn’t be able to explain how they had arrived. Here, where things between them felt so much more solid in a world that could crumble at any given time.

She seemed just as surprised now; like during that first time he told her, but he doubted if her reasons for that surprise were the same. She leaned over, brushing some hair off his forehead with a gentle flick of her fingers. “I love you, too, Harry.”

He turned on his seat to face her, taking her hands and rubbing his thumb lightly on the ring on her finger. He looked at it, the matching bands gleaming softly in the dimness of the library. “Some day I’ll want to make these rings mean what they’re supposed to mean.”

She didn’t pull away, and she turned on her seat so that they would be face to face. He looked up and saw sadness beset her eyes through her small smile. “Some day. And when that day comes I’ll let it mean what they’re supposed to mean.”

He kissed her, lips touching with the gentle stroking of their tongues. When they separated, the sadness in her eyes was still there. He pushed some hair off her forehead. “What are you thinking?”

She hesitated then rubbed her nose on his chin, his lips and kissed him briefly before replying. “That I’m happy.”

He smiled, a hint of weariness straining at the corners. “Then why do you look so sad?”

“I’m not. I swear I’m not.”

He wouldn’t believe her. “Tell me what’s wrong and I’ll fix it.” His tone was undemanding, and his hand lifted her face to look at him, so that she couldn’t lie.

Her eyes glistened but no tears spilled and he could see that this sadness wasn’t new, that it had been plaguing her for years even when he hadn’t been around.

“It’s not something you can fix, Harry. And it’s not something I want you to fix. It’s wonderful and natural…”

It was confusing him, but Hermione was a soul of reason and sense. He urged her to explain. “Then why—“

“It’s your mortality,” she finally said. “You’re mortal, Harry. Some people… they think mortality is a weakness, but it isn’t. Mortality is a gift. It’s like a box of special possibilities more profound than what eternal life could bring, yet… there are so many things and people conspiring to take your life; if I can’t find the solution, they’ll win and you’ll die. And if I find the answers and save your life, I’d still have to hold you in my arms eventually as your mortality claims you. You’ll leave me behind, and then—what? I’ll move on? It seems wrong. I don’t want to. I’ve tried that before, haven’t I? And it didn’t work.”

He sighed softly, gently holding her face in his hands. “That’s too far ahead, Hermione. You can’t look to the end when it’s only the beginning.”

“I can’t help it. It’s my nature, and for me, it’s not far away. I’m immortal, so a hundred years goes by fast for the likes of me. Everyone says that vampires aren’t afraid of death, but that’s only true if the death is our own. We’re not afraid to die, but seeing the ones we love pass away… it makes mortality seem much simpler. I-I don’t know if I can watch you die, Harry. I don’t know if I’m strong enough for that.”

He searched her gaze. “If it—if it happens that I’m—I’m dying, are you going to--?”

“I don’t know, Harry. I don’t want to. I really don’t. This creature that I am—it’s not something I want anyone I love, to be.”

“Hermione—“

“It’s a disease, at best. It brings the dead back to life, but we’re never the same for it. And what if you come back different? It doesn’t always happen, but I’ve seen it happen enough times to know that it can be the case with anybody. I’ve seen the meekest mortal turn into a vicious and ferocious killer after they rise. There’s no guarantee. And then what if you know who you are and what you used to be, but you can’t help the need to murder and give pain? What then? Do you realize that it means I’d have to kill you? It would be my duty, and ultimately, it’s what you would expect of me.”

He let her words sink in before he asked the question. “But you’ve thought about doing it, anyway, haven’t you?”

She squeezed her eyes shut for a heartbeat, like she was trying to beat down the awful truth so she can shape it into something more appealing. When she opened her eyes, he could tell that the truth hadn’t changed one bit. “Yes, I have. Do you want me to do it, Harry? Just tell me you don’t, and I won’t. I swear to you, if you tell me that you don’t ever want to be turned, nothing on this earth could make me do it.”

Her words made him wonder, and he knew he had to choose his words carefully, because she would keep this promise. Heaven and hell could collide and she would let him die without her vampiric kiss.

He’d spent the last five years being amidst her kind. He’d played their games and watched them rule. He’d seen the side of them that was an affliction; the side that made them not human, and he often wondered, during those moments, whether vampires did indeed deserve to be considered such dark creatures. Still, that huge part of him that was so in love with Hermione couldn’t despise them. He’d loved and still loves Hermione, who was in every sense of the word, one of them. It wasn’t in his heart to loath Vampires because he knew that in spite of everything, they had the good and the bad just like any other sentient life form.

“I don’t know if I want to be turned or not,” he finally said. “I don’t know, Hermione. When the time comes, it’s something I’d have to leave to your judgment, or to fate.”

She sighed wearily, shaking her head. “I was afraid you’d say that. You’ve been too long among my kind. You shouldn’t have to look at it that way.”

“Then don’t turn me if that’s what you believe.”

“Harry—“

“I was given the choice when Janus turned you.”

Her lips pursed momentarily before she spoke. “That was different.”

“I just wanted you to live. On hindsight, that was selfish way to decide it and I should have considered what it would be like for you, but I couldn’t change any of that now even if I wanted to, and I can’t sit here and regret what I’ve done. Not when I have you here right now.”

“So you’re not going to tell me—“

“I don’t know if I want to be turned or not, and that’s the most honest thing I can tell you.”

She hung her head between her shoulders, burying her face in her hands. “I’d have to live with the choice, whatever the consequences.”

Gently, he rubbed her arms, kissing the top of her head and told her it was going to be alright in a soft, soothing voice.

After several minutes, he risked a smile and was glad to see her return it.

“And what do you think I worry about?” he asked, chuckling lightly. “When I’m old and gray, you’ll still be the sexy, gorgeous woman that you are, and we’d look like a wonky couple. Disgusting, even. What then? Are you going to have a strapping young lover on the side?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course not. I would never do that to you.”

“Even when I can’t… you know?”

“Harry!” she looked scandalized, but she was laughing, too. “That’s not—well, if you must know, then yes, even when you can’t… you know. And I don’t care if we look wonky to other people. You’ll never look wonky to me.”

“Well, that’s just sweet, and I’m absolutely touched. Come here.” And he took her on his lap so they could have a properly lazy snog.

Harry sighed contentedly as they kissed, taking comfort in the gentle intimacy

When they separated, he held her close and she nestled her head in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“You know I love it when you think, don’t you?” he asked softly.

She made a slight sound through her grin. “Yes.”

“Your mind knocks me off my feet and there’s nothing that I think you can’t figure out.”

“Oh, stop it,” she whispered, chuckling. “You’re embarrassing me.”

He smiled, pressed his lips to her brow and spoke. “But sometimes you shouldn’t think. Sometimes feeling is more important. Sometimes you just have to given in. Thinking too much robs from the blessings of now. Understand?”

“Escapism?”

“It’s not. It’s seizing the moment; appreciating what we have and not tainting it with the dreadful possibilities of what’s to come.”

“Possibilities…”

“That’s all they are.”

She sighed, and it sounded so weary that Harry understood the true measure of how hard the last five years had been to her. “Harry… death and taxes, remember?”

He laughed and was surprised at the confidence and certainty of his thoughts. “In the Wizarding World? I don’t think so.”

She stared at him, her gaze filling with wondrous disbelief. “There you go again… doing that thing where you make me believe the impossible. And I know it’s not just me. It’s everyone who has ever seen you fight, or heard you speak. And I have it on good authority that your smile can do wonderful things.”

His eyebrow arched. “What authority? Witch Weekly?”

She smiled, the sadness which remained no more than what Harry saw in everyone’s eyes in these dark times. “My authority. Is there any other?”

“How silly of me, of course there isn’t, but with all due respect, I believe your judgment’s a tad compromised.”

Her smile turned into a smirk. “Because we sleep together?”

He smirked right back. “No, because I bought your good opinion with a pretty gold ring.”

She laughed, grabbing his hair playfully and scrunching it in gently in her fist before slackening her grip and smoothing it back to its normally haphazard state.

He wove his fingers through hers, palm to palm and caught her honey-brown gaze with his emerald eyes. “Better?” he asked in a soft voice. He didn’t need to explain what he meant. She would know.

Hermione nodded. “Much,” she replied, leaning against him and closing her eyes as she made idle circles on the front of his shirt with her fingers.

After a long moment of comfortable silence, Harry forced his brain from the calming haze to move on to more productive matters.

“Maybe we should hit the gym with Solomon and Lucien. Blow off some steam. Lord knows, I never did learn to study for more than two hours straight.”

She removed herself from his lap and sat back down among her books. “You go ahead, Harry. I’ll stay here and continue the research. I’d be impossibly preoccupied otherwise. Go on, then. You need the practice, anyway.”

“You’re the only one who could train me properly, and you know I still need a lot of help on my Legilimens.”

Her eyebrow arched before she grinned. “Well, some things don’t change, do they? Still need my help with your homework, Potter?”

He laughed. “Yes. Now come on. I can’t do this without you. And I do mean that. In everything.”

She shook her head, though she was smiling. “You sure know what to say to a girl, Harry.”

“Well, not just any girl. My girl.”

Chuckling, Hermione pushed her books back and rose from her seat. “Two hours. And then I’m coming back here. This research is important, too, you know. We have to destroy that Horcrux, Harry.”

He stood with her. “I know, but you know what I have to do after that, and I have to prepare for that even more. Right now, Remus, McGonagall, and the Department of Mysteries are trying to find the answer to destroying the Horcrux. That’s a lot of people, but you’re the only one who could help me in that gym.”

“Always a man of action,” she said, nodding. “Come on, then. Sword training for tonight and bit of Legilimens later on.”

He flashed a grateful smile and she rolled her eyes, taking his hand to drag him to the door.

They headed out of the library, the fire dwindling to a safe glower.

The rest of the evening was spent on his training, the books momentarily forgotten. Whether Hermione forgot on purpose or not, Harry did not bother to ask. He was glad that she fully understood how he needed to do things, and that ultimately, Voldemort’s defeat needed doing and perhaps even not thinking.

Every strike, parry and deflection was one stroke closer to keeping his sanity, and perhaps Hermione knew it. She drilled and trained him through the night with fists, swords and Legilimens.

He knew now how to manipulate the magic when it was there; saw how the magic could be bent. He tried various techniques; practiced the use of it. It was incredible even to him. Even if he couldn’t consciously call the magic, using it and knowing how when it made itself available was powerfully heartening.

His Legilimens was still shaky. He’d always known how to reel in his power, and he’d always had some measure of control over it, but he still couldn’t creep noiselessly into other people’s minds. His mind magic was a force. He didn’t have much subtlety. Subtlety was better suited to schemers like Snape and Voldemort.

But Hermione persevered with the Legilimens training, no matter how many times he failed in his attempts. She would get it right for him if she had to force her will on his magic.

They trained through the night, Hermione’s determination inspiring him to do better, and it was only upon the coming of morning that they finally decided they deserved their rest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione touched the vials of holy water lined up on the armoire shelves, her fingers hissing lightly as her skin touched the tiny corks that stoppered the tiny flasks.

“Careful,” Harry said softly, gently pulling her curious hand away by her wrist. “The water seeps into the cork a bit. It could still hurt you.”

She mustered a tiny smile for his concern, letting her wayward hand touch the lines of his chest, instead. She let the pads of her fingers run lightly over the tiny scars and the pendant she had made him wear before she ran them tentatively along the waist of his jeans.

Heat coursed through her where they touched, but it was residual from their earlier encounter, when their bodies were upon each other and the pounding-desire was all they could comprehend amidst the frenzy of their passion.

That evening, when she rose from sleep, her thoughts had been filled with anxiety. It was the night Harry would meet with Severus Snape, and there were a million things to worry about. She had stepped out for a bit to feed, and even that hadn’t taken long enough to keep her mind from the cares the night brought.

Upon her return to Grimmauld Place, Ron (back from Romania, it seems) had told her that Harry was up in his room. So she had gone upstairs, knocked on his door, and waited anxiously for him to answer. When his door opened, she hadn’t expected the flash of desire from within her and the need to have him posses her. She hadn’t expected that she would be thinking such things in the face of more important matters, yet she stood there in the hall wanting him. And then she was in his arms, responding to his urgent lips as he closed them into his darkened room. His hands impatiently sought the edges of her clothes, tearing them off just as swiftly as she was yanking and pulling his off him.

There hadn’t been need for words beyond the scope of what they were doing. The moaning and groaning between them had been enough, and occasionally, there were things that needed to be said just to heighten the sensations of the moment, but mostly it was frantic and hot, desperate and incoherent, wet and sweaty.

His hands squeezed her breasts and her fingernails raked down his back, an exchange of pleasure and pain. Hips crashing and tongues rolling against each other, there seemed to be no limit to how joined they could be.

His skin had been slick with perspiration, and her heated body was prickling with moisture. Whether the moisture was his or hers, it was hard to tell, but it wasn’t as if it mattered. The sensations of him filling her where it had first seemed so empty made her forget the myriad details. To have him moving between her thighs and to hear him relishing the liberties of it was enough to shatter what little sense of reasoning she had—until that moment—held on to.

The bed strained to accommodate their torrid joining. Hermione grabbed the bed-railing as she let Harry make mad, rough and oh-so-forceful love to her. Perhaps she had felt the need to anchor herself, maybe for fear of losing herself to the sensations that threatened to spiral her out of control. Whatever the reason, the sex had been amazing, and however bereft of tenderness, she fully understood how it had still been about giving to each other and loving one another. It was something they both needed.

There were times after all that reassurance had to come in a less-than-wholesome package.

When all the gifts of their joining were given and taken, they lay in bed staring at the ceiling, sweaty, sated, and stunned. The imprints of Harry’s hands and fingers began to blossom into bruises on Hermione’s body, and the path Hermione’s fingers had taken on his unbroken skin had begun to welt into angry red streaks.

Harry had reached over, lightly touching the mound of flesh where her breast began and where the bruise seemed so deeply purple. “Sorry. I didn’t—“

She didn’t let him finish speaking. She took his hand and kissed its palm just before she turned over and rested her head on his chest. His arms had embraced her then, and they stayed that way for several minutes before Harry forced himself out of bed to take a quick shower.

Now, she was standing within the open doors of Harry’s armoire helping him prepare weapons that might come in handy for that evening’s meeting with Snape. His hair was still wet, flecks of water dripping down his shoulders to follow the hollows wrought by the gentle lines of his toned body. She was yet to step into the shower, her body wrapped in swaddling blankets. Her bruises had disappeared and the welts on his body had eased away, though the redness was still evident where the welts had been.

Standing with him, being within the proximity of powerful things, she felt strangely impenetrable. The weapons on his shelves, all designed to defeat vampires and werewolves, hadn’t repulsed her in the least. She had reached out and touched the vials of blessed water, perhaps hoping that it wouldn’t burn her. Of course it did, but she still couldn’t help but think that no harm could possibly come to him and her.

Goodness, but to feel him so in-control… so powerful…

She sighed and pushed back the wave of yearning that was creeping up on her again. “I ought to get ready, too,” she said, more to herself than to Harry. Wrapped in nothing but the blankets of his bed, she thought it too easy to drop her trappings and try to seduce him, even if it was probably unwise to get him too tired.

Harry made no protest, smiling down at her before kissing her forehead.

She supposed he didn’t think it wise to tempt him, either.

Surveying her clothes that lay strewn on the floor, she mundanely regretted the damage done to her designer blouse. Tears could be magically repaired, of course, but clothes were never the same for it.

She groped around for her wand. She would try, anyway. “Harry, you’re going to be meeting Snape in half an hour… I do hope you remember not to trust him.”

“I don’t trust him in the least,” he said, strapping knives to his arm. “I watched him kill Dumbledore, remember?”

She nodded. “And you can’t take everything he says at face-value.”

“I won’t.”

“And Harry—“

“Hermione, please stop worrying. You’re making me nervous.” He said while stuffing his invisibility cloak into his utility pack.

She smiled apologetically, finding her wand and waving it at the torn strips of fabric she called her shirt. “Sorry. Believe it or not, I’m not that worried, really. In fact, I’m fairly confident that you’ll be alright, but I suppose I still feel the need to remind you to be careful.”

He pulled a shirt over his head and grinned. “I’m always careful.”

“Like hell you’re always careful. I love you, Harry, but you can be a bit rash, sometimes.”

“Less times now than before, I hope.”

She would give him that. Harry had matured quite admirably in the last five years, and many people trusted him with their lives. She would trust him with his.

She sought the rest of her clothes and paused when she felt the presence of Draco at the door.

Frowning, she tightened the blankets around her and said, “Draco’s outside.”

The knock came and Harry sighed. He crossed the room while strapping holsters to himself. Opening the door, he was far from cheerful. “What?”

Draco began to speak but stopped at the sight of Hermione kneeling on the floor, nothing but blankets to cover her. Draco smirked and she glared, flashing him her middle finger.

Harry frowned, stepping between her and Draco to block Draco’s view. “Can I help you?”

“You’re of great use to me, in fact, and it’s part of the reason I’m here,” Draco said. “I’ve thought about what your little sex kitten said, and I’ve decided that my interests would be better served taking her advice.”

Humph! Hermione thought, sex kitten indeed!

Harry went silent for several heartbeats. She hadn’t told Harry about the talk she had with Draco, and Harry was probably confused right now, but to Harry’s credit, he didn’t let on that was the case. “Oh? And how are you going to do that?”

“By telling you a valuable secret, of course, a secret no one but Professor Snape and Aunt Bellatrix knows, and me, of course. Mother knew, but—well, she’s dead. I’m guessing Voldemort didn’t manage to Crucio anything from her before he Avada Kedavra-ed her, else he wouldn’t be so set on having me killed… assuming he wants to keep Professor Snape alive, of course.”

It still astounded Hermione how Draco could bring himself to say it so casually. She hadn’t completely recovered from her parents’ death yet, and that was five years ago. She couldn’t bring herself to talk about them, much less nonchalantly mention that she found them slaughtered in their attic. Draco was evil. He had to be, at least to be able to talk about how awful his mother’s death was with a straight face.

Harry fell quiet, but Hermione could almost hear him thinking. “Let’s hear it, then.”

“Ever heard of an Unbreakable Vow, Potter?”

“I’m familiar with it, yes.”

“Then you know that the breach of the vow by one of the parties would result in the death of the one who failed to honor the agreement.”

Harry nodded.

Draco went on. “Six years ago, Professor Snape entered into an Unbreakable Vow with my mother to keep me safe. Aunt Bellatrix was the bonder. It’s the reason Professor Snape has so diligently kept me alive and well, and it’s probably how he keeps Aunt Bellatrix in line, because hell knows what the Dark Lord would do to his whore, keeping such an important secret from him.”

“Does Snape know you know about this Unbreakable—“

Draco snorted, interrupting Harry’s question. “What do you think? Of course he doesn’t know I know. If I told him, he’d want to know how I found out, and I couldn’t very well lie by saying mum told me. The lie wouldn’t hold, and he’d keep prodding, and he’d find out about my secret. I’m serious about keeping this power I have under wraps, Potter. I don’t want people knowing about it, not even Professor Snape.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“I don’t trust anybody. It’s my nature. But if you’re asking me if you should trust him… well, that’s different.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, surprised at the extent Draco was willing to go to “follow her advice.” She rose from the floor and stood behind Harry, holding his arm in the embrace of hers. Draco’s eyes flickered to her for a heartbeat, daring her to mock him. She didn’t. She kept her face impassive. No judgments this time.

“How different?” Harry asked.

Draco swallowed, his steely eyes meeting Harry’s gaze. “The old Headmaster had a tendency to know things, Potter. You think he didn’t know about what I could do?”

Harry paused a moment. “He probably knew.”

“He did. And the night I went to kill him, he showed me some of his secrets…”

Hermione’s grip on Harry tightened involuntarily. But for that, neither of them flinched as they listened to Draco with rapt attention.

Draco went on. “Dumbledore was already dead, Harry. Or dying, perhaps. Months ago, when he destroyed something, it destroyed him too, but Professor Snape… well, he wasn’t kidding when he said he could stopper death. I’m sure the first day of potions was as memorable to you as it was to every student in that class. Professor Snape is nothing if not captivating…”

“You can tell me about the finer points of your boyfriend later, Draco,” Harry growled. “Tell me what you mean about Dumbledore—“

“It means what it means. Dumbledore was dead, dying—whatever! And Snape’s potion was merely delaying it. Why did you think his hand wasn’t healing? Why do you think he was telling you so many things those last few months? He knew he was dead, and he knew he had to pass whatever knowledge it was he had to someone else; someone he trusted; someone who would understand. Far be it I’d ever comprehend why he trusted you, of all people, but he did, and considering the old bag had the gumption to take death when it would be most relevant is something I could actually respect—“

“He deserved respect even when he was alive, Draco,” Harry hissed. “Especially from you, you sorry-arsed git.”

Draco didn’t falter. “I’m a complicated man. I look at things differently, and I don’t easily buy into the hype, no matter how twinkly and jolly Dumbledore is.”

Hermione felt Harry tense, and she almost knew he would jump Draco right then. She squeezed Harry’s arm ever so slightly to remind him.

Listen to what Draco has to say. Patience.

Harry did not relax, but he didn’t make any sudden movements for Draco either. “I fail to see how Dumbledore’s death was in any way advantageous, Draco, and I especially don’t think that his death came at a good time. We needed him. I needed him. I—“

“Shut-it, Potter. I know you’re not as dumb as you look, and I know you’ve turned it in your head over and over again in the last five years. What do you think Dumbledore was begging Snape for? Mercy? Surely you wouldn’t believe that the great Albus Dumbledore would embarrass himself like that. And you call me disrespectful… there were a million reasons Dumbledore was better off dead by Professor Snape’s wand and only one reason to keep him alive. The advantages of his death far outweighed his reasons for living.”

Hermione listened to Draco’s words with a mixture of horror and realization. Harry’s shoulders were heaving, in his gaze fury and grief.

Her head was spinning; thinking, and she hated it that Draco was making a sick sort of sense. All of it, everything Draco was telling them, wasn’t something Draco could have figured out by himself. Draco wouldn’t have wasted his precious time pondering the existence of Albus Dumbledore. Someone would have told him about it; someone would have spoon-fed him the details… the secrets. The fact that the only one who could have done so was Albus Dumbledore was both amazing and unsettling.

It was the kind of secret Dumbledore couldn’t tell Harry. Not then. Not when he was still so inept at Occlumency. It was the kind of secret that if Voldemort found floating in Harry’s mind could mean the death of so many, the first of which was Severus Snape’s, the rest of which would be because the Order would have lost its one chance to infiltrate Voldemort’s camp. It was a secret more dangerous than Horcruxes, but Dumbledore needed the secret told, and who best to tell it to than to an Inaudio, so close within his reach?

Dumbledore trusted Draco with this secret. He trusted… but no, Draco wouldn’t have told, not when Snape was his only chance of surviving; not when such a secret would endanger HIMSELF, too. Dumbledore, you clever old man…

She was overwhelmed by it all. When she told Draco that he should do his part in helping Harry, she hadn’t thought it would be at this magnitude. She hadn’t thought he would know something so tide altering.

“You only need one reason to go on living, Draco,” said Harry in a controlled voice.

Draco scoffed. “Tell that to Dumbledore. He was the one who chose the alternative.”

Harry was silent, his fist clenching. Draco scowled.

“Are you going to hit me?” asked Draco. “Typical Gryffindor, always resorting to fists before brains. You’ll have Professor Snape at your disposal later. Surely you won’t waste your time trading potions recipes with him. You can ask him whatever you want to confirm whatever I’ve told you tonight. Ask him about the Unbreakable Vow, and then ask him about Dumbledore. Don’t tell him you found out from me, though. Last thing I need is for the git to have something on me. Do what you want with the information I gave you, but don’t drag me into it.”

Hermione could see in Harry’s eyes he didn’t need to ask Snape to confirm Draco’s words. However much Harry’s hate for Draco clouded Harry’s mind with doubt, tonight, Harry trusted Draco’s words.

“Better off dead by Professor Snape’s wand…” Draco had said. Dumbledore was dead, or dying, because just like any Horcrux, Gaunt’s ring had demanded a price for its destruction. Snape’s potion had stoppered Dumbledore’s death, and by doing so, Dumbledore was able to do what little he could to give Harry what he needed to win against Voldemort. In the end, it also gave Snape the opportunity to “prove” loyalty to Voldemort, at the same time save Draco’s life. It seemed wretched to call it “killing two birds with one stone,” but that was what happened, and as for the million other reasons to kill Dumbledore? Sacrifice. Britain, perhaps even the world, saved.

A million other reasons…

“You kept this information for years…” Harry said rather weakly. “It could have helped before.”

“Screw you, Potter. Don’t give me that shit. Would you have believed me then?”

Harry didn’t reply.

Draco scoffed with smug satisfaction. “Thought so.” With that, Draco turned and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry could see a bit of the graveyard from outside the gates of the church, as lonely and silent as each and every visit he’d given it in the last five years. He hadn’t visited that often. He’d go months without every thinking of his parents’ graveyard, but given certain occasions, like his parents’ birthdays and on the anniversaries of their death, he’d drop by with fresh flowers, always the same lilies Hermione had bought his mother all those years ago. His visits never lasted longer than an hour, and sometimes, he found himself just standing over their graves, thinking about matters completely unrelated to them.

He’d visited quite a few graves in the last five years, anyhow. Too many people had died; the right and wrong reasons for their deaths bleeding into the wash of his emotions. He’d even visited the crypts of Hermione’s parents, twice. He’d brought flowers for Hermione’s mum, too. He didn’t know why he did it, but it seemed like the proper thing to do.

He stood alone in front of the wrought iron gates, the mists of night drifting around him under the dim light of the moon.

A single lamp post illuminated the sidewalk, and Harry wondered if the lamps had always been put out in this part of Godric’s Hollow, or whether Snape had had a hand in it.

It wasn’t by any means very late in the night. The many houses lining the surrounding streets of Godric’s Hollow was still alight with sound, but the church more often closed a bit past seven. It was approaching eight-thirty in the evening.

The gates swung open easily as he pushed one side of it. The hinges were well oiled and the paint wasn’t more worn than it ought to be. The walkway and steps leading to the front doors was swept clean of dead leaves and flower petals.

As he stood before the church doors, he took a tentative look over his shoulder. There wasn’t an Auror in sight, and the fact that he couldn’t tell exactly where Hermione and her Shadow Kin were made him feel strangely devoid of company.

But he knew everyone was there to watch his back. Hermione, Lucien and Solomon were there in case vampires and werewolves showed up. The rest, the Aurors, Shacklebolt, Remus, Ron, and Tonks were there to take note of every single presence within the vicinity. They were there with magical instruments tuned to detect magical signatures. They were there to serve as back up if things took a turn for the worse.

Harry reassured himself that he was well looked-out for.

As he peered through the stained-glass windows and the crack of the church doors, he could see the faint flicker of candlelight.

He fished a couple of Galleons from his pocket and pushed the door open. Unlike the gate, the door creaked, and its sound reverberated through the empty chapel.

The candles illuminating the petitioners’ station bobbed brightly, casting dancing lights on the altar.

He looked around him, thinking that it seemed silly to tell him where to sit when the chapel wasn’t big enough, nor crowded enough to need a designated spot to meet, especially since Snape knew Hermione wouldn’t be able to unravel the letter during the day.

Nevertheless, Harry slid into the third pew on the pulpit’s side.

He took in his surroundings, wondering if he should call for Vicar Roy, but he found that he couldn’t bring himself to raise his voice in a chapel, which was strange considering there wasn’t much religion in him to begin with.

There was a sound from the front, where the door connecting the rectory to the chapel was situated.

Vicar Roy emerged and his welcoming smile prompted Harry to smile back. “Late visit?”

Harry nodded, moving a bit to indicate that the vicar should join him. Harry supposed Snape wouldn’t object to the vicar sitting for a while. This was the vicar’s home, after all, and Vicar Roy never really stayed very long to chat. The man understood that at hours like these, people came to his chapel for solace, not company.

Vicar Roy sat, hands folded together on his lap, as if in prayer. He trained his eyes to the front, where the pulpit was. “I’m closing up rather late myself. The graveyard’s night-watchman said he was expecting company and he thought maybe the chapel would be more accommodating for their meeting than his cottage out back. Tombstones don’t exactly bear warm welcomes.”

Harry stared curiously at Vicar Roy, stifling the suspicion creeping up on him. Was this really Vicar Roy or was this Snape, poly-juiced to seem like him? The fine lines on the old man’s face seemed more weathered than the last time Harry saw him, but there didn’t seem to be anything amiss from the haunted look the man usually wore.

Vicar Roy must have felt him staring because he shifted his gaze, meeting Harry’s suspicious eyes.

The vicar did not seem to take offense. Instead, he smiled sadly. “Every time you come here, your eyes look to be carrying a burden heavier than ever. So young yet so weighted…”

Harry pulled his gaze away, unsure whether he wanted his soul read. There had never been any indication that the vicar was a wizard, but the vicar had always been adept at sensing certain things about him. Probably years of experience. Tens upon hundreds of parishioners, friends, and strangers who have come into his chapel seeking something had trained him to see beyond what his eyes beheld.

Fumbling for something to do other than meeting the vicar’s gaze, Harry presented the galleons, shoving it into the vicar’s hands and telling him it was for the orphanage.

The vicar smiled his small smile, blessing him and his kindness.

Face warming, Harry said nothing in response.

“I always wondered…” continued the vicar. “Whatever happened to that young lady you brought here those years ago? The one whose mother was Anglican.”

Harry was mildly surprised. He looked up and saw the vicar examining the Galleons, and it prompted Harry to wonder whether Hermione had given her donations in the same currency. She might have—on occasion if not all the time, to be able to elicit some recollection of Hermione in the vicar.

“She… um,” Harry began cautiously. “She disappeared for a while, but she came back. She… she came back…” That was all Harry could say, really. The thought that he would go into the complicated details of Hermione’s death, rising, disappearance, and return was wearying in the extreme, and that was if Vicar Roy didn’t throw him out of the church for telling such tales in the first place.

But Vicar Roy did not seem inclined to pry. He merely smiled and nodded. “Ultimately, that is what’s important, isn’t it? That she came back?”

“Yes. That’s what I think.”

“You must have her with you one of these days. I should like to meet her properly, even if she doesn’t know whether she is Anglican or not.”

“Actually, vicar… I reckon she isn’t and that she’s quite sure of it this time.”

“Ah, well, like I said, I should like to meet her, anyway. The Lord distinguishes not between the sheep of His fold and that of another if one happens to wander into His flock, and so shall I follow His example, eh?”

Harry was inclined to believe that if sheep like Hermione wandered into this Lord’s flock, this Lord-fellow would take notice quickly, especially when she began to feed off the other sheep. But of course he said nothing. “I’ll—er, tell her that.”

“Besides, whatever flock she returned from, what matters is that her heart remained true to the things the Lord taught us to honor. Love, kindness, honesty…”

Harry smiled faintly and thought maybe Hermione’s life mirrored his own in a certain way. They both did what they had to do but never really forgot the things they fought for, which were things possibly similar to what Vicar Roy’s Lord required of his followers. “Yeah.”

The vicar nodded, patting his shoulder. “The path to righteousness is never easy, my son, but rest assured… Someone up there—whatever faith, creed, or theology you keep—is taking careful note. Everything comes bouncing right back, especially when you do well upon your fellowmen.”

At this, Harry felt an urge to fiddle with the pendant on his chest and realized it wasn’t there. He had removed it earlier for fear that it would react badly to the hallowed grounds. The absence of it now only served to bring it to the forefront of his mind.

The Oracle was a kind of theology; one that Yasmin seemed to keep and take very seriously, judging by the way she reacted in La Senorita when Hermione mocked it. Yasmin had lived the last five hundred years, successfully leading vampire society from one era to another, supposedly as a result of heeding the Oracle’s advice. She had gotten along this far in her immortal life; surely, that meant the Oracle wasn’t inclined to lead her astray. Then again, the Oracle was not a device that weighed right from wrong. It showed the way, whether the way was righteous or not, but did it ever mete reward? In that case, did it mete punishment?

The vicar, perhaps thinking that he had given Harry something to think about, seemed satisfied as he rose from the pew. The Galleons had smoothly disappeared within the confines of his dark robes. “I better be on my way. There are some things that need doing in the rectory. If you see Thaddeus, please tell him not to forget to blow out the candles when he is done with his guest.”

With that said, the vicar left.

Harry was left to ponder on these matters until a rickety old man came through the door from the graveyard. The swish of his coat, followed by the heavy clop of his cane on the marble floor echoed through the church. His short grayish hair was thinning at the top and his face was heavily wrinkled. He was a rather tall man; slightly taller than Harry, and he held his shoulders straight in spite of the limp.

Without fuss, he slid up beside Harry in the pew.

“Snape?” Harry asked.

The night-watchman cleared his throat. “I don’t recollect that name. ‘Fraid you’re stuck with naught but Thaddeus at this time, but a man, probably this Snape fellow of yours, gave me this, and he said that I should give it to the bloke who happened to be on the third pew from the pulpit. I reckon you’re it.”

Harry eyed the man warily and looked at the object in his hand. It was a grimy old broken record. It said “I’m Going to Make You Love Me,” by the Supremes and the Temptations on the label. Harry hoped Snape didn’t mean it. The thought that Snape was going to make anyone love him was enough to bring up Harry’s lunch, dinner, and tomorrow’s breakfast.

He stared at the Portkey, wondering if he should take it. He fished out his pocket watch and looked at the time. There was no time to make preparations for the trip.

Besides, he thought. Draco did say…

This was a trap. It had to be.

It was now or never.

Hermione’s going to kill me if I use this Portkey.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, that has never quite stopped him before from doing what he thought was necessary.

“I suppose I am ‘it,’” Harry said, taking the broken record. “Thanks for this. Erm, Vicar Roy said you should close up after you’re done.”

Thaddeus nodded, waving off his concerns with a gentle bob of his hand. “Aye. I’ll get to that.”

“Good. I’ll just… think I could spend a few moments out on in the graveyard?”

“Go ahead. Not like you’re going to disturb anything out there.”

If Harry were ever inclined, he could disturb something out there, but he wasn’t going to tell Thaddeus that. “Listen… I really need you to do something for me. Is that alright?”

“I’m a grave night watchman, son. I’m not exactly the busiest bloke in these parts.”

“Right. I was just hoping—well, I’m going to step out for a while and… if I’m not back in twenty minutes, please go out to the front gate and tell my friends that—umm, you gave me a broken record and I used it. Tell them I’ve been gone twenty minutes and that I’ve got Tonks’s—erm, lipstick with me. Just yell it out there. You won’t see them, but they’d show themselves after you tell them what happened. Not until after twenty minutes, though. No need to worry them unnecessarily.”

Thaddeus eyed him with a suspicious glimmer. “You’re not one of ‘em women-dressing blokes, are you?”

“Er… no. I can’t stand the pantyhose. Too restricting.” Harry didn’t know where he found the balls to be snarky, but he thought it rather funny that Thaddeus was more worried about him being a transvestite rather than him mysteriously disappearing.

Thaddeus frowned, but the intelligent glimmer in the old man’s gaze told Harry he wasn’t fooling anybody. “Twenty minutes, then. Get you going, young man.”

He hastened out of the pew and to the graveyard. He picked a spot that wasn’t visible from the gate and hoped to Merlin he didn’t have to stay longer than twenty minutes.

The graveyard was even thicker with mist. The wall lining the side farthest from the street restricted the flow of the slightest wind. The soil was a bit moist, Harry’s trainers easily leaving imprints on the ground where he stood. He couldn’t tell the fresh flowers from the dead ones under the poor lighting.

Taking one more moment for caution, Harry looked at the broken record.

You want answers? Then do it.

His lips pursed with determination. Clutching the Portkey, he activated it and felt the whoosh of magical transport.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry tumbled on a worn wooden floor, its splinters digging into the skin of his palms as he skidded slightly from the momentum. He swore softly, annoyed by his own inability to keep his balance. Over the years, he’d more or less mastered using a Portkey with reasonable grace, but it didn’t surprise him in the least that Snape’s Portkey was more difficult to manage.

Steadying himself, he gathered his senses and looked around him, trying to figure out where he was.

He was in a cramped room with an armchair and a sofa taking up most of what little space was available. The room was well lit with candles. To one side of the room was a narrow staircase; to another was a door leading to what seemed to be a kitchen even tinier than the sitting room. There was a wealth of books stacked up on standing shelves and shelves hung from the backs of doors.

The faint odor of sewage wafted through the air, masked by the delicate smell of tea and the pungent smell of brewing potion.

Harry’s gaze affixed on the tiny window up front where through the bad street lighting, he could see packed houses with tall chimneys.

The sound of footsteps clopped through the room and Harry whirled to face the stairs, whipping his wand out as he did so.

He beheld Severus Snape descending the stairs looking absolutely unbothered by Harry’s agitation.

Snape reached the bottom step, his brow furrowing ever so slightly above his hooked nose. His oily dark hair hung loose about his face in strangled clumps, though it did not look quite as messy as Harry’s hair on his best day. The man looked older from the time Harry last saw him. A few white hairs seemed to be pushing their way out of the roots of Snape’s crown, but everything else about the man was still as black as ever. Clothes, shoes, eyes—probably even his soul, though if Harry believed anything Draco said—which Harry grudgingly admitted he did—this demon wasn’t quite as blackened as Harry might have originally thought.

Hermione’s words came to the forefront of his mind: “Making angels of demons.”

At this point, anything was possible.

The potions master did not halt in his step, turning casually towards the kitchen as if Harry wasn’t holding his wand in a threatening manner.

“About time you got here,” Snape said from the kitchen in his usual haughty tone. “A few more minutes and that Portkey would have been nullified.”

Harry kept his wand trained to the kitchen door as he spoke. “How did you even know I was going to use it? You ought to have thought that I had no reason to trust you.”

Snape reappeared with a dainty cup and saucer, a teaspoon swirling in it in a clockwise motion. He held no other cup.

He sat on the armchair, picking the teaspoon from its task and tapping it lightly over, but not on, the rim with a slight flick before setting it gently down on the saucer holding the cup. “I had no idea if you would use it, Potter. Just that if you didn’t, it would be your loss, not mine.”

That brilliant flash of arrogance reminded Harry exactly why he hated Snape so much. He wanted to throw down his wand and throttle the man with his bare hands so badly that it took everything in Harry’s will to restrain himself. Still clutching the wand, more tightly now than ever, Harry swallowed his anger and forced himself to think rationally.

“You have twenty minutes to tell me what this is all about, Snape,” Harry said. “Beyond that, I couldn’t vouch for what my companions would do, and don’t think they won’t find me. They will. I’ve made sure of that.”

Snape scoffed. “With what? A tracing charm? Those carnival toys won’t work here. The house is enchanted to scramble tracing implements. Not to mention the fact that Apparating within the perimeter of my wards will have the lot of your Aurors Splinched beyond recognition. At any rate, if you’re so eager to know where you are, you could just ask, you know.”

Harry would give anything not to want to know, but the rational thing to do was to take Snape’s offer. “Where am I?”

“New Mills, Derbyshire.” Snape sipped his tea. “This used to be my home, but as you can imagine, I hardly stick around here long enough to get found out. Tonight is special. Do you feel special, Potter?”

Harry was about to make a scathing reply when Snape cut him off smoothly.

“But let’s not waste anymore time on useless chit-chat. You have some questions, I believe.”

Harry bit back the urge to tell him that he didn’t ask for this meeting, but that would fall under “useless chit-chat.” Organizing his thoughts, Harry began. “Did you enter into an Unbreakable Vow with Narcissa Malfoy to protect Draco?”

Snape looked surprised, though his eyebrow merely arched as he continued to sip his tea. He answered after a moment. “Yes.”

“And in doing so, did you have to kill Albus Dumbledore for it?”

“Perhaps.”

“Did you kill Albus Dumbledore because he asked you to?”

Snape’s frowned, looking horribly annoyed. “These questions are useless. I could be lying to my teeth and you would not have a clue—“

Harry reached out with his Legilimens, taking rude snatches from Snape’s mind to confirm the truth behind Snape’s answers. Harry was just about to accomplish just that when the old potions master predictably scrambled to heave him out and shut all his mental doors.

Snape rose from his seat, sloshing the tea over the rim of the cup and spilling it on the saucer. Snape’s pallor momentarily dissipated in the flush of his anger. He stared daggers at Harry for a few heartbeats before he brusquely set his cup and saucer down on the burnish-worn coffee table. “Well, now. You did manage to learn a few new tricks, didn’t you? Be that as it may, you’re still asking the wrong questions. You have gotten this far, so make use of it, unless of course you’re still leaving all the thinking to that Know-It-All, in which case I should have just sent for her. Perhaps then we’d get somewhere.”

Satisfied that he had managed to rile Snape up, Harry gathered his bearings.

They stared at one another across the room and Harry found that he had to summon the courage to ask the one question that needed answering right now.

Finally, Harry asked it. “Am I a Horcrux?”

Snape sniffed haughtily. “Your scar contains it, but yes, basically, you are a Horcrux.”

Harry felt his stomach drop, a wave of despair swallowing him. He didn’t need to find out if Snape was telling the truth. Hermione already suspected it, and there was hardly a reason for Snape to lie about it, especially if he was working for Voldemort for real. He controlled his emotions, willing his legs to hold up. “Why didn’t you just say so on the letter you left with Viktor?”

“Because knowing the kind of dunderhead Gryffindor that you are, you would likely fling yourself off a bridge or hang yourself in an effort to destroy the Horcrux within you, and you’re useless to me dead, Potter.”

Harry frowned. “I’m not particularly suicidal, you know.”

“Aren’t you? For the people you love, you seem to be. Next question.”

Reigning in his temper, Harry complied. “Is the Soul Harvest dependent on the fact that Voldemort’s made a Horcrux of me?”

Snape nodded. “Yes. When I first began manufacturing the spell, I relied heavily on theoretical magiks of a Horcrux inhabiting a living being. That the Horcrux hadn’t adversely affected you; that it was Lily’s magic that helped create it; that your situation was unique to the events, people and the magic influencing it. The Soul Harvest is specifically designed to work because of you and for the Dark Lord. It will work for no one else. It has taken me years, but I’ve managed to perfect it… in theory. You understand why I cannot exactly test it.”

“Of course,” Harry said sarcastically. He recalled some of the details in Snape’s first letter; the one Snape left for Viktor. “Can it really make him immortal?”

“It can. There have been obscure theories relating to the harvesting of other souls to obtain immortality. Vampires drink blood to sustain a livable existence. The exchange of mortal blood and vampire blood creates immortality. The drinking of mortal blood by vampires to revitalize their bodies is tied to the blood-soul theories. Living blood is the channel upon which they take what makes a soul immortal. They do not have to take souls whole, as you know, but the blood makes them beautiful and powerful. Without that essence, they become worn husks; nothing but ugly creatures that thirst endlessly. So the theory of taking someone’s soul to sustain one’s own body is feasible, and the fact that souls somehow replenish themselves when you leave a large part of it with its owner helps the theory along. The charms and potions infused in the ritual of the Soul Harvest will allow the Dark Lord to infuse your soul into his, destroy you, reclaim his former ‘health’, for lack of a better term, and seal his immortality without the bother of turning into a vampire.”

“And this will only work for him?”

“Only him. It won’t even work for you. The spell wasn’t made for you, after all. You’re only an ingredient.”

Harry sucked in his breath. “What use is this information to me, then? Other than doing everything to prevent Voldemort from getting his hands on me?”

“There is a moment in the spell where your soul and the Dark Lord’s are removed from your body. Essentially, at that point, your soul and his aren’t fused yet, and it means that the Horcrux is removed from you altogether. If your body is bereft of your soul, your body becomes inanimate. But you can get your soul back into your body, Horcrux gone to boot, and you can destroy the Dark Lord once and for all.”

“In theory.”

“Of course. Nothing is absolute. If your soul does not go back, you lose your opportunity to kill him and he becomes immortal and powerful. I’m quite certain that he could still be killed, but probably not through any ordinary means.”

“Excellent options,” said Harry, sarcastically.

“Impatient, as usual,” said Snape in a silky tone. “The removal of both souls from your body shall be precipitated by a fast-acting potion that the Dark Lord himself will give you to drink. Perhaps you can just let him do that and hope that once your soul is infused into his, you would be able to retain enough of yourself to destroy him from within. Of course, that also means you would be destroying yourself. It is a partially unsavory outcome, but at least you might be able to stop him once and for all. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that any part of you will remain once he melds his soul with yours. It boils down to the fact that I manufactured the spell for him and no one else. There was no help for it. He was constantly looking over my shoulder the entire time I was creating the spell. Any deviation—such as one that would allow you to keep your faculties once you’re fused with him—would have gotten me a quick trip to what Dumbledore called the ‘Next Great Adventure.’ Forgive me if I don’t find anything particularly great about it.”

“That’s some option.”

“It gets worse, I assure you. I have, through no easy means, created—not a counter-acting potion, but a supplement of sorts. I will give you this potion shortly.”

“And what does this supplemental potion do?”

“It draws your soul back into your body after the first potion separates it from you.”

“But?”

“Well, well. You’ve acquired some intelligence after all.”

“Just get to the point already.”

Snape picked up his cup of tea again and waved his wand at it. Harry saw smoke rise above the rim in swirling wisps. Snape took his time.

Harry said nothing, seething in his silence.

Snape sipped more of his tea and finally spoke. “The Revivisco potion is taken before the soul harvesting potion is ingested, otherwise… well, you can’t exactly move your body about without your soul in it, much less get it to drink the Revivisco potion without the Dark Lord noticing. The Revivisco potion, once taken, will activate once your soul and the Dark Lord’s are separated. Your soul comes back to you, Horcrux-free, and the Dark Lord’s soul-fragments are vulnerable, free from their protective vessels. How you will use your time back in your body is up to you, but I suggest you make quick work of destroying the Dark Lord. You will only get that one chance.”

Harry’s brows furrowed. “Why? Is there a time limit on it?”

“This is where it gets worse, Potter. I am uncertain about the Revivisco potion’s… after effects. As you might imagine, to have one’s soul torn from one’s corporeal form is unnatural in the extreme. Its effects are usually most unsavory.”

Harry knew this, but he needed details. “How unsavory?”

“Think about it, Potter. If you happen to get your arm torn off, you simply can’t sew the arm back on by its skin because there are nerves and muscle and bones that will need mending, too. If you don’t put everything back the way it used to be, the arm will simply shrivel, die, and fall off, possibly taking the rest of the body down with it. The Revivisco ‘sews’ the soul back on, but I could not be sure if the potion does so completely… I know not whether there is magic powerful enough to fully understand the mechanics of what binds a soul to one’s body. I can only make an educated guess, make the potion as effective as I can, though I cannot be sure if the mending of the rift between your body and soul would endure…”

Harry’s breath caught as he realized exactly what Snape was trying to say. “You’re saying I could die.”

“Sooner than you’d like, if you wish to be accurate.”

“And why can’t you just give me a potion to remove Voldemort’s soul fragment from my body? Why does it have to tear my soul from me, too?”

“Are you not listening to me, Potter? I am not without the Dark Lord’s supervision. He insists on certain specifications and I have to deliver such to him.”

Harry refused to give in. “Is there a potion to remove his soul fragment from me without removing my soul with it?”

“In theory, there is.”

“But?”

“But you still need him to call his soul from you. I told you… this spell and all the potions that precipitate it—it was designed for him. He is the only one who can make it work. The potion he will give you would come directly from his potions lab, not mine, even if I was the one who fashioned the recipe. The Dark Lord trusts no one. I can only give you the Revivisco supplemental potion. It is the best I could do.”

Harry’s hands balled into fists. “Your ‘best’ sucks. Can’t you make adjustments to the potion? Make it so I don’t need Voldemort to do it?”

“As usual, you fail to understand the implications of everything I’ve told you. This isn’t like copying and pasting an entry on to an existing recipe to make a slightly different dish, Potter. If you want me to make such a potion, it will take another few years. I have to start from scratch. Everything I have done regarding this spell had to do with the special conditions surrounding what happened to you, your mother, and the Dark Lord on the night of October 31, 1981. What you are telling me to do right now is to force a square peg into a round hole. It will take years to formulate a potion that would do what you want, and both of us haven’t got that much time! I’m on the verge of being ‘disposed’ of and with the spell done, the Dark Lord is likely to launch his greatest siege any day now! Once you face him, I’m completely done for. It’s either I escape or I do not. But that is not your concern—“

“You bet it isn’t,” Harry hissed menacingly. “You’re telling me that I have to die to save the Wizarding World. That I have no other option—“

“Don’t be silly. There is another option. You can refuse to take any potion and draw this war out until you find a better solution, maybe. Never mind if more lives are taken through the course of the prolonged war. You still get to be the Boy Who Lived.”

That was about it. Harry realized that he wasn’t a little boy anymore, that he was taller than Severus Snape and bigger. It took all but two strides to reach the potions master, grab him by the collar of his robes, and shake him.

Snape’s cup rolled from his hands, shattering to the floor at the same moment Snape’s wand went flying from the potions master’s grip. He paled more than usual, though he comported himself with surprising dignity in spite of his undignified situation.

The surprise on Snape’s face was evident and Harry realized that he was better than Snape now, stronger and more powerful.

Too bad bringing him in would put Voldemort on alert, or I’d have hauled him straight to Azkaban.

“Now, you listen to me,” Harry said through grit teeth. “If you think for one second that I ever wanted to be the Boy Who Fucking Lived, then you have absolutely no idea who you’re up against. The Wizarding World is a responsibility I’d only too gladly give up to someone who says he could do this better than I can, but no one’s stepping up. Nobody could do it, so I’m it, Snape. I’m it, and that just means I have no choice. Boohoo-fucking-hoo for me, then, eh? But believe it or not, I’m over it. It doesn’t make things any less crappy than they are, but I’m not going to let you stand there and tell me that I’m some punk who wants attention. I do want to live, and if I do, it won’t be for fame and glory as the Daily Prophet habitually puts it, so don’t give me shite because I have so much more to live for than you do.” With that, Harry let Snape go none-too-gently.

Snape stumbled back slightly, caught his balance, and straightened his robes, saying nothing and never minding the broken shards of teacup at his feet. His recovery time was impeccable. “The Revivisco potion is about ready. From the moment you drink it, it will remain active in your system for a maximum of seventy-two hours and shall be activated at the right moment after you ingest the Soul Harvesting potion. Have you destroyed the staff yet?”

Harry debated the merits of telling Snape.

Snape decided the matter for him. “If you have not, or if you cannot, then I’ve now given you a way to do it. I hope I don’t have to explain how.”

Harry didn’t reply, instead, he brought forth more questions. “Why did you address all your letters to Hermione? You could have addressed the letters straight to me.”

“Aside from the fact that the Know-It-All’s tolerably more intelligent than you, you mean?”

“Just answer the question.”

Snape lifted his nose haughtily. “I needed to give her proper motivation to seek you. I had to bring the two of you back together. I didn’t know where she was, but I had the means to reach her through Krum, and Henry Dresler.”

“You know Henry?”

“Of course I do, Potter. You’re not the only vampire expert on this side of reality.”

“Does Henry know you?”

“Not likely. When I thought about using him to deliver my letter to Granger, I wasn’t sure if he’d do it or if Granger would trust the letter when she got it. It was a shaky plan, but I thought maybe I had to try. You must understand that at that point, the letter I left with Viktor wasn’t a sure thing, either. I was doing all I can with the least risk of getting caught. When I tipped Henry’s werewolf about the burning of the Granger home—“

“You were the informant?”

Snape seemed terribly annoyed. “Well, who else would it be? It’s times like these I remember how much of an exasperating student you were. You and Weasley, both. Dunderheads.”

Harry bit back his acidic retorts and let Snape go on.

“I thought maybe the tip would be enough to get Henry’s confidence, and I had hoped Henry would put in a good word with Granger. But then my meeting with Draco Malfoy presented a better opportunity, so I took that route instead. I figured that if you couldn’t follow the clues, then I suppose the rest of the Wizarding World’s doomed, putting their hopes on an idiotic, completely and utterly mediocre Potions-student…”

“You are a sick, sadistic—“

“The point being… you and Granger were already together, as Draco said. Nauseating, really, but there was no help for it.”

Harry let Snape’s words sink in. “What’s so important about getting me and Hermione back together? Yasmin seemed to want it, Voldemort seems to hate the idea, and you’ve been doing your part. All three of you aren’t exactly cherubic little Cupids, if you get what I mean.”

Snape pursed his lips. “Quite frankly, Potter, I’m not very sure. All I know is the Dark Lord doesn’t want you together, so I aimed to do the opposite, hoping it was some kind of important twist to this war. I don’t know about Yasmin’s reasons, and I especially do not understand why Janus would want to keep Hermione one minute and then seek to destroy her the next, but I’ve heard the Dark Lord and Janus speak of an Oracle. I can only hope you know something about it.”

The pendant…

“I might.”

“Then you would know better. Anything else, Potter? We seem to be running out of time, according to what you told me earlier. Twenty minutes, was it?”

Harry didn’t bother to answer that. “What did Voldemort promise vampires to get them to help him?”

Again Snape averted his eyes, and Harry was surprised to note that it was because of embarrassment. “I don’t know. The Dark Lord speaks of retaining my expertise on whatever matter they agreed on when the vampires are present, but he does not speak to me of it in private. I’m thinking his promises are false, both in meeting his end of the bargain with the vampires and in ‘retaining’ me, if you get what I mean.”

Harry did. Snape was living on borrowed time now.

“Now, if there’s nothing else, come with me. You’re going to ladle the Revivisco potion into vials…”

“I don’t have to take orders—“

“Be quiet, you fool. It’s to your advantage I make you do this. You will take with you three vials. One for you to test—make sure I haven’t put poison in it. The other two will be your surplus. If you ladle the potion yourself, you don’t have to be afraid I’ve poisoned your surplus supply behind your back. Understand?”

Harry flushed, embarrassed. “Yeah.”

Snape did not look the least bit appeased. He muttered epithets of the vilest kind about Harry’s so-called intellect as he led Harry to the kitchen, which happened to be only a few steps away.

The cramped space had Harry standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder with Snape and it was evident that neither of them was too pleased by that, especially when they both kept knocking their elbows into things.

“You’re a menace, Potter,” hissed Snape, holding his ingredients table steady when Harry’s hip rattled it.

“If your kitchen weren’t such a bloody mess—“

“Just get the potion and go. I implore you.”

Harry did just that, frowning as he did so. “I’m not exactly thrilled to stick around, you know. Bad enough that this place is inhospitable, you just happen to be around to make it worse. I believe I never told you this, though I’ve always wanted to: You bloody sucked as a professor!”

“And you think your opinion matters to me, because…?”

Harry snorted as he capped the first vial.

Snape frowned. “Can you not move any faster?”

Harry ignored Snape’s prodding. He diligently continued his work, but he asked another question. “Let me just get a few things straight, Snape. It seems to me that with everything you’ve told me, you want me to—oh, walk up to Voldemort, knock on his door and tell him, ‘Pardon me, but I think I’m going to drink that potion of yours now so I can make you immortal. Unbeknownst to you, I have ingested a second potion that would surprise you enough to succumb to my power.’ How am I doing?”

“How you apply what I’ve told you tonight is your problem, not mine.”

“Yes, but you’ve implied the course of action I should take.” Harry capped the second vial and proceeded on to fill the third.

“I’ve implied nothing. At the risk of sounding like a complete moron, I’ll say only this, ‘You are the author of your own destiny.’”

“I’ve heard that said by two of the most intelligent people I know, in their own fashion. It sounded better coming from them. You make it sound like a cheap greeting card.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed but he made no further comment. “Are you not done with that third vial yet?”

“Just.” Harry capped the third vial, tucking all three vials into his robe. What little remained of the potion in the cauldron fizzled and dried, disappearing into thin air.

“Good! Then get out. I’ve no further use for you.”

Harry frowned. “Don’t I even get a Portkey back?”

“Do I look like the Department of Transportation? Step out of the wards and Apparate, for Merlin’s sake. Can you still not do anything sensible without someone having to telling you how? Some things never change, I suppose.”

Harry grit his teeth. “Yeah. You’re still an oily, unpleasant git.”

“Good bye, Potter, and good riddance.” With that, Snape swung his door open, pushed Harry face down to the side of the front-door’s steps, and left him in the dark with a resounding bang of his door.

Swearing potently, Harry swiped out his Invisibility Cloak and draped it over himself. He walked a fair distance away, through the cobbled streets and low-cost brick houses. He reached a Fish-and-Chips shop, from which he could see the river.

A little further down, he found a spot to Apparate and disappeared with a crack.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry reappeared in a dark alley, just a short distance away from the Anglican church. Keeping his invisibility cloak tight around him, he peered around the corner and saw a whole group of Aurors gathered around the front of the church. Hermione, Solomon, and Lucien hung further away with Remus, Ron, and Tonks. Thaddeus stood about, looking a bit displaced.

Harry checked his pocket watch and saw that it was five past the twenty-minute mark. He cursed under his breath, pulling off his Invisibility cloak and hastily made his way towards the group.

It was Hermione who saw him first, then Ron, who alerted everyone to his approach. Ron was rolling his eyes and looking exasperated. Harry couldn’t exactly decipher the looks on everyone else’s faces, but it varied between exasperation and sheer resignation, except for Hermione. She looked pissed.

She planted her hands on her hips and glared at him menacingly as he neared. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was likely to attack and bite his throat out.

“Erm,” he said. “Hi?”

She went up to him and began whispering fiercely. “I am so angry at you right now! You can’t possibly comprehend how much!”

Harry held his hands up in surrender. “I had to do it!” he whispered back.

They maintained their breathy debate, never minding everyone else who might overhear them anyway.

“You can’t just do that sort of thing without preparing for the worse!” she hissed beneath her breath. “I knew you were going to do this sort of thing!”

“Look, I’m back aren’t I? I’m unharmed and I got loads of vital information.”

“Well, that’s beside the fucking point, isn’t it? If something had happened to you, do you think that would have mattered? You’ll do this again! I know you will! So I’ll have to punish you! NO SEX!”

“What!”

Is she serious? Harry thought, not without a bit of panic.

Ron cleared his throat. “Yeah, as much as we like to watch you two whispering sweet nothings into each others faces…”

Hermione threw up her hands and gave a long, exasperated sound, something between a sigh and a growl. “Forget it! Harry’s right… he’s back, he’s okay, and all this is making me look like a cow! I’m over the whole thing, I swear…” She shot Harry a daggered look and crossed her arms over her chest stubbornly. “I was worried about you, you stupid git!”

Harry expelled a silent breath and shot Ron a relieved look. So it wasn’t going to be as bad as he thought if she could say something like that.

Ron merely arched an eyebrow as he shook his head. Ron wasn’t about to start yelling at him for what he did, but that was only because Ron was done yelling at him for such things. So were Remus, Tonks, and Shacklebolt.

With that, everyone began to pack up, Apparating one by one as soon as Shacklebolt gave clearance.

“Meet you in Grimmauld Place,” Remus told him, gesturing for Lucien so he could be Side-alonged.

Ron took Solomon and everyone else Apparated away.

Harry draped his arm over Hermione and squeezed gently. “Sorry.”

She glared up at him. “That was dangerous. It could have been a trap.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It could have been. I can’t believe you went and did it even after what we talked about earlier!”

“Well… to tell you the truth, I considered what Draco said…”

“Bullocks! You just needed a reason to go and use that Portkey!”

“That too, but I’m glad I did… I think.”

“What does that mean?”

He recalled everything he talked about with Snape and he felt a whole wave of different emotions: Despair, weariness, sadness, hope, loss, fear, and many other things he hadn’t sorted out yet. The worse of them must have shown on his face because her irritation quickly morphed into concern.

“Harry, what’s wrong?”

“Let’s go back to Grimmauld Place, alright? We’ll talk about it there.”

“Harry—“

“Later,” he said gently. The look of mounting fear in her gaze pierced his heart and he stifled his dismal thoughts so he could manage a reassuring smile. “It’s going to be alright. Ready to Apparate?”

Eyeing him doubtfully, she nodded, and holding her close, he Apparated them to Grimmauld Place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Stay tuned for the next installment!

35. Chapter Thirty-fourth: Messages

Author’s notes: Why did this take long? Because poems aren’t my strong point and I had to write ‘em for this one! That and the fact that I was also very, very busy.

Thanks so much to Tome Raider who, as usual, did an amazing job betaing this chapter!

Also, I feel honored that this story inspired Fullpensieve to create some awesome art. Check it out here: http://gallery.portkey.org/galleryView.php?viewDetails=1059 and don’t forget to drop him a note! ^_^

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty-Fourth: Messages

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione and Harry met up with Ron, Shacklebolt, and Remus in 12 Grimmauld Place. As Tonks summoned McGonagall and Arthur for an emergency meeting, Hermione spoke to her Shadow Kin in private.

“I want you two to make sure that something is being done to find Yasmin,” she told them. “Go to Tirgoviste and see if Henry’s got it together, and whether the Coven has him in on the search. If not, find Keiko and ask for an update. When you get the chance, Solomon, access my personal inbox online. You remember my username and password?”

Solomon nodded.

“Check to see if Yasmin’s responded at all. It has only been a few hours since I emailed her, but if she’s alright and she wants to be found, she’d respond.” Hermione looked to Lucien. “Try to see if you can get in touch with Elena. If she’s still in London, try to meet with her personally and tell her the situation with Yasmin. Ask her how much she wants as payment for her services on this matter.”

Lucien smirked. “She’d do this for free if you shag her.”

Hermione shot him a glare. “She never asked that from me, you know. And if by some strange twist of fate, she does, that’s not an option. I’m with Harry now and so that would be cheating.”

“Not if you get him in on it.” Lucien wiggled his eyebrows.

“He might like it, but Elena won’t,” said Solomon. “I heard she’s a jealous lover.”

“Oh? Shame, but I could live with just Hermione and Elena.”

“Well, then there would be Harry to think about still.”

“Harry’s a cool bloke and a do-gooder to boot. Hermione and Elena going at each other would be for a good cause, so he isn’t likely to kick up a fuss.”

“Come to think of it, boyo, Harry seems like a jealous guy in his own right…”

“Only with blokes, I think. He supports Hot Lesbian Action just like any heterosexual man. You’ll see.”

Hermione listened to them both with martyr-like patience, and when finally they paused to think the matter over, she said, “Are you two quite finished deciding mine, Harry’s and Elena’s sex lives?”

Both boys motioned to say something but she interrupted before they could. “Shut up, both of you. Go. Go before I hurt you.”

She was serious and they probably realized that. They scampered away to get to their tasks and Hermione muttered swear words under her breath as she watched them go.

She loved her boys, but sometimes they could be impossibly single-minded.

With her Shadow Kin dispatched, she rejoined Harry and the others in his study. McGonagall and Arthur arrived shortly after they were flooed and thus assembled, Harry calmly told them what transpired in what Harry now called Spinner’s End.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione stared at the vials in Harry’s hand. Three tiny containers filled with a dark, ominous substance that was either his salvation or destruction.

Her eyes stung and she hastily blinked back her tears.

Damn you, Snape. Damn you.

The profound silence in the room only compounded the fact that Harry’s options were miserable, and unless they came up with a better plan, this was how it was going to be.

Harry’s expression was grave, his eyes filled with intensity. “I’ll hand over one of these vials to our Potions lab at the Ministry, if you don’t mind, Kingsley. I want Woodhouse on this.”

“Best Poisons Specialist we have,” said Shacklebolt.

Hermione’s stomach clenched, the look in Harry’s eyes was one she knew well. He had decided on something, and she had a feeling it involved putting himself in great danger. It filled her with grief and anger. When was he going to understand that hero though he was, she wasn’t about to sit back and let him take foolhardy risks? She had always trusted his ability to pull through the most impossible situations, but she has never, in the course of their friendship, let him go unprepared if she could help it.

“And if it turns out to be what Snape said it would be,” said Hermione. “What are you going to do, Harry?”

His gaze flickered. “Then I just might go and use it.”

Hermione beat down her rising temper. She waited a few seconds to speak. Whether it was because she was controlling her irritation or waiting for someone else to point out what was wrong with his plan, she wasn’t sure, but she found herself getting angrier at the fact that no one was saying anything.

Finally, she spoke. “That thing could kill you.”

“Snape didn’t say that for sure. He said there was a possibility.”

“Oh, well, I suppose if it’s just a ‘possibility,’ then it’s alright.”

Harry shot her a glare.

Remus sighed. “She’s right, you know. The risks are immense, Harry. Why should we let you go through with this?”

“I don’t know. Fate of the Wizarding World, maybe?”

Ron scowled. “Well, then if you put it that way, having you possibly die by poisoning doesn’t sound as bad.”

“Son,” Arthur said, dealing him a warning glance.

“Quiet, all of you,” McGonagall said with her usual briskness. “Potter, however sarcastically Granger and Weasley put it, they have a point. You cannot just take that potion and hope for the best. Severus might be a brilliant potions master, but he isn’t infallible. There might be something in the potion that could be altered—“

Harry shook his head. “Altering is out of the question. We don’t know what goes into the Soul Harvesting potion, and even if we did, who’s to say that any alteration in the Revivisco potion, no matter how helpful it may seem to us, won’t react badly to the Soul Harvesting one?”

As much as it behooved Hermione to admit it, Harry’s argument on that respect was sound.

“There has to be another way, then,” she said. “It can’t be just that.”

“Maybe we can make another potion?” said Tonks. “One that would ensure Harry’s survival.”

Harry frowned. “Wouldn’t that be convenient? I could really use a potion like that, Tonks.”

Tonks shot him a glare. “It was only a suggestion.”

Harry sighed and gave her an apologetic look.

“Nevertheless, we ought to try it, don’t you think?” said McGonagall.

“Why don’t we shoot him up with all sorts of Muggle drugs while we’re at it?” Ron muttered. “Isn’t there some kind of limit to how much potion a wizard could drink without exploding?”

“Better than just watching Harry die, don’t you think?” Tonks pointed out.

Hermione wanted to scream at such awful prospects.

“I’ll speak to Horace about it,” said McGonagall. “Potter, do send a sample of that potion to my office at Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded, though Hermione could tell that he wasn’t putting his hopes on anything.

Shacklebolt went on to mention the arrangement of the Order general meeting, enlisting Tonks’s and Arthur’s help in the logistics.

Hermione was only half paying attention to it. She was eyeing Harry intently, knowing that the discussion about Snape’s potion was nowhere near done as far as he was concerned. She resolved to speak to him about it after this meeting was done, and hopefully she could talk some sense into him.

When the meeting finally adjourned, Harry stalked out of the office and Hermione followed right after him. She nearly collided with Ron who was headed in the very same direction.

They took a moment to shoot each other irritated glances before they fell into step behind Harry.

Harry didn’t miss a step as he spoke, never bothering to look back at them. “You two aren’t wasting time, are you?”

Hermione didn’t let his dismissive tone affect her. “We have to talk to you, Harry.”

“Yeah, and this isn’t going to wait,” said Ron.

Sighing, Harry said nothing, but he didn’t stop them from following him, either. He made straight for his room. He let them walk in with him and it was Ron who shut the door behind them.

“Harry,” Hermione began in a stern tone. “You have to promise us that you aren’t going to do anything rash the moment Snape’s potion is okayed.”

He looked terribly annoyed. “Like how rash?”

“Like going off to find Voldemort yourself—rash! You know what I mean, Harry!”

“Is that what you think I’ll do?”

“Isn’t it?”

Harry shot a glare at Ron. “And you? Thinking the same thing?”

“I’ve known you a long time, Harry, and you’ve done a lot of crazy things. What do you expect me to think?”

For several seconds, Harry said nothing, transferring his gaze between Hermione and Ron. He looked both perplexed and amazed, and Hermione figured it was because he’d rarely ever seen her and Ron agree on anything. Finally, Harry spoke. “I’ve always come out of the things I’ve done alive, you know. I’ll get through this, too.”

Ron threw up his hands in resignation.

Hermione growled, her frustration potent enough to frizz her hair even worse. “You don’t know that!”

“Don’t I? How do you know I haven’t looked into the Oracle’s message? How do you know I haven’t seen a future where I’m perfectly alright and Voldemort is dead?”

“Oracle?” Ron asked. “What Oracle?”

Hermione threw Harry a fierce glare. “Even if you have, I wouldn’t let you listen to it. I’ve tried to explain it to you, Harry. The Oracle doesn’t show the future. It shows possibilities as the situation stands. It shows what could happen if you do one thing and then another. And that’s apart from the theories that the Oracle could actually manipulate people into doing what it wants!”

“Can someone please explain this Oracle business to me?” cried Ron.

Since Harry didn’t look up to it, Hermione took on the task with a patient expression. “It’s a magical device that vampire masters use to guide their decisions. It’s under the guardianship of the Coven because it’s said to contain the blood of Isis, of which whose descendant is always the Coven Master.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “It tells you the future?”

“No, it does not,” Hermione said curtly. “At least I don’t believe it does. It gives a glimpse of the past, present, and what could be the future. Sometimes, it spouts out unsolicited advice. This is when most masters go insane, I believe, because they usually take it to mean that the Oracle is making a prophecy. Yasmin swears by it. Many do. I don’t, so Harry can’t use it to convince me to let him do what he thinks he should.”

Ron still looked confused. “So what does Harry have to do with it?”

“Yasmin gave him a message from the Oracle.”

Ron groaned. “Another prophecy. Fantastic.”

Hermione was getting irritated. “Weren’t you listening? It’s not a prophecy!”

“What you think and what is are two completely different things, Hermione, no matter how brilliant you are.”

“You’re missing the point, Ron! No one should ever have to let crystal balls, or Oracles, or loopy sherry-drinking Professors influence their decisions!”

“How can you say that when you saved Sirius’s and Buckbeak’s life with a Time Turner?”

“Again, you missed the point! When I used that Time Turner, I didn’t see the future in a crystal ball! I was the future, and Harry and I went back in time to fix it.”

“Yes,” Harry interjected. “But even then, we did the exact same thing we were meant to do. The future can be told—“

“Yes, the future can be told,” she conceded. “But it doesn’t mean it should be.”

He fell silent. So did Ron.

She took in a breath and expelled it, the feeling of air entering her body soothing. “So have you unraveled the Oracle’s message, Harry?”

He took a few heartbeats. “No, I have not, but with everything that’s happening, I might.”

Hermione’s heart sank, but she said nothing to discourage him. “Just don’t do anything stupid when you find out whatever it is you find out, alright?”

“You already told me that the first time you gave me the vial.”

“Well, then I’m telling you again. I’m nothing if I’m not a nag.”

Ron eyed her carefully. “It’s strange to listen to you admitting it. It sort of takes away from the fun of doing the exact opposite of what you nagged about.”

“Haha, Ron. Very feckin’ funny.”

Ron gave her a dismissive wave. “Which brings up my point. Harry, how can we be sure you won’t do anything stupid after you discover Snape’s potion works?”

Harry shot him a glare, but when Harry looked expectantly at Hermione and she made no move to chastise Ron, Harry seemed to realize that she wasn’t taking his side this time.

The brief look of betrayal in Harry’s eyes almost did Hermione in. Another second and she might have thrown herself into Harry’s arms, telling him that she’d never doubt his common sense again, but he sighed, and she saw that he understood.

Reaching into his coat, he plucked something from within its pocket.

Hermione heard the clink of glass, and sure enough, Harry held out the three vials.

“Take them,” he said, a flush rising in his face. “Maybe… maybe you’re right. Maybe I couldn’t be trusted with them. Just make sure Slughorn and Woodhouse gets samples of them for testing.”

Hermione stifled her sigh of relief. “You give them the samples.” She took one vial and held it up briefly. “I’ll keep this one, just because it would be wiser to have them separately kept.”

Ron shrugged. “Well in that case…” He took one vial for himself. “Don’t make us regret we trusted you with the last one, Harry.”

He eyed Ron briefly before he pocketed the last vial. “I won’t.”

“Good,” said Ron, looking quite satisfied. “Blimey, Potter. I didn’t get you this far through the war only to have you serve yourself up on a silver platter! That’s just not fair! That’s all my hard work gone to waste.”

Harry grinned and Hermione realized that it did reach his eyes.

These two men were best friends, and she couldn’t help but wonder if her presence before had hindered the development of that relationship. With her gone the last five years, Harry had to bring his most complicated issues to Ron for support, and that would have never happened if Hermione had been around. Harry and Ron seemed so close now, and of course that was to be expected, but Hermione could tell that they could look at one another and know what the other was thinking. It was uncanny, but true.

Well, if they start snogging, that would be such a bother.

She cocked a private smile.

Harry and Ron seemed to be agreeing on something, but she had missed the conversation.

Harry put his arm around her. “Oy, what’s with the secret smile?”

She wasn’t that surprised he noticed. “Nothing. My mind just wandered off a bit. What were you and Ron saying?”

“Just thought we’d sneak out for bit and unwind. Grab a Guinness, talk about stupid things.”

“Ah,” she said. “Then I bid you two to enjoy yourselves.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “What are you on about, Granger? Don’t you want to come with us? Pub not classy enough for your tastes?”

She sneered. “Shut it, you. It has nothing to do with how seedy your pub is. I just… well, it’s a boys’ night out kind of thing, eh? I don’t want to get in the way.”

Ron scoffed. “Don’t be foolish. You’re one of the boys, so you won’t be getting in the way at all.”

She had to smirk. “Oh, am I one of the boys? Harry doesn’t think I’m one of the boys. Especially not earlier this evening.”

Harry laughed softly, pulling her closer to kiss her just beneath the ear, as if to prove it. She shuddered at the touch of his lips.

Ron, to his credit, seemed unfazed. “I didn’t hear you say that and I didn’t see him do that! And viola, you’re both just my best friends again and you’re not shagging each other. Now let’s get going, before you two get all hot and bothered. We’ll sit at the bar. That way you don’t get to footsy each other under the table.”

Hermione smirked, warming at Ron calling her his best friend again. It was indeed cause for celebration. “And sitting at the bar would curb our enthusiasm, because?”

“Erm, because human decency demands it?”

Harry grinned. “I’ll try to keep my hands off her, Ron, so long as you answer all our questions.”

“All of them?”

“All of them. No excuses.”

“Humph. Well, that could be arranged. Half-a-dozen shots of whiskey ought to do it.”

“We have a deal, then?”

“Absolutely. Let’s go. Darkness’s a wasting!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When they first arrived at the pub, Ron put his great big arm around Hermione’s shoulders and jerked a thumb in Harry’s direction, telling the barkeep, “These are my best friends in the whole world. They’re going to buy me drinks tonight because they have an amazing sex life and I haven’t had a shag in months.” And true to his role as chaperone, Ron sat between them at the bar. As was his wont, Ron carried conversation with hilarious success. The barkeep thought him amusing enough, and that was a tall order in a pub whose toilet hadn’t been cleaned in days. Ron was expert at breaking the ice at the bar.

And so he drank, and—quite a few shots of whiskey later—told them that Gabrielle had broken up with him.

They’d acted properly sympathetic, never letting on that they’d expected it; telling him they were sorry. Harry shared a Russian Boilermaker with him, in honor of the tragedy. They dropped a shot of vodka, glass and all, into a mug full of beer and chugged it down in one long toss, after which they slammed their empty beer mugs on the bar, letting loose matching belches.

Hermione had three words for them. “That. Was. Disgusting.”

They could hear the barkeep laughing softly as he wiped glasses dry behind the counter.

“I suppose I ought to be thankful you’re not breaking bottles over your heads and scratching your balls,” she said loftily.

“That’s only for Quidditch weekends,” Ron burped, straight faced.

With only the slightest disparaging look, Hermione—like the good friend that she was—let it pass and proceeded to ask the details of the breakup, urging Ron to unload.

Ron whinged a bit, declaring that if she asked him to get in touch with his feminine side, he was going to walk right out of the bar.

Unaffected, Hermione insisted, and Harry watched Ron “give in” with too-loud protests. Harry said nothing, letting his best friend have the privilege of spilling his heart out under pretense of reluctantly obliging Hermione.

Gabrielle had broken up with Ron because Ron couldn’t give her the time she so richly deserved. Gabrielle hadn’t been angry. She hadn’t railed and cried and threatened. She had simply said that she understood that the demands of the Order came before her own, and that she had no wish to make him pick a side. She was young in a situation that demanded her to grow up, and that since she needed to grow up anyway, she ought to grow up with someone, rather than scramble to catch up with her boyfriend who seemed older than his years.

“Sweet little thing, isn’t she?” Hermione said dryly. “What’s his name? Pierre? Jean?”

Ron seemed surprised, then impressed. “Well, I don’t think she was cheating, per se. Gabrielle’s a good girl, and she wouldn’t hurt anyone on purpose, but I think she’s interested in someone… more her age. She mentioned some bloke named Rémi once. Maybe that’s him.”

“Humph, and humph again,” muttered Hermione. “I ought to soufflé that petite Delacour.”

Ron laughed. “Oh, leave her alone. I’ll just be grateful that she made an old man feel like a teenager again.”

“Ron, you’re only twenty-two. It’s been all but three years since you were last a teenager,” said Harry.

“I feel much older.”

Harry had exchanged secret eye-rolls with Hermione. He shoved another shot of whiskey in Ron’s direction. “Here. Drink up, then, old timer, before your rheumatism acts up.”

Hermione laughed, but a moment later, she put her arm over Ron’s shoulder and asked, “Are you going to be alright?”

Ron’s look of mild surprise transfigured into a half-smile.

Harry was a bit surprised himself. Hermione had, of course, been the most perceptive and sensible woman he’d ever had the pleasure of befriending, but since having returned from living five years as a vicious, perhaps even bordering on ruthless, vampire, her sweet and sensitive nature had taken on a decidedly sharp edge. This was no gentle damsel who wept at chick flicks and slept with a teddy bear. She was a sword-wielding lady chock-full of attitude, and perhaps even Harry hadn’t expected that she’d be mindful of the gentler sensibilities of men and break-ups.

“Yeah, I reckon so,” Ron replied. “I sorter had it coming, and it was a bit unfair, wasn’t it? Of me, I mean. She was too young. I should’ve known better.”

Hermione gasped and clutched at her chest. “Be still my heart. Did my ears hear the whisper of wisdom from Ron Weasley’s lips?”

“Don’t get used to it,” Ron said. “I’m only wise in this relationship thing because Harry has fared much worse than I have in that department. And you know what they say, ‘A wise man learns from his mistakes. A wise guy learns from the mistakes of others.’”

“Hey,” said Harry in a mildly protesting tone before he gave in to his grin.

Hermione’s eyebrow arched, crossing her arms over her chest. “Oh, really? Well, from what I’ve seen and heard, you haven’t learned from the most important mistake.”

Ron smirked. “Oh, you mean the one about falling in love with a vampire? I’ve learned loads about that.”

She grinned, not the least bit offended. “Not that mistake, the one about not seeing what’s right under your nose.”

Harry made a face at her. She grinned right back.

Ron kept smiling, but his brows knotted. “What? I don’t get it.”

“The defense rests,” Hermione muttered. “And I’m not even going to stick my nose in that one.”

“Me neither,” said Harry. “If it ain’t broke…”

“Don’t Nargle it.”

Harry laughed and Ron confused expression disappeared as he chuckled under his breath.

“Oh, Luna, you mean,” he said.

Hermione smirked. “Well, the monkey doth think.”

“Hey… I’m at least not as dense as this bloke over here.” Ron jerked a thumb at him.

“Oy,” said the aforementioned bloke. “Quit picking on me.”

A gleam of amusement lit Hermione’s gaze. “So, Ron. Do you fancy Luna?”

Ron shrugged. “I don’t know. I never thought about it until now.”

“Oh, haven’t you?”

“Well…” Ron paused. “There’s the occasional passing randy thought, but that’s normal, ain’t it? I’m a healthy bloke and she’s blonde with exquisite breasts.”

Harry laughed.

Hermione made a face, remembering Ron looking down her tank top. “I never took you for boob-man, Ron.”

Ron turned to Harry. “Aren’t we all?”

Harry shrugged. “Well, boobs are nice, I admit… but I like legs much better. Hermione has a fantastic pair of ‘em.”

She feigned exaggerated modesty. “Oh, stop.”

Ron made a face. “Well, when you’re as tall as I am and often have a view from above, one can’t help but look down those shirts.”

Hermione looked thoughtful. “That makes a strange sort of sense, actually.”

“It does,” said Harry.

“I propose a toast,” Ron said, raising his shot glass. “To perky breasts and shapely legs. Hell, let’s throw in tight arses for good measure.”

“Cheers, mate.”

To Hermione’s credit, she let it pass with a mere roll of her eyes.

And so they spent the next two and a half hours watching Ron getting banjaxed for his woes. When he’d had enough, Harry footed the bill and with Ron half-draped on him, tried to stumble out of the pub.

“Some help from the vampirically strong girlfriend would be nice,” Harry said, grunting from the effort of keeping Ron relatively upright.

Ron began to sing a lewd song about knickerless girls doing high kicks.

Hermione smirked but did not complain, taking her share of Ron’s weight as they hobbled out to the sidewalk and to the nearest Apparating point. Harry Apparated Ron first, dumping him on his bed gracelessly.

“Harry, I think George is in love with Luna,” Ron slurred.

Harry actually paused and frowned.

“Look on his face,” Ron muttered, scratching his tummy as he burrowed drunkenly into his pillows. He blinked, his bleary eyes affixed on Harry. “He needs her more than I do, I reckon…”

Harry felt a pinch in his heart for his best friend. He didn’t know what to think about that. “Go to sleep, Ron.”

“’K. G’night, mate.”

Harry left.

He went back for Hermione and soon he was walking her down the dungeons of Grimmauld Place.

Midway, she stopped and looked back at him. “Harry, whenever you’re…”

“Yes?”

“You know… saving the world…”

He laughed softly, shaking his head with miserable resignation.

“You know what I mean,” she said softly. “When you’re doing that, what goes through your mind?”

“Other than, ‘Oh God, there’s an evil wizard trying to kill me, let me out of here?’”

She smiled, almost looking apologetic that she was asking, but she didn’t take the question back. “Yes.”

Harry hadn’t really thought about it from such a perspective, but the answer was clear to him immediately. “I’m thinking I couldn’t fail, because there are too many people who would suffer if I did. And then I think about the people I love and want to protect. And then I ask myself how far I’m willing to go to protect them…”

She sighed, her eyes filling. She swiped what tears would have spilled with the back of her hand. “Ron and I can’t stop you from doing what you have to do, Harry. I think maybe I’ve tried too often in the past… failed each time. Just promise me one thing. When you do decide to do something that I’m probably not going to want you to do… tell me. Just please tell me. I promise I won’t stop you.”

His eyebrow arched in surprise. “You won’t?”

“I swear. I swear I won’t. No matter how stupid I think it is. No matter how reckless or irrational or—“

A soft chuckle escaped him. “Perhaps I deserved that.”

She blushed. “Just please promise me.”

He kissed her, enfolding her gently in his arms. “I promise,” he whispered.

When they parted, she looked up at him one last time before she continued the rest of the way down the steps. Harry watched her a moment as she descended, and when she reached the foot of the steps, it appeared Solomon and Lucien were there to meet her. She acknowledged their presence before she turned to him again.

He tilted a weary smile and she returned it before she disappeared behind the bend.

As Harry climbed the steps, he heard Hermione’s voice drifting from the hallway below.

“Any word?” There was a pregnant silence, signifying that Solomon and Lucien had nothing to tell her.

Yasmin’s still missing.

Harry didn’t know what the implications of it were, and honestly, he didn’t want to think about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slivers of sunlight pushed through the blinds of Harry’s bedroom window. Bright and early, he still had several hours to get some sleep, but as he sat at the edge of his bed contemplating the Oracle’s message in his hand, he had to wonder if Hermione was right about this, too.

If not for Hermione’s cautionary words, he might have unraveled the message already.

He looked back on prophecies and time turners, how they were self-fulfilling and destructive. He didn’t know what the consequences of this message was, but at this point, when things seemed so bleak and any ray of hope seemed better than nothing, he wondered if he had anything to lose.

He rolled the vial on his palm, the soft glow of the liquid inside enticing. The metal-work on the vial was as intriguing to him as ever, and he knew that if he ever got the chance, he would ask Yasmin what it meant, if it had any meaning at all.

Pinching the sculpted head of the demon-angel, he pulled carefully. The vial popped open and the red glow coned from the vial’s rim. He held the vial up to the dim light of his room, wondering whether he should drink it.

The glow of the liquid deepened and Harry felt warmth on his fingers. The warmth became a searing heat and he yelped, the vial tumbling from his hand. He swore as he tried to catch the vial mid-fall, only to fail when he realized it was too hot to hold. The vial toppled to the floor, whole, but the liquid inside it spilled, pooling.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Harry hissed, dropping to his knees. He tested the vial and found that it had cooled, and frantically, he tried to scoop some of the liquid back into the vial. It was silly, of course, and as he soiled his fingers, momentarily fascinated and horrified that the liquid felt like blood, he stared at the mess on his hands.

He had seen his hands bloodied before, but he realized that he had gotten more blood on them when he was trying to save lives rather than taking them. Most of the vampire and werewolf blood he had shed spilled on his sword, and the human lives he had to take had been by magic. Saving lives, pressing on bleeding wounds… the blood had seeped through his fingers and caught beneath his fingernails.

Hermione’s blood had been everywhere.

He closed his eyes, trying to block the memory from his mind.

When he opened them again, the blood on the floor and on his hands gleamed in the dimness.

Harry felt a surge of panic, cursing as he contemplated running to the bathroom to wash off the blood before it did something awful to him.

But before he could do just that, the pool of blood on the floor began to ripple, and then it drew itself into a line, as if alive, and viscously crawled in Harry’s direction.

He didn’t know why, but it was the creepiest thing he had ever seen, and he stumbled to get away from it.

Pushing himself clumsily to his feet, he made for the door, only to realize as he reached for the knob that the thin film of blood on his hands were rippling to life as well.

“Shite!”

He reached for his towel, lunging to wipe it off, but it seemed to crawl between the folds of the linen and up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, and then into his mouth.

He gagged, his knees folding to the floor. He felt the line of blood swimming on his tongue as the pool on the floor caught up with him. The liquid trail climbing up the length of his leg, his body, before it began to seep through his fingernails along the way. They seeped through his scars and Harry felt invaded; under siege. He lost control of his faculties, suddenly feeling drugged and dazed, like he was going to pass out in a trance.

He must have stumbled on his face, because he felt something jarring his cheek. He couldn’t move, and soon his vision bled into a deep, crimson darkness.

An ancient voice whispered unintelligible words. Phrases swimming together in his thoughts.

The voices drifted, and visions and memories rose to the surface of his consciousness. He couldn’t tell one from the other.

Hermione’s face, anxious but determined, lifted the Time Turner between them, the gears spinning with three clicks…

He found her in his arms, life-blood seeping from her body, his hand pressing on her wound…

And there fell the vampire to his knees at the agony of solar light burning into his flesh, the fangs of a serpent painted on his skin rippled with the contortion of his body…

Janus pierced the vein of his wrist, blood oozing from the wound as he forced it against Hermione’s mouth, forcing her to drink while her eyes filled with horror…

Sleek legs and seductive curves, a dark apparition standing between Hermione and death. The forest surrounding them tingled with dangerous magic, and yet the apparition laughed, the sound escaping lovely lips. They called her Yasmin, and she was ancient, protecting the young from the one who sired her…

The sounds drifted to silence and Harry saw the many faces of his enemy. He was the disease hidden beneath Professor Quirrel’s turban; the living essence of the young boy that was in the Chamber of Secrets; the treachery of a friend known as Wormtail who shattered the lives of Padfoot, Moony, Prongs, and Lily; the creature that was born from the bones of his father, the flesh of a servant, and the blood of his most hated enemy; the man who tormented his thoughts, waking or asleep; the evil that plagued London, families, and Hogwarts; Voldemort, who took so many lives and promised to take more.

Harry saw others, those who followed Voldemort’s cause. Bellatrix, his loyal and vicious right hand. Peter, the sniveling servant. Lucius, the deep-pocketed minion. Fenrir, the ferocious werewolf. Janus, the ancient vampire.

And then Harry saw himself, his past, his present and his future.

They were eyes older than any Harry had seen. A woman’s eyes lined with thick kohl, wisps of incense smoke swirling at the corners, pungent and strong. The smoke thickened, clouding one’s vision, and he could hear sounds from her lips as she read from a parchment, words written in blood. “Ahksha Tan. Shiao Khali. Nung Aino we Hiro. Jahad. Rhakmun. Imma akh shanna wa hal eyto ji ufra amun hal ami. Ahksha Tan. Shiao Khali. Nung Aino we Hiro…” The strange syllables repeated over and over again, until Harry could stand it no more and he clapped his hands over his ears. He struggled to scream. He wanted it to stop, because the disjointed thoughts and images were driving him mad.

He cried for silence. He squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened them, he was in his room at Grimmauld Place. The strange woman reading from the parchment sat across from him while blood seeped through the walls.

He stared at it all, terrified.

The blood formed shapes, like characters of an unknown language, filling every visible surface of his room, and still the woman spoke the same strange words over and over, her eyes growing emptier by the second, like the mantra was draining her of herself.

She continued to speak, and slowly, she began to say things he could understand.

“Three descendants of the Fang

A child meant to betray and lead

A child meant to serve and bleed

A child meant to nurture destiny’s seed

On three the balance of the Blood hangs

These children of the Fang.

“Two souls bound by prophetic ties

A soul who lived by the oldest of magic known

A soul torn but lives through dark magic sown

Both souls yet incompletely owned

On two a world’s future lies

These souls bound by prophetic ties.”

“Each one in common fate entwined

Anointed Ruler, blessed by ancients’ will

The Catalyst, to know and so fulfill

Time’s last Turner, to awaken olden skill

The Wielder, meant to either die or kill

The Puppet, for naught but blood to spill

Five lives of common fate entwined

Deliver Blood from daylight’s bind.”

The walls were filled, ceiling to floor, and the shapes bled into one another, a layer of crimson pooling at the floor as it came at him again, climbing his body and seeping through his mouth, eyes, nose, and ears. He felt saturated, like he would burst, and though he tried to scream, nothing but the garbled sound of a drowning man escaped him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Harry!” came a distant voice. “Harry!”

And then Harry felt someone hit him, once across the face. It felt like he had gotten hit with a paddle, and it was only then Harry realized he was screaming bloody murder.

He wasn’t drowning in a pool of blood. His room was not flooded and his walls were bright and clean. There was no strange woman in his room with him. In fact, everyone who was there was a familiar face.

There was Tonks, Remus, and even Draco. All of them pale and shocked.

Tonks loomed over him, shaking him senseless and slapping him silly.

Harry stopped screaming, and he realized he was breathing heavily, his clothes damp with perspiration. He was on the hardwood floor and his entire body felt cramped.

The ache in his fingers became pronounced, and he realized it was because he had them tensely clamped into the wild strands of his hair. He loosened his fingers, orienting himself to the familiarity of his surroundings.

“You ought to hit him again, Tonks,” Draco said rather seriously.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” said Tonks. “I think he’s coming to.”

Draco peered at him. “Is it his scar?”

Remus frowned, peering cautiously into Harry’s eyes. “I don’t know. Harry? Can you hear us?”

Harry took a few more breaths before he swallowed and nodded. “I—I’m alright. I just—blimey, it was like a nightmare.” He struggled to sit up and Remus helped.

“What was?” asked Remus

Harry remembered the message and he looked frantically around him for the vial. He saw it on the floor. The cap was off, but the blood didn’t spill. Frantically, he reached for it, grasping the vial and willing his hands not to shake as he plugged it close.

His head throbbed, the strange words imprinted in his memory. “I-I need to get to my Pensieve. I have to—“

“Relax,” said Remus in a soothing tone. “The Pensieve isn’t going anywhere.”

“Yes, but the memory might—I don’t know how these Oracle things work. I need to remember the words…”

Remus and Tonks looked at one another in confusion.

“Oracle?” asked Tonks. “What in the world—“

“It was never a question of whether he would lose his mind,” said Draco in a derisive tone. “It was always a matter of when.”

Harry ignored him. “I have to get to my study.”

Remus’s firm arm steadied him, for which he was grateful. His legs still felt a bit wobbly.

Harry took a few tentative steps and was glad to note he could manage it without swooning. He walked on, Remus and Tonks following close behind.

Draco’s disgusted snort and receding steps were evidence of Draco’s disinterest.

“Where the bloody hell is Ron?” Tonks asked. “Don’t tell me he slept through that racket!”

“He’s dead pissed,” Harry replied absentmindedly. “Gabrielle dumped him.”

“Hope their age difference had nothing to do with it.”

“Tonks,” said Remus in a gently reproachful tone.

Harry kept on walking and when he got to his study, he turned to them apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I need to be alone.”

Tonks and Remus eyed him a moment, as if gauging whether he was fit to be left by himself. He didn’t let his gaze waver, and finally, they nodded and turned to leave.

Sighing with relief, Harry closed himself into his study and looked to his Pensieve.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron woke with a blinding headache. The sun was up, its rays piercing holes through his skull.

Moaning, he pulled the covers of his bed over his head to block the glare. From beneath the blanket, he poked out a hand to reach for his pocket watch.

He had to blink several times to see that it was almost noon.

He moaned again. “Charlie’s going to kill me,” he muttered.

Pushing himself up to his feet, he felt his head sway and his brain split. It only got worse with the racket coming from his windowsill.

The flapping of wings sounded like firecrackers going off in his head.

Scowling, he turned to see an eagle, a large one, and it took up most of his window. The eagle gave a piercing shriek and it knifed right through Ron’s ears.

“Argh! Bloody fucking hell!” he growled, burying his head in his pillows.

The eagle flapped again and Ron emerged from his shelter, yelling for the beast to hold still.

There was a letter tied to its leg and Ron struggled to get it off without having the eagle’s talons cutting him.

The envelope was unmarked, but when Ron broke the seal and read its contents, he felt suddenly sober.

Please come visit for tea. The children miss their uncle.

It was unsigned, but Ron knew who sent it.

Blinking back his intoxication, he splashed himself with cold water, drank some Pepper-up Potion, and put some fresh clothes on, grabbing his parka on his way out. Using his Dragonkeeper Portkey privileges, he hastened to the dragon reservation in Sweden.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry closed his eyes and massaged his temples, thinking that if the words he’d written didn’t make more sense to him soon, he’d go spare.

He looked to the fireplace, waiting for either Slughorn’s, McGonagall’s, or Woodhouse’s face to appear in it with news of the sample potions he sent them, but the hearth remained silent.

He sighed. He desperately needed a distraction.

There were papers everywhere, blotted and inked with notes, copied images, phonetically spelled gobbledygook, and perhaps a doodled cartoon or two.

He’d been in his study for hours, breaking only when Tonks came in before she left for work and when Remus dropped by to share a packed lunch with him. Of course, it was odd to eat a packed lunch in one’s own home, but really, at that point, he wasn’t going to labor over such details.

There’s too much to do… he thought, wondering when he was going to fit everything he had to do between now and the inevitable confrontation between him and Voldemort, which he assumed was soon.

He oddly felt like he was going to an exam hugely unprepared. This was not good, especially since he had spent the last few years thinking that he was ready for anything.

This is Snape’s fault.

He checked his pocket watch and saw that it was just after sundown.

He hadn’t had any sleep.

Slipping off his glasses, he closed his eyes. He must have dozed off a bit because before he knew it, he was being stirred out of sleep by the sound of softly shuffling paper.

He spied a blur by his chair bending over his desk. He slipped his glasses back on and watched Hermione’s backside for a bit. He indulged himself a secret smile before he spoke. “How long have I been asleep?”

She didn’t seem surprised that he was awake, her gaze never wavering from the papers on his desk. “Just a few minutes… where did these come from, Harry?” She held up a sheet of paper, the one with the strange characters on them.

He straightened himself on his seat, yawning. “Oracle. I unraveled the message this morning.”

She held still a moment, and he wondered if she was going to scold him. She didn’t.

“This is vampire hieroglyphics,” she said. “Did you write this?”

“Copied it,” Harry said. “From the visions. I make no pretense of understanding it. Can you read it?”

Hermione nodded. “Ahksha Tan. Shiao Khali. Nung Aino we Hiro… Harry, this is very archaic writing. It’s a tad more difficult than the more modern vampire syntax, but—“

He blinked his drowsiness away and encouraged her to read on. “Keep going. It sounds exactly like what I heard in the visions.”

“What visions?”

“From the Oracle,” was all he said as explanation. “Keep reading.”

She didn’t insist on further explanation, throwing him a mildly annoyed look before doing as he said. “Ahksha Tan. Shiao Khali. Nung Aino we Hiro. Jahad. Rhakmun. Imma akh shanna wa hal eyto ji ufra amun hal ami… it’s just the same thing over and over.”

He nodded. “Do you know what it means?”

“Yes. Ahksha Tan means the anointed ruler. Shiao Khali means the catalyst that would fulfill. Nung Aino we Hiro literally means the Last Turner of Time. Jahad means the Wielder. Rhakmun means the dummy, or more accurately the puppet.”

“And the rest of it?”

She read it again, brows knotting. “Roughly: Five to deliver the Blood from darkness so its children could walk the light again.”

“The blood?”

“The Blood is an archaic reference to vamp kind and their children.”

“Children?”

“When a vamp turns a human, that turned human is sometimes called the vamp’s ‘child.’ But it’s just a metaphor. Some take it seriously, most don’t. Just like when two vamps are turned by the same master, they were ‘turned by the same father’ and that sort of thing.”

Harry shuffled the papers on his desk and brought out the one where he had written the lyrical messages. “Here, read this and tell me if it makes any sense to you.”

She did, brows knotting in concentration. A few minutes later, he rifled through his pages on the desk and brought out a different set of copied characters. She held it up. “Who interpreted this?”

“Is it wrong?”

She held up the hieroglyphics and the lyrical message. “This English translation is exactly what these hieroglyphics mean.”

Harry pointed to the English text. “I scribed this from the message and I copied the characters from the vision. Do you understand the references in the verses?”

“Only the one to you and Voldemort.”

“The ‘Last Turner of Time’ mean anything to you?”

She frowned. “Of course it does. I had the last one before they were all destroyed in the Department of Mysteries.”

“That’s what I thought of when I heard the words used before, but it’s not talking about a Time Turner, Hermione. It’s talking about the last one who turned time.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that. See, this is why I hate Divinations… and just when and from whom did you hear about the ‘Last Turner of Time?’”

“A couple of weeks back, from one of the werewolves sent to burn your parents’ house down. Don’t change the subject.”

“Sorry.”

“This prophecy—“

“It’s not a prophecy.” She said it through grit teeth.

He sighed, smiled patiently, and rephrased. “This message is talking about you, too. Now since you’re not one of the two whose soul is bound by a prophecy…”

“I’m one of the three children of this so-called Fang,” she finished unhappily. “I don’t know who Fang is, unless Hagrid’s cowardly dog has turned into a bloodsucking mutt… or it could be another reference to vampire kind…”

“You’re rambling. You know what I’m getting at.”

Her lips pursed, and in some sick, twisted way, Harry wanted to giggle and say, “Sucks to be in a prophecy, doesn’t it?” But then of course, this wasn’t supposed to be a prophecy, and he figured this wasn’t going over-easy with her at all, so joking about it wasn’t exactly a good idea, either.

“Well, we don’t know if I was the last one to turn time,” she pointed out stubbornly. “Maybe some bloke turned time just that we never knew it.”

“That bloke wouldn’t happen to be allergic to Kryptonite, would he?”

She frowned. “I’m serious.”

He chuckled miserably. “Hermione, I need you to work with me. Just tell me if you understand that you’re one of the three this pro—message is talking about.”

She sighed. “Yes, of course, I do. But—“

“But nothing. Janus made you. Janus and Yasmin have the same maker. You said so yourself.”

“That doesn’t—“

“Even if Yasmin and Janus created a dozen vampires in their five lifetimes, you’re still the only one that has anything to do with me and time turning. Don’t you want to know who Grandfather Fang is?”

She shook her head, obviously frustrated that they were talking about this so-called message at all. “And so this means what? Who’s who in this last verse? Who gets to be the Annointed Ruler? Who gets to be the Catalyst? And so on and so forth? Why are you even asking me these things? I already told you what I feel about proph—stuff like this, Harry. And see, it’s proving to be every bit as troublesome as I thought. Think about it. At least two of the five think that they’re the Annointed Ruler, anybody can be the Catalyst, being the Wielder sounds too damn vague, and everyone would like to think that the other one’s the Puppet! Seems to me that everyone is being motivated by this so-called message to make it work for them. The fact that there’s reasonable certainty that I’m the Last Time Turner doesn’t make things any easier, and it doesn’t really shed much light on what my role is concerning the first verse. What does the Oracle expect us to do with this information?”

Harry gave her an apologetic smile but didn’t let the issue go. “Yasmin said I should be ready before I unravel the message. That doing so before may lead to dire consequences. I have no aspirations to rule and I’m no catalyst, either. I’m either at the middle or at the end, never at the beginning. Am I a puppet? Am I the Wielder? We’ll probably never know until the end, but I have a feeling that I’ll know when it matters most.”

Imminent fury flashed in her eyes, but she pursed her lips, saying nothing. She had remembered her promise, and so he was going to remember his when the time came.

She sighed, sitting on the edge of his desk with weary resignation. “Harry, listen to me. You might have decided to do one thing or another without knowledge of the Oracle’s message, but now that you’ve listened to the message, you’d probably think this or that option would be the only choices you have! Don’t you see? You will inevitably choose the path the Oracle has shown you when you don’t have to follow it!”

“Everyone else has chosen to take this path, Hermione—“

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes I have to,” he said, holding her gaze with his own. “Do you even realize what this Oracle has done? Just think on it a second. Janus knew about this message, we don’t know how, but somehow, he did, maybe, just maybe he showed Voldemort the same message. He didn’t even have to bring the message with him. He had it in his mind, and Voldemort could’ve looked at it through a Pensieve. Yasmin definitely knew about it because it’s her Oracle, innit? And so the three people who knew acted on it. Janus turned you, Yasmin took you, and Voldemort has been trying to kill you since. Can you even comprehend what that does to me, Hermione? I couldn’t simply ignore this Oracle now, could I? Because it changed both our lives. Whatever it is, whether it tells the future or manipulates it, it has us. Do you understand?”

Her brows knotted, then she pressed her hands to her face, taking and expelling a breath. When she lowered her hands, she said nothing for a moment. “I liked it better when you let me figure things out. At least then I had a head start on things and I had more time to brace myself for the inevitable.”

He smiled tiredly. “Did it make it any easier?”

“No. I used to think it does because I could predict your knee-jerk reaction—“

He laughed.

“—but the fact is, it never made things easier. It might have if I didn’t care for you.”

“Always said I was a burden to my friends.”

She arched an eyebrow then smirked. “There are worse things in this world than loving Harry Potter.”

He grinned slowly, taking her hand until their fingers were entwined. “I should hope so.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron shivered within the forests of Mount Galtispuoda.

It was a crisp night, mercifully bereft of wind, but it was quiet as death, and the light of the moon wasn’t exactly what Ron would consider comforting. He shoved his gloved hands deeper into his fleece-lined pockets. Maybe there was some secret warmth there that he didn’t yet know about.

He had worn out his excuses for showing up at the Swedish dragon reservation, and it wasn’t an easy thing traveling from one Apparition Point to another between the heart of the Scandinavian mountain range to where he was now, several times throughout the day. It didn’t help in the least that they expected him at the reservations to pull his weight.

Those Short Snouts are a bitch! he thought sourly, touching part of his head that had nearly caught on the tongues of dragonfire earlier that evening.

Not to mention the fact that when he wasn’t at the reservation, he was over at Krum’s house, playing Viktor to Viktor’s kids, just so the house help wouldn’t suspect anything was amiss. Didn’t help that Viktor seemed to have a taste for alluring Swedish babysitters. The blonde hair and blue eyes, Ron could deal with, but those outfits… didn’t they know it was fall and that skimpy clothes were inappropriate for the season? It wasn’t as if they didn’t feel cold, because Ron could tell they were.

Sighing, Ron wondered when Viktor would get there and wished the Bulgarian—

Ex-Bulgarian

--would hurry up, because if Viktor didn’t get there in another ten minutes, that would mean Viktor was in trouble, and Ron knew he would have to go and try to save the Quidditch Seeker’s—

Ex-Quidditch Seeker’s

--sorry arse. Ron was no coward, but he thought it would increase his and Viktor’s chances exponentially if he could ask for help, something Viktor had expressly forbidden him to do unless it was absolutely and life-and-death necessary.

“Less people know, safer for you and me,” Viktor had said.

Ron had wanted to argue: They needed help—this was dangerous, it wasn’t as simple as it seemed, Harry could do this better than both of them can—but Viktor was adamant. Ron couldn’t entirely blame him. Viktor prioritized his children above all else, and everything he did or didn’t do tied in with that.

Ron wasn’t happy about it, but he didn’t want to push Viktor to do something he didn’t want to do, especially since Viktor was putting his life at a terrible risk to help the Order.

Why Viktor had chosen Ron to help him, of all people, was apparent enough. He was already Viktor’s Secret Keeper, and Ron could help him without the risk of revealing the location of Viktor’s new home, or compromising Viktor and his family’s new identities. Viktor trusts him and he knew Ron had tactical experience. Besides, it was—as Viktor said—so much safer dealing with as little people as possible in a covert operation. Of course, the fact that Ron had only so many resources at his disposal was something Ron didn’t want to think about. He only hoped Harry didn’t notice that his Auror-grade Polyjuice supply was slowly dwindling.

On the whole, Viktor’s plan had seemed simple enough at first. After the siege at Viktor’s castle was won, Viktor had scoured around the dead bodies and morbidly collected hair samples from one of the Death Eaters. He did it because he wished to continue to do his part in the war, but he had his children to think about, too, so he had to do it secretly—very secretly; as secretly as secret could be. So secret that he spoke to no one about it but his Secret Keeper, and so Ron helped Viktor Krum execute his plan.

Viktor Krum had the Dark Mark on him. A real one. It would be very easy to slip in and out of Death Eater company with the mark making his magical signature inconspicuous to Voldemort’s attention. He could gather information, take what he could, be a spy for as long as he wasn’t caught, killed, or both.

However dangerous the plan was—and yes, Ron told Viktor it was downright foolish—, Viktor insisted. He said he would do it with or without Ron’s help, and that all Viktor asked was that if anything happened to him, Ron would make sure that the children would be delivered safely to their legally appointed guardian’s care until they were old enough to administer their own fortunes. Ron didn’t ask about who would get the children if the worse happened. He pretty much knew who it would be, and for the most part, Ron didn’t worry about whether she wouldn’t take them, because she would in a heartbeat, but Ron just knew that he would have Viktor’s death on his head. If something happened to Viktor, it would be his fault, and he didn’t think he could face Hermione for it; he didn’t think he would know what to tell Viktor’s children when they were old enough to understand.

With this daunting possibility looming over him, Ron obsessively made it his mission to employ everything he could to get Viktor safely to and from infiltrations. Ron lined up plan Bs and plan Cs. Ron’s constant reminder of “Don’t get caught!” had a decided edge to it.

This was Viktor’s second foray into Death Eater territory. The first time hadn’t been a bad run, which only made Ron more nervous. Somebody had to have cottoned-on to their ruse.

For Merlin’s sake, how in the world could two people with crappy tracing charms, limited means of communication, and with no official Auror-training manage without turning this into one, mother of a clusterfuck?

I’m going to get him killed. I’m going to get Viktor Krum, International Quidditch star, and the best (or Second Best, as Ginny often said) Seeker in the world, killed. I’ll be famous for being the dumb-arse sidekick of Harry Potter that got Viktor Krum benched—permanently.

Ron was just about bracing himself for the inevitable rescue mission when the whoosh of a Portkey sent dust clouds of snow up in the air.

In the next second, Viktor was there, still in his Death Eater visage.

“Come,” Viktor said, grabbing Ron by the arm and dragging him through the snow. “Something important has happened. I was caught.”

“What!” Ron squeaked, his thoughts thrown awhirl. He started raving, of course, demanding to know the details immediately.

Viktor shushed him, telling him that they must Apparate immediately.

Resisting the urge to throttle Viktor, Ron complied, and soon, they were walking down the streets of the quaint Swedish Wizarding town cocooned from the world and prying eyes. The glamour Ron wore to alter his physical features was about as perfect as most Auror-issue charms were. Viktor had been given his own glamour, for when he dealt with anyone other than his children, but he didn’t have his on now because his Death Eater appearance served.

Viktor led them to the seedy pub situated at the edge of town, sat them at a corner table, and ordered them Lager and food.

Ron scowled. It amazed him that Viktor could think about eating at a time like this, and coming from Ron, that was saying something. “Who the hell caught you? How the hell did you get out of there alive?”

To Viktor’s credit, he didn’t look around shiftily to make sure no one was listening. He simply cast a diversion charm around them and began to speak in a lowered voice. “It was Severus Snape who caught me. I do not know how, but he has been acting suspicious of me since the first time. Today he kept asking me questions, and before I knew it he did something. Got in my head, I think. It was not pleasant.”

“Holy crap. He must’ve been right teed off! Did he threaten to report you?”

“There was mention of that, da,” said Viktor calmly. “But I was not so afraid. He called me many unsavory names, but he did not report me. He was very rude, though, and he said that you and Potter were sure to get me killed.”

Ron scoffed. “That’s him alright.”

“He also called me twice the fool for trusting my safety to you. He said that if it had been up to him, you would have gotten trolls for all your subjects, and that you would have gotten so many of them through the course of your Hogwarts life that you could have raised a Troll Army. He also said you were dead from the shoulder up, whatever that may mean. And then he said you were—“

“Alright already! I get it! He doesn’t think very highly of me. Tell me something I don’t know. Blimey… did you two talk about anything other than how stupid he thought I was?”

“We did. Snape said that if I wanted to get through this alive, I must do exactly as he says. I did. He is very control freakish, yet he does not shampoo his hair. One would think a man like him would be obsessively neat.”

Ron blinked, momentarily confused between the gravity of Viktor’s report and the swift shift to shampoo. “Well, did he help you get important information?”

“He tried, but there was very little he could do for me yet. Still, he wants me to go back there as soon as I can.”

“Are you mad? Viktor, I urge you to reconsider asking the Order’s help—“

“No. Above everything else, I want my children to be safe. If you tell them about me, it will break the Fidelius for my children, as well. I will not risk them.”

“Krum, listen to me, you cannot trust Snape completely. Do you understand? He’s ruthless and will stop at nothing to do what he thinks he ought to do. You watch your back!”

Krum sighed, removing the diversion charms so that the waiter could bring them their orders. “That is all I have been doing most of my life. Watching my back. I am done watching my back too closely. I want… I want my children to be proud of their bashta.” Remembrance flickered in Viktor’s eyes, like he was recalling something pleasant. “It is nice to hear the people you love tell you they are proud of you.”

Ron fidgeted a bit uneasily on his seat. He wasn’t sure if he was comfortable hearing Viktor talk about such personal feelings. Then again, the poor bloke probably didn’t have many people to talk to, especially not about things like this. “Er… Krum, I think what you’re doing is crazy, but whether or not you get through this alive, I think you can be pretty sure your kids are going to be proud of what you’ve done.”

Viktor’s smile was barely discernible. It was a rare enough image, to Ron. Viktor always appeared to be a surly man, but Ron supposed he didn’t look that way to deliberately scare anybody. He was just that way, period. Ron wasn’t going to bother asking why. Whatever the reason, that was Viktor’s business.

To Ron’s great relief, the food arrived, and over hot soup, omelet, and sausages, he listened to the rest of Viktor’s report.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Some of you asked how many chapters left and I have learned that I cannot keep my promises in that respect. LOL! I want to say three, but yeah right… you know?

Anyway, until the next chapter!!!

36. Chapter Thirty-fifth: Provocation

Author’s notes: The end is neigh. I couldn’t believe it myself.

Thanks to everyone who has so enthusiastically supported this fic. You’ve been wonderful! And no, don’t worry, this isn’t the last chapter! Lol. I just feel the need to give you all a great big thanks.

Many, many thanks and hugs and cakes to Tome Raider who did an absolutely spectacular job beta-ing this one. This was a toughie. It needed her magic touch, and she did it again! For that, I am grateful. I always am, but I’ll give thanks until my face is blue!!!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: NC-17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty-fifth: Provocation

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hermione?”

Her skin glowed like pale moon in the darkness of the room, her eyes rings of amber and brown. He could see her fangs peeking from her lips. Tears spilled from her eyes, the miserable resignation clear in her expression.

“I can’t let you die,” she whispered, her body still and unmoving. “Do you understand me, Harry? I can’t let you die.”

He frowned, trying to reach her. He can’t, but he wanted so much to offer her comfort. “It’s going to be alright. It’s going to be fine.”

“It won’t be.” It sounded so definite that Harry felt his stomach knot.

Behind her, from the darkness, another figure emerged. It was pale like her, but taller, and older. His dark hair bled into the black, and when he smiled, his eyes lit like glinting gold.

Janus.

Harry began to walk towards them, his brisk steps became a desperate run. He couldn’t reach her, no matter how hard he tried.

Janus’s arm snaked around Hermione’s shoulders possessively. “Mine to make. Mine to take.”

“Get away from her!”

Hermione’s tears continued to spill. The gentle caress of Janus’s fingers through her hair coiled Harry’s insides.

Janus pushed her hair back, and he slid his arm away from her, only to rest his hand on her shoulder and push her to her knees. She complied without resistance.

Harry shook his head. He’d seen this one before. He knew what was going to come next.

Hermione closed her eyes as the silvery flash of sword disturbed the ominous darkness.

Harry cried for her, pleading her to run; to fight; anything but surrender, but she wasn’t listening, or maybe she couldn’t hear him, and all he could do was watch in horror as Janus swung his sword towards Hermione’s neck.

Harry screamed in pure grief as she toppled lifelessly to the ground, her head severed from her body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Harry, wake up!”

Harry’s eyes flew open, his mouth open in a silent scream, heart hammering at an impossible rate. Everything was a blur, he could barely see anything, but he was acutely aware that his chest was heaving, and that his body was covered in cold sweat. He gasped in panic. “Hermio—!”

“It’s alright! I’m here!” Her voice was a bit pitched, as if she’d been saying it over and over again, and that she just needed for him to hear it. “Harry, it’s alright!”

He reached for the blur that was her hair, and his fingers trembled as he ran them through the locks and strands. He was taking gulps of air as he did it, and he focused on making himself believe that this was real; that she was alive.

She must have sensed that need, because she hushed him softly, her light kisses meant to reassure.

Gradually, he calmed down, and he remembered that they were both in bed, still naked from having made love.

Her palm rested comfortably on his cheek; her breasts pressed intimately on his chest.

“It was just a bad dream,” she whispered. “Just a bad dream, Harry. Hush now… it’s alright.”

He was still breathing through his lips, but her voice was soothing, and he could feel the tension leaving his muscles.

He swallowed, and his throat felt dry. It was the second time the nightmare had come to him; the second time he woke up screaming. The first time had been last night, and Hermione hadn’t been with him.

Her presence was comforting, and this time, it was easier to wind down from the effects of the dream.

He cupped her face in his hands, pulling her close to kiss her. Her lips were soft and obliging, opening for him so he could taste her. The feel of her velvety tongue against his was both arousing and reassuring, and he needed that reassurance because that nightmare had once been real. He had felt her life seeping through his fingers, but perhaps even worse than that, he knew five years of clinging desperately to hope because he felt the dream of her slowly, painfully dying.

Now he had her in his arms, intoxicating himself of her nearness. His hands were in her hair, running his fingers through her curly strands before they settled on her shoulders, squeezing into her soft skin.

Was her skin really cold to the touch? Or did his own body heat filter into her, making her warm and alive?

She is alive. She couldn’t be dead. No way. Not when she makes me feel this way. Not when I can look into her eyes and see her loving me.

He rolled them over on the bed and he looked at her, his hand cupping her face as he rubbed his thumb over the apple of her cheek.

Her eyes never failed him, and perhaps, thinking back, her gaze told him she loved him, even when the anger tried to stifle those emotions.

“Harry?” she whispered, no doubt wondering about his exact thoughts. She seemed confused, torn between talking and wanting him.

He made the choice for her. He pressed his lips tentatively to hers, a gentle persuasion even as his touch marked a path lower down her body. She accepted the kiss, molding her body to his hands while hers combed through his hair.

Twining his leg with hers, he urged her legs apart and let his fingers slip inside her, this time letting his tongue coax a deeper kiss. She moaned into his mouth and he responded with a slow rhythmic circling, his thumb pressing where he knew she liked it.

He broke the kiss, and she gasped, her eyes questioning the separation. His only answer was to nestle his lips on the hollow of her throat, tongue dipping into the pulsing hollows of her soft skin.

There was a need inside him to see and to feel her alive in all its dimensions. To taste all those parts of her that gave him such pure, primal pleasure. Lowering his mouth, he sucked on her teat, loving the feel of the smooth flesh against his lips. Her moans of appreciation were amazing to him, and he wanted to hear more. His kiss traveled lower, slowly tasting the valley between her breasts before he marked a path to her navel.

Dipping his tongue in the hollow of it, she bucked slightly, squirming, perhaps impatiently, for what she knew was about to come. He did not let her wait long. He was not there to tease. He needed her as much as she needed him, and his tongue plunging into the center of her was meant to satisfy something in them both.

He wanted to hear her impassioned cries, wanted to feel her fingers scrunch in his hair, and he wanted to taste her climax, because nothing could possibly be closer to breathing back life into her.

He groaned against her, unable to resist touching himself slightly, but he kept the stroking of his hand brief, aware of the unsatisfying repercussions if he continued so. He focused on her voice, responded to the slight movement of her hips. Her surrendering wail moments later, his name cried out from her lips, and the arching of her body against his mouth was what he lived for. He might have come right there; it was so erotic to see her this way, but he wanted to see more of her. His desire to look into her eyes the next time he brought her to orgasm was more compelling than his own release.

When he was sure she had fully crested, he let her settle from the after-tremors of her climax, settling himself beside her and nuzzling the soft flesh beneath her ear. He didn’t want her to feel self-conscious, coming down from her high. As intimate as they were with each other, he recognized the moments of vulnerability, and it was something, he felt, his Hermione Granger didn’t want scrutinized. So even if they touched, it was enough that she knew he wasn’t staring.

Moments later, she turned her head so that her lips would be on his. He closed his eyes, savoring the deepening kiss. She clasped his shoulders, coaxing Harry to press closer.

He hadn’t the will to say no. His erection was straining to be given attention, and the slightest touch of her skin against it made him terribly aware that he had resisted long enough. Shifting beneath the blankets, her legs took him in an embrace and with an easy thrust he was moving inside her, alternating between closing his eyes to savor the sensations and opening them to see her responses.

There was no pounding and crashing of hips. This was a drawn-out joining, something to enjoy at leisure, even if every nerve in their bodies tingled, even if the very pit of their stomachs roiled with anticipation of release.

He loved watching her; loved seeing the ecstasy in her eyes, how her mouth would drop open just before the sexiest of moans escaped her lips, how her back arched beneath him and he could feel her nipples brush against his. He wanted to see the flush in her cheeks, and how helpless she seemed when she was murmuring, “Don’t stop. Oh, please don’t stop…” while her fingers pressed desperately on his shoulders.

And when he wasn’t watching her, he was tasting her, his tongue on the tender flesh of her neck, her shoulders, that sweet spot just beneath her ear, and he would always finish with her lips, because the honeyed promise of her kiss was a craving he couldn’t quite sate. Her velvety tongue swirling against his was a plethora of lovely sensations that reverberated through his entire body.

His own easy cadence brought a groan from deep within him. Hermione was warmth, softness, and life; nothing about her was what vampires were known to be: cold, hard death.

This was what he needed now, feeling her to the very core of him, knowing for all certainty that she was alive and well, being pleasured as she pleasured him right back.

Her whispers became even softer but he understood every word. They were joined so close. He shifted his hips again, and clasping the back of her thigh, he brought it higher to his side to coax her to an angle he knew would make it feel even better for them both.

She cupped his face, and he could feel that she was close. She was hot all over, and her whispered words of, “Just like that, Harry,” were fevered. He caught her wrist in his grip, kissing it at the pulse point and laving it with his tongue.

The cry that accompanied her climax was immensely arousing, and a few seconds after she crested, he followed, his entire body giving in to the amazing sensation of coming inside her.

He took a few moments to catch his breath, his chest heaving for air. He could feel the slight uneven heaving of her, and for a split second, the thought that breathing wasn’t natural to her came unbidden. He pushed those thoughts hastily away. She had told him the sensations of breathing still calmed her; that it served a very human purpose for her still. It was something she needed to do and that was comforting to them both.

Carefully, he rolled off her, and moments later she adjusted herself to rest her head on his chest. He put his arm around her, reveling in the after-glow. She ran her finger lightly against his collarbone.

It made him vaguely aware that he no longer wore the pendant of the Oracle. After what he’d seen, he didn’t think he could wear it again, no matter how fascinating the silverwork was on the crystal vial.

Several moments of silence passed between them before she finally spoke.

“Do you want to talk about the dream?” she asked, sounding lazy.

He knew she wasn’t lazy, and it made him grin, the way she employed these little deceptions to relax him into telling her things. He didn’t dislike it. In fact, he thought it rather considerate of her to match his moods, because he was feeling rather lethargic.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “Maybe. Will talking about it make it go away?”

“Perhaps. This wasn’t the first time you dreamed it?”

He shook his head.

She responded with a nod. “What was it about?”

“It was about you. You don’t want me to die and I tell you I’ll be alright, but you won’t… come to me. And then… Janus kills you.” He sighed and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. He looked at her with affected nonchalance. “So that’s probably about the time I start screaming in my sleep.”

Her brows knotted slightly. “It’s only a dream, Harry. Sometimes, dreams make our deepest fears known to us. Do you think I would sacrifice myself to let you live?”

He paused. “It’s not fair… that you would do that for me, but you won’t let me do that for you.”

A sad smile tugged at her lips. “I’m not hoping to die anytime soon. That would seem like a waste of immortality, don’t you think?”

“Yes, among other things,” he said, pulling her closer in his embrace. She nestled in his arms, her sigh a wonderful sound of contentment.

Her words of reassurance felt somewhat flat, like she was only saying it to make him feel better. What they had between them was a deep, self-sacrificing love. When it came down to it; when it was a choice of stepping in front of the other to take a curse or a killing blow, there would be no hesitation from either of them. It knotted Harry’s insides, knowing the intensity of her resolve in that respect mirrored his.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said. It was a promise said softly, but he meant it with hard determination.

The promise was punctuated by silence, just before she closed it with a very intimate kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yasmin ran a finger against the bars of her cage and her skin sizzled against the sanctified barrier. Smoke rose in lazy wisps, visible even through the dim lighting of a single dying torch.

It was an interesting cell. Having seen it from the outside, she knew there were holy hosts mounted atop the entrance, and having heard the stories, the bars themselves, were taken from the ruins of a hallowed structure. The stone that had been used to build the walls of the cell were taken from those same hallowed grounds. She wasn’t going to get out of this cell by brute force.

Besides, she hadn’t the strength for brute force right now. She wasn’t being properly fed. They gave her no coffin either, so she couldn’t maximize the replenishment of her energy. She was in no danger of getting burned by sunlight. No sunlight could penetrate through the depth of the cavern, but she had a feeling they didn’t bring her there to kill her.

She was being worn down. She was being “persuaded.” They wanted to weaken her, but she already decided she wasn’t going to be weakened enough to give in. There were things bigger than them at work here. There were forces Yasmin served that didn’t concern the petty quarrels she was being forced to join.

Yasmin hadn’t lived five hundred years waiting around for the worse to happen. She’d been alive for five centuries. She was no stranger to biding her time. She would wait for her opportunity.

Something stirred in the dark archway, and as it came closer, the dimming torch flared to life. More torches lit throughout the chamber, yet the visitor stayed in the shadows, untouched by light.

It had always been her way, to remain hidden. Her giant snake Nagini liked the light more than she did. It slithered around her feet, seeking the warmth of the light. Creature of darkness though it was, it was alive, and just like any live thing, the light and warmth of fire was comforting.

Yasmin laughed softly. “Did Nagini miss you, mother?”

Her mocking tone fell on deaf ears, not because Dendera was stupid, but because she was above such pettiness.

“Maybe. She did what she was told to do. Very obedient. Some of my children are not as compliant.”

“Surely you’re talking about Janus.”

Dendera, one of the three Most Ancient, chuckled. “Janus doesn’t do as he’s told unless he thinks it serves the purposes he serves, and even then, he does what he likes. So yes, I do mean Janus, but I mean you, as well.”

“I have always done what you asked of me.”

“Oh, yes. That you have, but that’s the operative word, isn’t it? Have? You’re being terribly disobedient now.”

“Because I don’t agree with you? Don’t you have underlings for that? I’m not here to kiss your arse, Dendera. I’m here to lead the Coven, and to keep the balance. I do what I think is for the good of vamp kind—“

“Is that why you showed Janus the prophecy in the first place?”

Yasmin fell silent, seething very slightly, then she sighed with affected pain. “Men. You can’t ever trust them.”

Dendera smirked. “A mistake, is it? Or then again, maybe showing him the prophecy was exactly what you were meant to do."

“I am not a puppet,” said Yasmin curtly.

“Well,” said Dendera in an understanding tone. “I have to admit, I might have done the same in your situation. You’ve known Janus for—what, longer than five hundred years? You knew him before you were vampire. He was the handsome foreign missionary priest and you were the googly-eyed young pagan heiress… I’d be smitten right off, too!”

Yasmin rolled her eyes. “My Coven always wondered how I got to be so twisted. I never say I got it from you. I love that they think I was born this way.”

“You were born this way. Having a sick, twisted mind is a virtue I cannot teach. I chose to turn you because you needed no teaching. You were delicious the way you were.”

“That’s very comforting. Doesn’t remove from the fact that I trusted him and he betrayed me.”

Dendera made a soft sound of true compassion. “He was your second in the Coven. Of course you’d have trusted him with the prophecy eventually.”

“I did not realize our interpretations of it would be so different. I did not realize that you would share his interpretation of it.”

“Our interpretations are not entirely the same, chica, but I admit that his interpretation will serve mine. Your interpretation ruins everything. It’s the reason why you’re here, after all. I couldn’t very well have you getting in the way of fate.”

“Fate, as you think it will be. You let Janus think what he wants to think just so he would play the part he was meant to play. That’s absolutely fucked-up, Dendera.”

“I couldn’t very well tell him to turn Hermione, my dear. He’d catch on to his role, a role I do not think he’d have played so amicably. That he felt he had to join forces with the human only served his role even more. You and I both know that Isis’ blood speaks true if you do not intervene. I had no apparent active role in the blood prophecy. I had to let Janus lead himself to his ultimate destiny.”

“Well, now he wants to kill her. He’s got the entirely wrong idea, and if you don’t stop him—“

“I do not need to stop him if he’s wrong. The fates will lead him to his own destruction if he truly screwed it all up.”

Yasmin scoffed. “Honestly, do you expect me to buy that bullshit? You think he’s got the blood prophecy right, too! Else you wouldn’t have him running amuck with the human. I find it disgusting, really, that you would let Janus follow orders from a lunatic who’s so blinded by the thought of power—“

“We’re all of us blinded, child. You want that power as much as any of us do. Don’t deny it.”

And Yasmin didn’t, but she spoke on. “The point is, to ally ourselves with this human… it’s unnatural. He speaks of the destruction of the undesirable ones of his kind. We’ve lived centuries, Dendera. We’ve lived through pandemics, genocide, bigotry, and witch trials… they’re all the same underneath. There are no ‘undesirables’ when it comes to our most basic needs. Voldemort will disrupt a Balance the Coven of Isis has protected for over two millennia. It’s wrong. You must see this!”

Dendera was silent, her displeasure palpable. “We lived through the centuries, Yasmin, not because we are immortal, but because we can adapt to the ever changing world. The ones who die are the ones who resist change—“

“This is not a change Isis would give her blessing to—“

“Isn’t it? We have been at the mercy of these humans for far too long! And why? Because they can walk all hours of the day. Because they feed us and rule the world with their money and conquered lands. Because they can kill us as we sleep—“

“There is a reason we were given these weaknesses! There is a reason nature intended for them to have those advantages over us. If we were so inclined, we can wipe all of them out in one fell swoop—“

“Exactly—“

“But we shouldn’t. The quality of our lives rests in the fact that they are alive, happy, and healthy. These last two millennia we were not meant to walk the day simply because our mother’s mothers knew there would be great and destructive discontent among her children, and so they tethered us to the dark—“

“We walked the day once. It is our destiny to return to what we once were. The blood prophecy desires it, Yasmin. You cannot deny what Isis’ blood has clearly asked.”

“The daylight was taken from us for a reason, and while perhaps the time comes for us to walk the day again, I dare not assume that it can be done so lightly. Doing it through this human seems like a travesty of our foremothers’ will. This Voldemort is some kind of terrible quick solution. I do not trust it. I think more highly of our foremothers’ wisdom.”

“I am a foremother, child.”

“You’re only a thousand years old, Dendera. There were vampires who lived before you. Don’t delude yourself. A truly wise Ancient would not have concerned herself with the workings of the human pecking order. You are supposed to be above all this. It’s the only reason I wouldn’t believe you were the mole. It’s the only reason you caught me unaware.”

“You jump to conclusions,” Dendera said, highly amused. “You think that I scrambled to make this prophecy come to pass. Well, you belittle my wisdom, dearest. I bided my time. I waited, and I did nothing.”

“What do you mean?” Yasmin hissed, annoyed.

“You may be the Keeper of the blood, Yasmin, but it doesn’t mean that the Oracle won’t summon anyone else to hear it speak.”

Yasmin’s eyes widened at the implication of the words. Of course she knew that the Oracle, on occasion, called others for one reason or another. Most of the messages came through her, as was her right as Keeper, but sometimes the Oracle did like to take things in its own hands. She had, as the Keepers before her, submitted and accepted this fact, and there was absolutely no use resisting it. Besides, it was ill-advised to get in the way of what the Oracle wished to do.

Still, it was always a bit alarming when the Oracle worked in this manner. There was almost always sure to be bloodshed at the wake of it. Thinking about it, Yasmin realized that it had already begun. “You… how long have you known of this prophecy? How long have you known?”

Dendera smiled, her fangs flashing. “Would you like me to be exact? There is a date, and it seems quite significant, from what I’ve heard.”

“Please. Interpretation leaves little to be desired at this point. Pray give me a date.”

Dendera laughed softly. “It happened on the 31st of October, 1981…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry read the Owl from the Ministry for the third time. It wasn’t as if he didn’t already know that this message was bound to arrive. He had already received word from McGonagall from Hogwarts. He had expected Woodhouse’s report to follow shortly.

Snapes potion was benign, free of poison, and relatively “safe” to take. Whether it would do what it was meant to do, they would only know if Harry took it, and if it did indeed do what Snape said it would do.

He looked at the clock hanging on his study wall. It was a little over seven in the evening. Hermione was already up and about. She’d come to see him soon.

He took the folded parchment and crumpled it, tossing it into the fire.

Leaning over the fireplace, he stared into the flames, pensive.

There was a knock on his study door and he called for whomever it was to come in.

It was Hermione, and whatever her concerns were was forestalled by what she saw on his face.

“Alright there, Harry?”

He gave her a brief smile, hoping she wouldn’t ask details. “Yeah. Just thinking about stuff…”

She frowned. “Do you want to talk—“

“No. It’s alright. What’s up?”

She eyed him a moment, but whatever it was she had come to him for, its importance outweighed her concern for his anxiety. “I have to go out with Solomon and Lucien. The McLeods, the Blood-Kin, and the Brotherhood have contacted Keiko. They want to meet with me. Suffice it to say, Keiko doesn’t like being my personal assistant. If I don’t see to this immediately, Keiko’s going to want to see heads roll.”

Harry was not going to be sidetracked by her wisecracking. He frowned. “Do you need company? I don’t want you going alone.”

It was her turn to frown. “I’m not going alone. Solomon and Lucien are going with me, and Keiko will be there with her kin as well. They’ll serve as my entourage.”

He was not kidding around. “You know what I mean. It’s one thing for them to come here, but another thing altogether for you to go to them. They’re three of the most powerful vampire groups in Europe, Hermione—“

“Harry, I know that—“

“I can’t trust them. I shouldn’t. More so because you’ll be at their mercy. Maybe I should go with you.”

“No. This meeting is being held in secret. No one but I, Keiko and the three vamp masters of the major vamp groups know where it’s going to be held. Even their seconds and kin know nothing. I’m not even allowed to tell Lucien and Solomon where, so we’ll be safe. Harry, we talked about this, didn’t we?”

He paused. They did talk about this.

They had asked for her, not him. It would undermine her authority to have him there with her. It was time for him to set the boundaries. “And so we did. How long are you going to be gone?”

She visibly relaxed. “Just a few hours. I don’t expect that this will take very long. They’ll tell me whether they’re in or they’re out, discuss the finer points of the alliance… I should be back before sunrise.”

He nodded. “Alright. We can Apparate you—“

“Nice try, Harry. We’re taking the Jag, thanks.”

Sometimes it was inconvenient to have Hermione so clever. “Fine. But you couldn’t blame me for trying.”

She smirked, approached him, and gave him a steamy kiss.

Harry could have sworn she was casting some kind of jelly-legs curse, or maybe she was feeding him pheromones very subtly.

When they separated, his eyes moved to the couch of their own accord.

She laughed softly. “Later, lion. When I get back, yes?”

“Yes.” He pressed his lips to her ear. “Be careful.”

She nodded, just before she turned and left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The McLeod’s Herdfordshire mansion was every bit as palatial as their ancestral home was functional. Their castle and keep in Scotland was a fortress. The mansion was a Goth-modern retreat. It was large enough to accommodate the dozens of London-visiting McCleods, human and vampire, comfortably, and it had all the facilities for leisure, business, or both at the same time.

The conference room was massively spaced. The minimalist design was pleasing, and except for the tapestries mounted atop the gigantic fireplace, there wasn’t a tartan in sight. The long table at the center was large enough to accommodate a sizable number of board of directors, but not all chairs were filled around the table.

At the head of the table sat Brenan McLeod, Vampire Clan Laird of the Clan McLeod. To his left sat Duffy and Rowan.

Hermione sat to Brenan’s right. Beside her Keiko, and behind them their kin. Scattered throughout the table were Gabriel and Ambrose of the Brotherhood of Osiris, and Cecil and Basil of the Blood-Kin of Ramses. The room was filled with kin, all of which stood back from the table, watching their alphas.

There were parchments laid out in front of Hermione, all three of which were signed by Brenan, Gabriel, and Basil. The blank space beside each signature was meant for Yasmin, but Yasmin was nowhere to be found.

“She’s missing,” said Keiko. “We’ve put all our resources into finding her, but still, we haven’t the slightest clue whether she’s been kidnapped, or in hiding, or dead. We don’t think she’s in hiding.”

The three Master Vampires and their seconds showed varying degrees of displeasure.

“She canna be kidnapped,” barked Brenan as if it was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “Lass’s too fly fer tha. She’s goat mair degrees than a thermometer! Ye goata be aff yer heid t’ think any boot can manage sooch ah thing! Isna possible!”

“It’s possible,” said Hermione patiently. “Yasmin wouldn’t disappear in the middle of an impending war that she’d taken an official interest in. She simply wouldn’t. Someone had to have taken her.”

Basil, a grey-haired gentleman in a fine Italian suit and master of the Blood-Kin of Ramses, frowned. “Who would have such skill? Brenan has a point, you know. Yasmin didn’t last this long being anyone’s fool. You can’t just kidnap the master vampire of the Coven of Isis, at least not without a trail of bodies to lead us to her.”

“Janus might have managed. Five years ago, he could never have bested Yasmin, but perhaps he gained something in the human’s service and have since improved his technique,” said Gabriel, his blonde beard and mustache perfectly groomed to suit his majestically angelic features. “It could have been him.”

Hermione shrugged. “It could have. Or perhaps she was taken by someone she trusts. Treachery has been the downfall of many a great man…”

Cecil nodded, leaning towards his master and whispering something in Basil’s ear.

Basil nodded as well. “Yasmin trusts no one.”

“We all trust someone,” said Hermione. “Yasmin is no different in that respect. She trusts sparingly, but depend upon it, she can trust.” She eyed each master, daring them to contradict her.

Gabriel put a hand on Ambrose’s arm, as if to forestall something Ambrose was about to say. They remained quiet.

Basil continued. “And so this leads us to the question: What of our alliance with your humans, Hermione?”

“You’ve thought it in your best interest to join the Order of the Phoenix. Yasmin’s signature is a formality.”

Basil’s chuckle skipped across the table. “It is, but who are we to take orders from once this alliance needs enforcing? You?”

The general grin that spread across everyone’s faces irked Hermione and she took a moment to dig her fingers into the arms of her chair. She felt like hitting all of them with—something. But on second thought, why indeed would they follow someone like her? She was twenty-two, five years a vamp. She was a mere agent and associate in the Coven of Isis and one of the newer ones, at that. Keiko had more authority than her.

“You will take orders from no one,” said Hermione in a clever twist of diplomacy. “But Harry Potter will lead the humans in this war, and if you’ve given the slightest intelligent thought to these agreements you signed, you know that it is to everyone’s advantage if you cooperate with him.”

The masters exchanged looks with their seconds.

It was Brenan who spoke first. “Vera weil. We’d ‘av t’ be meetin’ wit this Potter-lad, blether aboot strategies and sooch. The hale jing bang. D’you ken?”

Hermione had to listen hard to understand. “Er… I ken. There will be a general meeting of the Order some time this week. If you would be so kind, you or your representative may attend, and you’ll have your chance to speak to Harry… Potter.” She added his last name as an after-thought. Even if the vampires more or less knew she had a relationship with him, she did not feel the need to seem so casual about it.

There was a general nod all around, and as Basil rose from the table, everyone followed.

“You will inform us of this meeting,” said Basil. “Preferably by telephone. No owls, please.”

“I rather like owls,” said Ambrose in his easy, unguarded way.

Gabriel gave him a half-scolding, half-affectionate look. “We’d like to be informed by telephone, too, if you don’t mind, Hermione.”

“I don’t mind at all,” said Hermione.

Keiko glared at her. Hermione glared back.

Gabriel’s the master of the Brotherhood of Osiris. Get over it!

Keiko could not read minds, but she stopped glaring.

They broke into groups as they left, and Hermione ended up walking with Gabriel, Ambrose, and their entourage of kin. Blythe and Caitlin were among them, and while they remained silent in the background, they grinned and wordlessly flirted with Solomon and Lucien.

The McLeod grounds were vast, and it was a long walk from the conference room to the front doors, where their transportation would be waiting.

About halfway through, Gabriel and Ambrose exchanged knowing looks.

Gabriel graciously excused himself and his entourage from their company, telling Ambrose that the car would be waiting for him up front.

Hermione was a bit confused by this separation, but she said nothing. Gabriel walked on ahead while Ambrose walked a leisurely pace. Hermione assumed he wanted to speak to her so she matched his strides.

“Will the Coven accept the Brotherhood’s help in finding Yasmin?” Ambrose asked.

Hermione nodded. “It would. We appreciate all the help we can get.”

Ambrose smiled and gave one of his kin a nod. The kin whipped out a mobile phone and began to make calls.

“You show admirable loyalty to Yasmin, insisting that she ought to be found,” said Ambrose lightly. “Considering it is well known that you and she… well, you don’t seem to like her very much, do you?”

Hermione felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “My relationship with Yasmin is very complicated.”

“It must be, though I am not surprised to hear it. She is a terribly complicated woman. She does things—unpopular things, but its effects bear well on the future of her coven and most of vamp kind in the long run.”

Hermione said nothing and Ambrose seemed to sense that she was filled with doubt.

“There is a reason for everything she does,” continued Ambrose. “Whether you understand it or not. This… disappearance is disturbing, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was something she… let happen.”

Hermione looked at him with a curious expression. “Has she done this before? Disappeared without a trace?”

Ambrose chuckled. “Well… yes. A long time ago. She was very young then. Didn’t know much of the world. She wasn’t quite so vamp savvy.”

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. “You aren’t going to tell me she was like me, was she?”

Ambrose did not bother hiding his amusement.

“No, she was not like you. Yasmin was so much more vicious than you were. Ambitious as hell, and she certainly thought the world was made to kiss her arse. It wasn’t entirely her fault, I suppose. She was the heir to the Coven and she was being groomed for power. So you needn’t worry, Hermione. You can’t possibly become her, not in a million years.”

Hermione had to admit that she was relieved to hear that. “Why did she disappear? Was she taken?”

“In a manner of speaking. Janus took her to Rome. They ran away together.”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. “They were dating?”

Ambrose shrugged. “Maybe. They never confirmed it, but they were very close then, and they remained quite close until recently. I suppose it was inevitable that they would come to a point where their ideologies would differ so much that they’d go on extremely separate paths. Janus was always a restless soul. Yasmin was more grounded. She had goals and objectives. She had a destination. Janus was always more about the journey, and he wasn’t very keen about planning those journeys, either. He always says he has goals, but I think he’s happier for never reaching them.”

She gave a soft scoff. “I’m going to kill him, you know.”

Ambrose’s eyebrow arched. “Well, I suppose that’s to be expected of you. He killed your parent’s didn’t he?”

“He murdered them.”

“Same difference. I question not your intentions. I’m sure you’re quite decided that you want to kill him. The question is, can you?”

Hermione shrugged. She’d gone past being frightened of the prospect of facing Janus. The fear still exists, but she’d gotten to a point that she just wanted to get it over with. “I’m ready for him, if that’s what you’re asking. Whether or not I get to keep my head when the time comes… well, we’ll never know until it’s over.”

“Honestly, I hope you live through it. It would be a shame to lose one such as yourself. It’s not every century that someone so young could be so honestly unafraid of the likes of Yasmin and a room full of vampire masters. That has to count for something.”

“Does it?”

“Masters are better for having someone with enough balls to tell them when they’re wrong.”

Hermione fidgeted uneasily. “Is there a reason you’re telling me all this, Ambrose?”

He seemed to give this some thought. “Well, yes. One, I like you, and two, the qualities you posses are valuable to the Brotherhood of Osiris. Principled, loyal, and very clever. The way you are handling Yasmin’s disappearance recommends you. We’d like you to consider a change of employment when all this is over.”

For the second time that night, she stared at him in disbelief.

“We differ from the Coven, as you know, because we deal a lot with humans. We don’t look at them with quite so much disdain as our fellow vamps do. We understand their worth, if not entirely their value. Your personal connection with humans will be an asset to our organization, and it helps that you don’t give quite a rat’s arse whether someone’s a hundred years, two hundred years older or not.”

“You’re recruiting me?”

He smiled. “I figured this was a good time, seeing as your boss isn’t around to skin me alive for it.” His joke seemed half-meant. “We’ll surely give you a better package than the Coven, though not by much, I admit. Of course you get to keep your kin, and they get a nice-enough package as well. It’s difficult to beat what Yasmin offers her people, but I suppose we have much to offer you in terms of job fulfillment. Less blood and tears. That’s tempting to you, yes? Or has Yasmin made a bloodthirsty agent of you?”

Hermione gave it a brief thought. “I’ll think about your offer, Ambrose.”

That seemed good enough for him. He nodded. “Good. That’s all I ask.”

With that, he bid her goodbye and left her mildly stunned where she stood. The sound of Ambrose and his entourage walking away faded into the hallways.

“Holy shit!” hissed Lucien. “You’re being pirated by the Brotherhood of Osiris!”

Solomon’s eyes widened delightedly. “Yasmin will hit the roof! I can hardly wait!”

She frowned. “There’s the matter of finding her first.”

Lucien sighed exasperated. “Do you honestly think she’s in any kind of trouble?”

“She could be,” Hermione said. “At least that would make some kind of sense.”

“It’ll also mean we’re in deep shite,” said Solomon.

“That, too. But I’ve been falling into deep shite since I was twelve, courtesy of Ron and Harry. I’m rather used to it.”

“Really?”

Hermione gave it a second thought. “No. Not really, but it hardly ever comes as a surprise anymore. Know what I mean?”

“Sadly, I do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lucien’s parting words to the dignified butler at the front door was to ask whether he had to wear a kilt too, and whether he wore it the “proper” way, to which the butler replied, with a straight face, “I only do things properly, good sir.”

This, of course, invoked riotous laughter from Lucien who shook the good butler by his shoulders until the butler was blue with dignified indignation.

Hermione had to save the poor man from completely disgracing himself, telling Lucien to stop clowning around so they could get home already.

Lucien grinned. “Ooh, let me guess! You have a shag appointment with Potter!”

Hermione scowled. “Why don’t you yell that out a bit louder, Lucien? I don’t think they heard you on Jupiter.”

Solomon tossed the butler an apologetic look while Lucien laughed at his own antics.

To the butler’s credit, he had recovered from Lucien’s abuse and conducted himself with all the poise that was expected of him.

He saw them off in their Jaguar, and Hermione took the driver’s seat again.

They were less than an hour from London, but there was a lot of deserted country-road to be covered. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment, so Solomon and Lucien were terribly restless. Solomon toyed with the CD player the entire time, switching between hip-hop, reggae, and emo, which naturally drove Hermione insane.

Lucien complained incessantly about being terribly bored until Hermione had had enough and decided to start singing West End play songs. She was awful, of course, and her boys begged her to stop, which meant she kept on going.

Hermione decided on “Summer Nights” from Grease, which of course eventually had Lucien singing Danny Zucko’s parts and Solomon alternating with the girl friends and guy friends so she could sing Sandy. They ended the song with a long, drawn out, and terribly loud “Suuuuuummmmerrrrr Naaaaaaaaaaaaa-iggghhhhhhhts! Tell me mooooore, tell me mooooooooooooore!” naturally, which was extremely satisfying, Hermione had to admit.

“Next time,” said Lucien, “we’ll sing You’re the One That I Want at Grimmauld Place, while cooking. Show tunes in the kitchen, eh? Like old times. We haven’t done that in a while.”

Solomon laughed. “Will Hermione dress like a slut for it?”**

“Well, she has to, doesn’t she? You can’t do Sandy’s finale without 50s slut couture!”

“We never did the costumes!” Hermione cried, laughing.

“This time is special!” Lucien pointed out. “Harry will be there to see you. You must understand this, don’t you? He’ll get all hot and bothered and then after the song, you can have sizzling hot kitchen sex!”

“And where will you be when this sizzling hot kitchen sex happens?”

“Watching you, of course! What’s the point in orchestrating a good shag if I can’t be around to see you consummate it?”

Solomon threw the nearest thing he could get his hands on, which was a crumpled magazine, at Lucien. The magazine connected with Lucien’s face with a loud splat. “You are such a voyeur.”

Lucien cried out a complaint. “You say that like it’s a bad thing! And it’s not as if you never enjoyed watching those starlet sex-tape scandals! You Google them same as every randy bastard with a hand and a bottle of lotion!”

Solomon doubled over and guffawed in spite of himself.

Hermione smirked and shook her head. “Honestly, Lucien, we’re not all loud and proud wankers like you.”

“You should be. It’s very liberating. Speaking of liberating yourself, are you going to tell Yasmin to sod off and accept the Brotherhood’s offer?”

She dealt him a frown. “Lucien…”

“It’s a legitimate question! And note that I’m assuming we’ll find Yasmin again. Positivity, eh? You ought to approve of that. I personally think being in the Brotherhood would be a good thing.”

Solomon nodded. “I definitely agree. Gabriel and Ambrose are the best bosses, I swear. I only had the opportunity to work with them for a couple of weeks, but I can already tell they’re great with their people.”

“Well, of course they are,” said Lucien. “If the rumors about their buggering are true, then they ought to be two of the sweetest-tempered blokes this side of vamp England!”

“Lucien, be respectful!” Hermione hissed, though she was smiling. “And I’ll have you know that I did mean what I said to Ambrose. I’ll think about it. For now, I have to think about finding Yasmin, and keeping Harry’s arse out of trouble, and getting along with Luna Lovegood, because I think Ron having a gander at her cleavage is a foreshadowing of a deep, abiding relationship between the two of them.”

“You think?”

“Not really. I just wanted to see if I could use ‘cleavage’ and ‘deep, abiding relationship’ in one sentence.”

Solomon shrugged. “Hey, it could happen! Didn’t you and Harry shag before you fell in love.”

Hermione frowned. “That is so not true. I was in love with him already, and he was in love with me. He just didn’t know it!”

“Right!” said Lucien. “So says the prostitute to the bishop.”

“Oy, I resent that! Harry and I have a strong, solid foundation. We built our relationship under the most impossible circumstances and while perhaps we had to be physical first for us to come to terms with our true feelings, those physical moments were intense, and unselfish, and they meant something!”

“That’s so romantic,” said Lucien.

Solomon nodded. “It is.”

She snatched glances of their grave faces over her shoulder. After a while, she settled for a smirk bordering on a scowl. “Shut the fuck up, both of you.”

They both fell over, laughing.

She was smiling and calling them names over the din of their laughter when a startling explosion from outside rocked the car.

Hermione wrestled with the steering wheel for several seconds while Solomon and Lucien yelled in the background. When they finally came to a stop, Hermione swore so profusely that neither of her companions saw it safe to interrupt her.

She was just glad the road was traffic-free, or else there could have been a body count.

“This is just wonderful,” she hissed, clicking her seatbelt off.

“I think we blew a tire,” said Lucien.

“No shi—“

Her tirade was cut off by the earth-shaking pop of a machine gun.

Hermione felt the bullets ripping into her gut and chest. Shattered glass, bits of leather, and metal flew everywhere. Blood sprayed on the seats and dashboard, and Hermione felt her vision spinning with the pain as she struggled to fight the punch of each and every bullet that entered her. She tried to speak through the chaos, but blood oozed from her mouth and throat.

The bullets stopped, and Hermione, running on pure vampire adrenaline, struggled to take advantage of the reprieve. The pain was unbelievable, but she had to endure, else all hope of surviving was lost.

Hands trembling, she plucked a gun from her waist and tried to cock it, only to discover that her other arm had gone limp, a bullet having dislodged it out of its socket.

She tossed the gun away, plucking her wand from her thigh and pushed the door open.

Another rain of bullets besieged them, and Hermione saw that Solomon was out. She grabbed him by the collar of his coat with her wand arm and heaved him with her as she crawled out of her side of the car, flattening herself on the floor. She pulled herself up beside the wheel and let Solomon’s inanimate body lie flat beside her. The car’s back door opened and Lucien spilled out. Half his face was blown to bits, and the rest of him was punctured here and there with bullet holes, but he was awake, and he scrambled to get to Solomon’s other side.

Lucien pulled out his guns, cocked them and rose awkwardly to make his shots, but he paused and Hermione recognized the look on his face: Futility.

Hermione took a deep breath to stifle the debilitating pain and pushed herself up to see.

There were Death Eaters, most of them hanging back behind ten vampires, three of them near ancient, and Hermione recognized them immediately. It was Basil, Cecil, and Poppy.

Hermione was finding the betrayal oddly laughable, or maybe the pain was just making her lightheaded.

She chuckled softly to herself and the vampires fell upon them. She and Lucien fought back as well as they possibly could, kicking, hitting, and slashing with hidden weapons, but they were bleeding from multiple bullet wounds while they fought, and Cecil and Poppy were nobody’s fools.

Hermione found herself being wrapped in silver chains and manacles, unable to fight. The silver dug into her wounds, making healing impossible in parts of her. Her wand was taken and snapped in half.

Lucien was bound even tighter. He was older, therefore stronger.

Solomon began to cough to life, the bullets popping out of his body as he gasped and writhed. Cecil held a sword to his throat as he woke, and when Solomon came to his senses, he knew immediately that the fight was lost.

A Death Eater appeared from the shadows, a fourth ancient vampire trailing her.

It was Bellatrix Lestrange and Janus.

Hermione wanted to scream. It wasn’t fair. She was supposed to kill Janus. She wasn’t supposed to die this way.

Not like this. Not bound and helpless…

The lines etched into Bellatrix’s face by her prolonged stay in Azkaban was slightly visible in the moonlight, but the years of freedom and manic glee had uplifted her somehow, making her frighteningly attractive, even less human than the vampires surrounding her.

“Eenie,” began Bellatrix, pointing at Solomon before letting it volley to Lucien. “Meenie, miney, moe…”

Her finger ended with Solomon and Bellatrix smirked, approached him. She bent over him and yanked his head back so that their eyes could be locked. “You will go to Harry Potter and you will tell him that if he ever wants to see the Mudblood again, he must be at the Riddle Home at precisely this hour, two days hence. He must come alone, and I urge you to make him understand that we are not to be trifled with.” She gestured in Lucien’s direction, and two vamps yanked Lucien from the ground, dragged him towards them and set him down.

Janus took Lucien by the hair and Lucien winced.

No, Hermione thought with mounting horror. “No. No, no, no! Janus, I swear to you. I swear if you harm him—“

“Hush, child,” said Janus softly, hefting his sword. “It will be alright.”

Hermione shook her head, willing her tears back, encasing her pain in that patch of ice in her heart, but she struggled—to get free, to stand up, anything that might be something, so long as it wasn’t nothing. The chains bit viciously into her wounds and caused her to bleed even more, but she needed the pain and the blood, because she wouldn’t be able to live with herself otherwise. Her struggles were in vain, but she was trying—she was trying really hard. She banged her head against the car in helpless frustration, the tears finally falling.

She couldn’t protect them. She could hardly move.

Lucien locked eyes with her, his gaze filled with pure gratitude and adoring love.

He closed his eyes. She did not. If she couldn’t defend him—if she couldn’t save him, she was going to watch him die, and she was going to remember; she was going to burn the memory into her brain because it was all she could do.

The sword glinted under the pale light of the moon, a silver blade slicing through the darkness of the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry looked up at the sound of someone bursting through his study door. One look at Ron and Tonks’s faces and Harry knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

“Tell me,” he said, calming himself but expecting the worse. His thoughts were immediately on Hermione. She wasn’t home. She wasn’t with him. It had to be her.

“It’s Solomon,” Ron said. “He was… dropped off at the front lawn. He’s burnt really bad Harry, and he—they—“

“Is he alive?” Harry asked briskly.

“Barely,” said Tonks. “He’s in the living room.”

Harry nodded, his breathing amazingly even. He couldn’t ask the obvious question. Not yet. If he was going to hear the answer, he was going to hear it from Solomon. He didn’t think he could bear to hear the same answer twice.

As they walked, Tonks continued to talk. It was strangely calming, the drone of her report.

“Remus is with him, and we’ve kept the chains on him.”

“Chains?” asked Harry, only half paying attention. His mind was simply on getting to Solomon, and it felt like forever.

“He came in them. Silver chains. He was in—he’s still in great pain, but we couldn’t risk the possibility of him attacking us all for blood. He needs to heal—“

“Is he lucid?”

“He is.”

“I can talk to him, then?”

“Harry, I don’t think—“

“I can’t talk to him?”

Tonks frowned, but Ron nudged her, and she went on. “You can, and I think he’ll be coherent, but he’s suffering. Don’t you think we should wait—“

“If he can hear me and understand me, I’m talking to him now.” And that was that. Harry walked faster.

Ron hurried to his side. “There’s more, Harry. He had—he didn’t come empty handed.”

Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to know what that meant, especially not when Ron said it in the tone he used to reserve for “He Who Must Not Be Named,” but he supposed he would know anyway. Better to be prepared for everything. “What did he have with him?”

“A bag,” said Ron, a pallid color settling on his face. “It had a wand. A broken one. And—and a ring.”

Harry felt his stomach knot, almost painfully. “Hermione’s?”

Ron nodded.

“Is that it?”

“No. It… it gets worse.”

“Tell me already.”

Ron swallowed. “It was—Lucien… Lucien’s head.”

Harry stopped in his tracks and took a moment to absorb this. He realized a moment later that what he was feeling was indeed grief. He hadn’t known Lucien long, but the last two and half weeks of getting to know him, of trying to gain a clear understanding of how precious both Lucien and Solomon were to Hermione, had given him a sense of camaraderie with both vampires. For one, Harry totally acknowledged the fact that the two had kept Hermione company in the last five years. They had cared for her and had watched her back. They had given her comfort and perhaps even love. Lucien and Solomon were important to Hermione, and Lucien’s death—Harry could only imagine how devastated Hermione was.

Harry resumed walking, hurried down the flights of stairs until he reached the ground floor.

They found Remus pacing restlessly back and forth, watching Solomon who didn’t look like he could put up much of a fight even if he wanted to. The chains that bound him dug into his burnt flesh and he gasped and moaned for relief. He was charred in several places, like he had burned more intensely in some parts while he only got singed in others. His wounds wept, and there was blood seeping through the raw cracks in his skin. The hair on his head was gone in parts with bristles poking through what scalp remained. This was not a Patronus burn. He had been set on fire and the fire had been put out before it could kill him.

Harry tried to focus, keeping his emotions in check. He couldn’t think about what they might have done to Hermione, else he’d go mad.

Nearby there was a bag on the floor. It was slick with browning blood. Harry didn’t want to see what was inside it. Not now.

He crouched by Solomon on the couch and Solomon’s eyes turned to him.

Solomon was vampiric, his gaze feral and hungry. He gave Harry a weak, bestial hiss before saying Harry’s name in a lucid whisper.

“Who did this to you, Solomon?” Harry asked.

“Bellatrix.”

“Where’s Hermione?”

“Taken. Alive.”

Harry stifled the overpowering sense of relief. “Can you tell me how this happened?”

“Betrayal… Blood-Kin…”

Harry expelled a breath to steady his anger. “The Blood-Kin of Ramses betrayed you. They were at the meeting with you?”

“Yes. Ambush… road home. Bullets everywhere.”

They were ambushed on the way home, probably while they were in the car. There were bullets, and perhaps more vampires than they could handle. The Jaguar had become a death trap.

“L-Lucien…” Solomon whispered without prompting.

Harry nodded. “I know, Solomon. I know.”

“Body. Road not far”—he swallowed laboriously to keep the blood from bubbling from his mouth—“from McLeod mansion. Herdfordshire… before sunrise.”

It took a moment for Harry to understand. Solomon was asking him to get Lucien’s body before sunrise burned it to ashes. “I understand, and we’ll get him back, Solomon. We’ll bury him properly, but you have to tell me if they told you anything. They left you alive to tell me something. What was the message, Sol?”

Solomon closed his eyes, and for a brief moment that was filled with panic, Harry thought Solomon was finally going to pass out. He couldn’t afford to have Solomon in a coma for hours on end. Every minute that passed was one more minute they were doing Merlin-knew-what to Hermione.

Finally, Solomon’s eyes opened again. “Riddle House. Two days. This hour. You. Alone… or—or no more Hermione.”

Harry closed his eyes, remnants of a remembered nightmare passing through his mind. His mind filled with thoughts of prophecies, Horcruxes, Soul Harvests, powerful potions, and her.

Something’s going to give…

The healers arrived and Harry stepped back to give them room. They needed to bring him to St. Mungo’s where he would be treated by his own kind. There was a moment of chaos as Solomon was transported from the living room couch to the floo.

“Someone has to go with him,” pleaded Harry. He would, but he could not. There was too much to do.

“I’ll go,” said Remus. “You do what you have to do, Harry.”

Harry was grateful and watched them go. When the last of the healers had disappeared into the fireplace, Harry got to work. He sucked in his gorge and took the bag. If he was going to get Lucien’s body, he had to get it right, and he was going to do what had to be done. He made his way quickly up the stairs to go to his study. Ron and Tonks followed behind him.

“I have to inform the Coven about what the Blood-Kin of Ramses has done. Tonks, I need you to tell the other members of the governing board about what happened. And then tell them that we have to call an emergency meeting of all captains and their seconds here. We’ll hold the meeting in the grand conference room. Can we have the meeting within the next two hours?”

Tonks nodded. “I’ll make it happen, Harry.”

“Good. Ron, I need you to come with me. I’m going to get Seamus to go with us, too. I have to get Lucien’s body from the site of the kidnapping, and I basically want to make sure I don’t get ambushed. If I’m going to serve myself up to Voldemort, I’m going to do it on my own terms. Are you up to watching my back?”

“Shit, mate, do you have to ask? I’ve been watching out for your sorry arse for years. No point in stopping now.”

Harry managed to crack a small smile. “So what do you think, Ron? You and Seamus enough?”

“Always, but just for your peace of mind, you can get Dean in on this, too.”

Harry nodded. “Floo them. I have a message to send.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They found the Jaguar thirty-two kilometers off the McLeod mansion. It sat in an isolated road with a thicket of trees on one side and a downward sloping hillside on the other. A crudely built railing ran along the sloping side. The lights of the nearest town could be made out in the distance, but all else was dark, lit only by the sparse illumination of the moon.

No Muggle authorities had come to blockade the scene, the way Muggles seem to always do when something—an accident, or a crime, or even something less dramatic than that—happened.

It was no surprise, really. There couldn’t have been anybody around to report what happened, and no one but the McLeods had much business using that roadway.

The Jaguar was punctured within every inch of it on one side and on its hood. The windows on that same hole-ridden side were completely gone, shattered to kernels all over the pavement, dashboard, and everywhere else. The windshield had been obliterated as well. There were chunks of tempered glass still attached to the rear window and the windows furthest from the source of the attack, but what spidered-glass remained seemed precariously balanced on their perches.

The upholstery lining the interior and seats was blasted to tatters, bits of foam and stuffing littering the inside and coagulating with the obscene amounts of splattered blood.

Harry, spellbound with the wreckage, rounded to the driver’s side. Both doors hung open, and on the driver’s door, there was a thick handprint in blood at the edge, as if someone had held on to it for leverage to push herself away.

Herself… because the print’s too small to belong to the hand of a man…

Harry pursed his lips. She’d been driving when they were attacked.

His eyes stung at the sight of the driver’s seat riddled with bullet holes and blood.

He thought about how Solomon had been delivered to them, chained and bound, the silver causing Solomon’s wounds to remain instead of healing right off. Had they treated Hermione the same way? Probably, for how else could they have subdued her? Somewhere out there, she was in great pain, not only because of her wounds, but because they had taken Lucien from her so brutally.

“Harry,” came Dean’s voice just beyond the grassy road bank. “Over here.”

Harry didn’t think he could do it, but he had to. Steeling himself, Harry approached Dean, and sure enough, just a few meters away was what appeared to be a body.

Ron and Seamus came up behind them, their wands out and their eyes on alert.

“Go on, Harry,” said Ron. “See if it’s him.”

And of course it was him. Lucien’s headless body lay sprawled on the bloodied earth, bound the same as Solomon. His weapons had been left with him, simply because it would be too much trouble to remove the chains and strip him weapon-bare.

Harry swallowed his grief. “I’ll take him back to the Ministry morgue. Ron, think you can follow with the—the bag?”

Ron looked like he’d rather walk on nails, but he nodded resolutely.

“Thank you. Dean, Seamus, you ought to stick around at Grimmauld Place. There’s going to be an emergency meeting. You might as well be there.”

Seamus and Dean exchanged brief looks before they nodded.

“We’ll be there,” said Seamus.

Harry went over to Lucien’s body and he crouched down, placing a hand to Lucien’s back. He could feel the rips on Lucien’s leather jacket and the sticky, drying blood.

Ron crouched beside him and began to speak in a low voice. “Harry… are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” The answer felt automatic, and Ron must have sensed this.

“You seem… awfully calm.”

Harry’s brows knotted. “And what do you want me to do, Ron? You want me go hysterical? At a time like this? I couldn’t afford—“

“I’m just saying… ” interrupted Ron. “You’re making me ner—“

“Just say it, Ron. You think I’m going to do something stupid.”

Ron’s lips pursed, and he scowled very slightly. After a few heartbeats, Ron sighed. “I’m sorry, mate. I’m just—I’m shook up. They took her, and then they murdered Lucien… Solomon’s in awful shape. I reckon I want to start screaming and pulling my hair out, you know?”

Harry didn’t speak until several seconds later. “We have to get out of here. Things to do.”

“Yeah. I’ll be by the Ministry in a bit with the—you know.”

Harry nodded.

They let Harry Apparate first, the weight of Lucien’s body heavy on his mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry looked down at the case containing Gryffindor’s staff.

Somewhere in the Department of Mysteries, Dedalus was flitting about, seeing to his mysterious duties. Harry had seen none of the department researchers, which was usual. They really didn’t like associating with outsiders.

“Have you destroyed the staff yet? I’ve now given you a way to do it… I hope I don’t have to explain how.”

That’s what Snape had said, and given the time-constraints, Harry had no choice but to heed it.

Voldemort wanted to see him in two days. It was only logical to suppose that the Death Eaters were going to launch an attack around that time.

He closed his eyes, thinking about cupboards and Dursleys and Snape. He thought about the war, the prophecies, the weight of a world on his shoulders. But then he thought about first learning of Hogwarts, of Dumbledore, of Ron, of the people who have supported him, and he thought about Hermione most of all. He remembered the pain as well as the sweet promises, the fears as well as the felicitous moments, the heartache as well as the heartsease. He remembered loss, too, and how much more unbearable it was because he loved her very much.

In two days, he would have his chance to destroy Voldemort once and for all. In two days, it was either he lived, or he died. The first prophecy said it was so; the Oracle seems to say the same thing.

“The choice is always yours,” Hermione had said.

Then I choose to fight, and I’m going to do it with wands blazing.

He pushed the cover off the case and the staff inside it thrummed with power. Harry felt no pain. No resistance.

The whisper of remembered words thrummed in his thoughts. “The Wielder, meant to either die or kill.”

He could be wrong. He could be pushing the Oracle’s message just like everyone else was, but if he was the Puppet, he wasn’t going to go without a fight.

Harry made a grab for the staff and the effect was instantaneous. He felt a shock shoot up his arm, power bursting from his pores.

His vision dimmed. Everything around him was crackling with magic.

He heard the voice of Ron calling to him in an alarmed tone just before consciousness left him completely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: You probably hate me now. I am truly sorry for what I had to do. You have to believe me when I say that it was very, very hard for me to write Lucien’s death (and yes, I swear to you, he is indeed dead and not coming back). I’m not a weeper, but I got teary eyed with this one, simply because I created Lucien myself, and destroying him was actually—well, pretty painful. It was a senseless death, which is the way violent deaths tend to be, and perhaps one feels the full impact of a character-death when you know that he didn’t have to die. In many ways, it didn’t have to be like that, but in the most logical sense, he had to go. For one, the Death Eaters only wanted Hermione, and keeping Lucien prisoner with her just made no sense. Two, since the Death Eaters wanted a message delivered to Harry, one of the Shadow Kin had to live. It didn’t matter who, just that the message had to be delivered, and so Bellatrix chose randomly. These, Death Eaters, particularly Bellatrix, are vicious. They don’t eff around, so they’re not likely to spare both Shadow Kin because they’re nice and friendly. Janus killed the spare. The tragedy of it is palpable.

Grease references:

Hermione, Lucien, and Solomon sang the famous Summer Nights from Grease, the last part of which is always sang like Sandy and Danny are yelling… at the moon, maybe.

They also talked about You’re the One That I Want, the final song in the play, in which Sandy, the girl next door, is suddenly shown to dress much racier than her usual fare of crinolined Poodle skirt, pom-pom socks, and Saddle shoes. This, of course, excites Danny and his boys, because suddenly the good girl looks very naughhh-tee.

Scottish drawl translation:

She canna be kidnapped – “She can’t be kidnapped.”

Lass’s too fly fer tha – “Girl/Woman’s too clever for that.”

She’s goat mair degrees than a thermometer! – “She’s got more degrees than a thermometer” Meaning, of course, that she’s intelligent and has the college/masters/PhD degrees to prove it.

Ye goata be aff yer heid t’ think any boot can manage sooch ah thing! – “You have to be stupid to think that anybody can manage such a thing!”

Isna possible! – “It’s not possible!”

Vera weil – “Very well.”

We’d ‘av t’ be meetin’ wit this Potter-lad, blether aboot strategies and sooch – “We have to meet with this Potter-guy/kid, talk incessantly about strategies and such.”

The hale jing bang. – “The whole shebang.” (This was a fairly-accurate improv. Lol. But basically it’s what it means.)

D’you ken? – Literally, “Do you know?” but it’s taken to mean, “Do you understand?”

I ken – Literally, “I know,” but taken to mean, “I understand.” Ye ‘ave to be twa babbles aff the center ef ye didna ken that woon.

Lol. Just kidding.

37. Chapter Thirty-sixth: Purpose

A/N: Alright, finally, you’ll get Chapter 36! Haha! So sorry for the long wait, folks, but I promise you it was for the best of reasons.

And so I’d like—once again (but it’s never enough, really!)—to give a shout out to Tome Raider. Excellent, brilliant job! Thank you! And you all gotta thank her for this double-chapter release. ^_^ Without her, you’d have been stuck with this chapter alone, which she has appropriately called One Big Cliffhanger. You’re the best, Tome Raider!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty-sixth: Purpose

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry fell through his mind, focused, sharp and determined. Everything Hermione taught him about controlling his powers sang through his body like a fine tuned instrument. He clung to every taught technique, applied every honed instinct, and pulled on every available thread of magic he could use as he plunged into his own thoughts.

He saw it from afar; that pulsing, ominous, and evil fragment of Voldemort’s soul barreling through him; desperately seeking to find purchase in its new vessel, perhaps even use his body to gain corporeal form.

Harry wasn’t going to let it happen.

He bared his claws, and gathering what useful magical ability he had, he sprung and clashed with the entity.

Pain reverberated through him, making him scream from the sheer agony of it. The entity tried to push through him, it’s goal clear. It wasn’t a very intelligent soul fragment. Its responses had always been primal, so it would have no ability to defend itself with any abstract thought.

Harry fought back the pain, putting up the barriers behind him to keep the fragment from going any further with his consent.

The entity charged against the barrier like a bull, over and over, and Harry gasped from the continued impact.

It was strange, to be so conscious within his mind, as if it was some kind of alternate realm and not merely loose-threaded tapestries of thought rolling scenes through his head.

All around him, he could feel his magic working, keeping him tethered to the outside world as he fought to keep control in his own mental cavern.

The fierce pain twisted in his gut, and imagined images of Hermione hurt, tortured, or worse threw his mind into momentary turmoil.

Precious memories encased in glass burst out of their enclosures, rocking the recesses of his mind.

Everything was spinning and shaking, tossing him about. He felt like a man clinging to a rickety raft for dear life while a storm raged around him.

A scream broke free from him as he gripped at his sanity desperately. It was almost impossible. Until then, all his panic and pain had been stamped down, held back, and repressed. Now, somehow, it had gotten loose, and it was a hurricane that threatened to tear him limb from limb.

The scream rising from his throat was shoved back down, replaced by the agonizing choke of overwhelming emotions. It pressed around him, the fear paralyzing, yet he could feel his fingers scratching at his throat, as if struggling to pull free of the suffocating tether tightening around his neck.

“Calm down!” cried a voice from what seemed like far away. “Focus! Think!”

Hermione…

Harry looked wildly around, his throat still tightly closed as he gagged.

“Concentrate!” Her voice was a force in itself, and it shook him to his senses.

His rationale kicked in and he steadied his hands, stopping his physical struggle and letting his magic do the fighting.

He relaxed just enough to give his magic room to take root.

His magic didn’t fail him. It snaked through the grooves, wrapping around him before heaving to set him free.

He felt the pressure ease and his mind go calm even as the entity threatened to overwhelm him.

Bracing himself, he threw his magic at the entity again, grappling to get a firm hold of it. The pain of fighting it hadn’t waned, but then he sharpened his focus, his eyes piercing through the dark mist, and he saw it; the shriveled, helpless, dying form of Voldemort after Lily and baby Harry Potter defeated him.

Harry made a grab for him, and the creature shrieked as it exploded into fog, making way for the image of a young, orphaned Tom Riddle in his poor bedroom, playing all by himself with stolen toys—trophies of power discovered so young. Harry placed a kind hand on Tom’s shoulder, forming himself into the image of a younger Albus Dumbledore, a figure Tom Riddle respected and feared.

“You are a Wizard, Tom,” Harry said in Dumbledore’s voice.

The boy’s eyes widened, but he didn’t resist. “Does that mean I’m special?”

Harry hesitated before he replied. “Yes, Tom. You are a very special child…” and it was the truth.

Tom dissipated into mist, wrapping slowly around Harry. Harry let it, easing his powerful magic beneath the surface. His magic raged and fought, but he pushed it deep enough beneath the cover of the entity, and when Harry was sure he could keep it there for as long as necessary, only then did he close his eyes and let his mind rush through the conduit of his mind-link with Voldemort.

It was a map room; a fairly modern-looking one with a gigantic, geographical replica of most of Great Britain. There were miniature mountains, railroads, houses, churches, buildings, even cars. There were trees and clouds; rain and mist, street lamps and headlights. The entire model was moving, little people flitting about minding their own business as if they weren’t made-up figures on a make-believe country.

He saw faces around him, standing around the table; faces he knew. There was Bellatrix and Rabastan Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Fenrir Greyback, Janus, Macnair, Rookwood, and Dolohov. They were grave and Harry could smell their fear. He wanted the fear. Fear gave him power…

There were Dark Marks floating above the map. Five of them. One drifted above Hogwarts, the other above the Ministry, a third above St. Mungo’s, the fourth over Beauxbaton Academy, and a fifth over Azkaban. The one over Azkaban slithered dynamically, Dementors floating all around it.

Satisfaction rippled through him amidst the deep-seated distrust he bore for every single one of his subjects. Not even Bellatrix, the most blindly loyal of them all, was worthy of his trust.

Snape was not in this circle. Snape was not a man he could trust. Snape had impenetrable walls that he could not breach, and a man with such sturdy locks had something to hide. Whatever those secrets were, Snape could not be trusted.

It was only a matter of time before he killed Snape. The man’s use was coming to an end. Soon. Very soon…

I have the Mudblood. He will come when I tell him, where I tell him. His attachment to her is a weakness. It will be his downfall. And when I get my hands on Potter…

Harry felt the suspicion instantly; a creeping awareness. All manner of Voldemort surrounding him slowly began to go on alert.

Quickly, before Voldemort could confirm his suspicion, he crept away. Gently, skillfully dodging Voldemort’s prying mind’s eye.

Harry kept calm, soothing whatever panic that was itching to burst out. He hid in Voldemort’s deepest corners, holding on to his disguise with iron determination. And when finally, Voldemort’s mind was turned somewhere else, Harry made a hastier, but still careful, retreat. He slipped passed and out of the walls he had earlier evaded; walls Harry had always thought impossible to breach. They were so solid and real, and they were buttressed by complete and utter distrust.

He pulled back, wondering if he could go for another peek. It wasn’t possible. Voldemort was standing guard now and after that brief, deceptively uninvasive breach, Voldemort closed the opening, sealing it with his iron-tough barriers.

Harry slammed back against the wall of his mind and he gasped, feeling the impact. He was tired. He was drained of energy, but he had one last thing to do. The entity almost got free of him, but he held on, his grip sinking into the entity’s phantasmal form.

He dragged the entity through his mind, finding that cancer called a Horcrux. And when Harry found the vessel, he pulled back his fist and punched the entity through it.

The entity and the soul already resting within his scar shrieked in unison. It was an ear-splitting scream, and Harry had to fight hard not to succumb to the deafening sound. Using what mental powers he had left, he shoved the entity through the vessel’s opening and stuffed the rest of him inside it. When the last of the entity had been dispatched, Harry slammed the hole close.

The entity churned with the old fragment, fighting for a few heartbeats before it probably realized that they were of the same ilk. It began to meld with the other soul fragment and soon became one, settling in what space Harry’s scar had provided. The container was translucent, and Harry could see bits and pieces of Voldemort’s power.

Most were things Harry could not fathom, but there was one he understood completely. It was Parseltongue, and Harry knew it was the one power of Voldemort he could comprehend. The rest of Voldemort’s power, though present inside Harry—perhaps even affecting his magic somehow if their brother wand-cores were any indication—was not something Harry desired to use.

Harry stepped back from the Horcrux for a moment and wondered if he could expel it. His magic touched it, and then slowly, Harry tried to ease it out.

Pain suffused him, sending his mind and thoughts into a rage. That feeling of being in a storm at sea plagued him again, and before it could get worse, Harry pulled his magic from the Horcrux, leaving it alone.

Should’ve known it was too easy a solution…

As the turmoil settled back into calm, he turned to his tether. He pulled, climbing out of his mind and gradually returning to the reality beyond his thoughts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry stumbled out of his mind, gasping and bolting upright. “Azkaban!”

“Harry!” Ron cried, looking pale and anxious. “Merlin, you’re awake! You’re alright, the—“

“Az—“ Harry took in gulps of air, struggling to get to his feet.

Ron held him down by his shoulders. “Settle down! Dedalus fetched the Medi—“

“Azkaban’s been taken!” Harry spat out and fought against Ron’s grip.

Ron’s grasp on his arm loosened as he stared at Harry first in wonder, and then worry. “Harry, you have to relax. We don’t know how badly that staff—“

“Ron, I’m fine,” Harry said through grit teeth as he got to his feet. His head ached a bit, but he could think through it, which was all that was necessary right now. “We have to get back to Remus and tell the others what I saw.”

“What are you talking about? I really think you should sit down for a bit—“

“I went into his mind,” Harry finally said, keeping his gaze focused on Ron. If Ron saw that he wasn’t delirious, the man might listen to him. “I went into Voldemort’s mind. I used the soul fragment from the staff to get in his head. Just for a while. He would have found me out if I stayed any longer, but I got in unnoticed, and I found a few things out, so will you please shut it and let’s please head back to Grimmauld Place?”

Ron looked like he was going to be sick. “You—in V-Voldem—in his head?” His revulsion was palpable.

Harry had no time to dally any further. There were many things to do before he set off to recover Hermione, however the hell he was going to do it. He strode on over to the staff and grabbed it without thinking.

Ron gave a rather adolescent squeak and Harry sighed impatiently, shoving the staff in Ron’s direction. “It’s not going to hurt—“

A spark jumped and bit Ron right on his narrow nose. Ron gave a howl before cursing Harry and his lineage most excessively.

“Oops,” said Harry, only mildly embarrassed. “Sorry.” He wasn’t going to do that again. Apparently, the staff still wasn’t happy about anyone else getting near it, but he had very little time appeasing Ron’s souring temper.

Ron was still rubbing his nose when they reached the Department of Mysteries doors and almost crashed into Dedalus and his posse of Unspeakables. Two MediWizards trailed behind them, blinking worriedly over Dedalus’s shoulder to give Harry a good, clinical look.

Dedalus looked thoroughly surprised. “Harry! You’re up! I felt sure Weasley had called it right this time, that you were dead—“

“Not yet,” Harry muttered, walking past him. The MediWizards and Unspeakables parted to let him walk through. Several of the Unspeakables jumped as he passed, sparks crackling from the staff as he held it.

“Morgan fucking LeFaye, Harry! Put that thing away before you really hurt somebody!” Ron cried after him. Dedalus’s parade followed, though he was shooing every one of them away and telling them absentmindedly to get back to work.

Harry paid him little mind as he kept walking. “It’s not going to hurt any—“

“Mate, listen to me. You have to calm down. I know things are a bit fuzzy right now—“

Harry whirled and faced Ron, glaring. “Were you listening to me earlier, Ron? They’ve taken Azkaban. It’s already begun! And it won’t be just Azkaban. They’re planning to take Hogwarts, the Ministry, and St. Mungo’s. We have no time for this! Frankly, there was hardly enough time to begin with. They have Hermione—“

“I know that—“

“And who the hell knows what they’re doing to her? Do you even understand why I had to do this, Ron? Why I risked my sanity on this staff? Because I want to get her back, and I want to get her back alive, but they’re not going to give her back to me alive even if they say they will. I have to find a way to get her out of there safely, and I can’t think of a bloody way, Ron! I can’t! So you understand my desperation. Maybe if you thought of it that way you wouldn’t be so fucking calm.”

Ron turned positively blue in the face and his bewildered eyes turned dark with rage. He pulled back a hand, and for a second, Harry thought Ron was going to slap him, which would have been funny, really. What kind of bloke slaps another bloke? But then the hand turned into a fist, and Harry felt the hit of it right on his jaw.

Harry barely comprehended the gasps of surprise from everybody as his head whipped to the side from the blow. He stumbled a few steps from the impact, but he did not fall. It was not a full-blown Ron Weasley knuckle-punch, but it still stung, and it was probably going to bruise. As it was, Harry saw one or two stars.

He didn’t think he deserved it.

“Dammit, Ron!” Harry cried, rubbing his jaw as he scowled and grimaced. “What the bloody hell’s wrong with you?”

Ron was breathing heavily, his fist still formed, but he didn’t look like he was going to strike again. “Potter, in the last few hours, Lucien died, Solomon was burnt to a crisp, and one of my best friends was taken by our enemies. I tried. I really tried to stay calm, and I would’ve succeeded if you, the bloody fucking Boy Who Lived who just happens to be my other best friend, hadn’t gone and done something as stupid as holding Gryffindor’s cursed staff! You—you looked dead, you bloody moron! What did you expect I’d do when you woke up? What did you—you stupid—“

“Alright already!” Harry yelled above Ron’s tirade. “I get it! Arthur rutting Pendragon! You Weasleys and the verbal abuse I take from the lot of you is incredible!”

“Well, you deserve it!”

“Oh, do I?”

“Abso-fucking-lute--!”

“Stop yelling!” shouted Dedalus, the tendons on his neck stark and distinct. “Please!”

Ron seemed to have heeded him. So had Harry. Ron’s chest still visibly rose and fell, but his fist had loosened, and he wasn’t staring daggers at Harry anymore. Finally, after several tense seconds of Ron simmering down and Harry easing the ache on his bruised jaw, Ron nudged a chin in Harry’s direction.

“Alright, then?” Ron muttered.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered back.

A collective sigh of relief escaped their audience.

Shaking his head, Dedalus thanked the MediWizards and sent them off, after which he turned to his staff, telling them all to go back to work.

One of the Unspeakables stayed to discuss something with Dedalus, and they had their conversation in hushed tones.

“We can get her back alive, Harry,” Ron suddenly said, startling Harry out of the buzz of his emotion. “There’s a way. You have to trust me on that.”

Harry stared at him, wondering if Ron was bullshitting him. It could have been one of those inane words of consolation, like, “It’s going to be alright,” or “We’ll find her;” comforting words that mean next to nothing in the face of dire realities, but while there remained the ever-present apprehension in Ron’s eyes, there was something stalwart behind his words.

“We can get her back alive,”Ron had said. “There’s a way.”

It struck Harry, and he had to admit to a certain amount of surprise, because really, Ron hadn’t looked this way since they were eleven, when they were staring down the expanse of a giant chessboard in the bowels of Hogwarts castle.

Harry started. “Ron, you—“

“Yeah. I reckon I might have an idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry hadn’t had any sleep. The previous night’s meeting with the Order of the Phoenix heads, captains, and lieutenants had been reassuringly productive, but it set a task before them that was almost impossible to undertake in such a short time. And while it would be reasonable to expect Voldemort to know that his kidnap of Hermione would set both armies in motion, Voldemort wasn’t supposed to figure out that they knew which locations would be under attack.

It was alarming, anyway, that Voldemort had enough manpower to launch such a huge siege. Had he gained that many followers? Perhaps he was stretched thin, but it would be dangerous to assume he was. Harry knew the Order itself was not so extensive that it could ensure a successful defense through sheer number for any of the sites of attack.

They were yet to meet with the vampires that evening. There would be werewolves, too. They would have an idea later of whether they stood a fighting chance, or whether they were leading everybody to a slaughter.

The probe they’d sent to Azkaban to investigate the state of it hadn’t returned. Harry hoped they hadn’t caught and killed Colin Creevy.

As for Hermione… the truth was, he was trying very hard not to let his thinking about her get in the way of what he had to do. He had to believe that they would keep her alive until they had him. He had to stop thinking about what they might have been doing to her. He took comfort in the fact that during the day, she slept, and would be free of any kind of pain. Finding out where they had kept her was on the top of his list, and that Ron told him there was a way to find out where made Harry want to scream and demand he be told where she was now.

When Harry asked Ron who his informant was, Ron said he couldn’t divulge his sources. Not yet. Too dangerous for the source, and Harry had to trust that this source would help them; that this source’s value was worth gambling Hermione’s state of well-being. Besides, it was the only lead they had at the moment.

Harry was itching to do something. He needed to act, or else he would go out of his mind.

He’d brought Aurors to the scene of the crime, and after having done a thorough sweep of the site, they found no traceable evidence. All they had was the bullet-ridden, blood-splattered car. They took the car with them, and it sat in the Forensics lab of the Ministry. They were examining each and every bullet; every residual magical signature; every follicle of hair they could find on it. It was a long way yet before they found anything helpful, if there was anything helpful at all.

Solomon wasn’t quite fully recovered, even if his disfigured face seemed less disfigured and more recognizable, but not all his wounds were on the surface. He needed emotional healing too, and that didn’t look like it would heal any time soon. Harry could see it in Solomon’s eyes. The man who’d left to accompany Hermione to the McLeod mansion was not the same man who came back to Grimmauld Place. Solomon was both heartbroken and kin-shattered. He swallowed lumps in his throat whenever Lucien was mentioned, and whenever Hermione was brought up, his gaze glazed over, like he never believed that something so awful could happen to Hermione—his alpha, his hero, his protector, yet something did happen, something awful, and now he had to come to terms with it. It was a burden he didn’t look ready to take.

Harry hoped that he could give Solomon some kind of reassurance that all would be right in the world again, but then Harry wasn’t sure about that himself.

As the day grew late, Harry grew more and more anxious and restless. He needed to act. He needed to do something, but all he and everyone else could do was wait. There were already several members of the Order in Grimmauld place, all of them there to attend the grand meeting. More would come. Until most of the members arrived, they had to wait, and everyone decided that they would be productive, however small the contribution was.

There were members working in the kitchen with Molly. There were members scouring the library for answers. There were members in the gym practicing their hexes and fighting skills. There were members in the map room, discussing strategy and location.

Harry was standing in front of a giant map of London with Charlie, plotting strategic points, when Ron came into the map room. Ron wove through the groups of people, and seeing the grave look in Ron’s eyes, Harry hurried excused himself from Charlie to meet Ron halfway.

Ron saw him coming and double-backed.

They met out in the hallway and Harry led them to his study where he closed them in and put up the wards.

“Tell me something I want to hear,” begged Harry.

Ron cocked a tired smile. “I’ve spoken to my source and he said Snape’s going to try and find out where Hermione’s being held, and then Snape’s going to try and get him guard duty with her.”

Harry sighed and pushed up his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. “Snape, eh?”

There was just something so ineffably twisted about depending on Severus Snape for the well being of Hermione Granger. It was like some god took everything that could possibly go wrong in this picture and mixed it together to cook up a recipe for disaster: Dice two cups of Ex-Potions Professor, making sure that he’s properly despicable and marinated in treachery, 1 tablespoon of Student He Considers A Know-It-All, seasoned with a pinch of Super Secret Source that Harry had no reason to trust, and then literally toss it in the oven to crash and burn.

“My source knows what he’s doing,” Ron said. “He’ll still use his judgment—“

“Can this source of yours be trusted?”

“I already told you we can trust him. Just—“

“Why won’t you tell me who he is?”

Ron paused and sighed, collapsing in a chair. “I just can’t, alright? I would tell you, but he doesn’t want anyone else to know.”

“Oh, doesn’t he?”

Ron shot him a look. “He has good reasons, Harry. Don’t ask me what they are, because I won’t say, but I swear to you, his reasons are sound.”

Harry paused to consider. The idea still didn’t sit well with him.

“I trust him,” said Ron. “And if you trust me, you’ll take my word for it.”

Harry gave it a moment’s thought and took a deep breath before nodding.

Ron seemed relieved.

“I’m going mad,” admitted Harry a moment later.

“You haven’t had any sleep.”

“Who has? And I couldn’t if I tried. You’re just going to have to brain me for it. I’m wired up to next week, assuming I live that long, of course.”

Ron frowned, but he didn’t say anything to contradict. None of them were certain to make it to next week.

There was a racket outside and Harry heard the familiar sound of groaning floorboards. “That would be Hagrid and Madame Maxine.”

Harry hurried out of his study to meet with the half-giants and Ron followed close behind. Harry’s smile was strained when he welcomed them. He chatted them up a bit, especially Madame Maxine whom Harry seldom saw.

Ron and Hagrid at once fell to discussing dragons, and hearing Hagrid at it, one would think they were talking about cuddly little things, the way Hagrid kept calling them, “Fine critters,” and “Shy fellas.”

A few others joined in on their conversation, and Harry was just explaining to Madame Maxine how they managed a dependable recruitment program in Hogwarts when Harry felt a sharp rap on his mental walls.

For a moment, Harry felt a surge of panic. Had Voldemort found him out?

Harry reached out, determining the magical signature. It was not anyone he knew.

He hurriedly excused himself and went to the front of the house to peer out of the windows.

There were cars. Three luxury vehicles lined up on his curb.

He was startled when Ron came up beside him.

“Friends of yours?” Ron asked.

Harry wasn’t sure about calling them “friends” at this point. “Vamps are here. Give everyone fair warning while I let them in, won’t you?”

Ron nodded and hurried to do his task.

Harry went to the front door and exited the wards.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone took the presence of the vampires reasonably well. For one, the vamps were pretty to look at. Keiko had chosen to wear an attractive kimono for the occasion. She had with her one of her Shadow Kin, Lars, who looked humongous beside her frail frame.

Ambrose and Gabriel wore expensive suits, two beautiful men with ready smiles that would have Witch Weekly’s entire gaggle of print models swooning in their respective pages. Gabriel alone was a sight to see. The man looked ethereal, like he’d sprout great big feathery white wings and lead a host of angels in a heavenly choir. That had to have endeared him to everyone if nothing else did.

The McLeods looked resplendent in their tartans and kilts. Their beards were trimmed and their wild clansmen hair had been brushed, or bullied, into behaving. A lock of their hair, trailing from their temples, was braided and tied with their tartan colors. Harry recognized Duffy McLeod but had never seen his companion. Duffy introduced him as Brenan McLeod, Clan Laird of the Clan McLeod. After which Duffy and Brenan spoke, and seemed to joke, about a whole bunch of things that had Harry properly confused.

The surprise of the evening was Henry. He arrived with Keiko, and while Harry noticed that he looked a bit hollow and paler in the cheeks, he seemed well composed in his business suit and slicked back hair.

McGonagall, Arthur, Remus, and Shacklebolt arrived and further introductions were made.

The McLeods suddenly became very well-mannered in the presence of McGonagall, and while their Scottish burrs were no less thick, whatever they were saying seemed to sit well with the dignified Headmistress. She arched her eyebrow and nodded in prim approval as she spoke to them, her accent becoming just as thick as theirs.

Harry was just relieved someone could understand what they were saying.

They were led to the Great Hall where the meeting would be held. The room was much smaller than the Great Hall they had at Hogwarts, but it was about the right size for a meeting with all of the key members of the Order, werewolves, vampires, a centaur, two half-giants, and a house elf.

With everyone gathered, the meeting commenced.

Harry looked around him at the familiar faces as Remus gave the opening statements.

His eyes lit on his friends from Hogwarts, all of them young, but made older by war.

There was Ginny, a girl he used to date; there was Neville Longbottom, the boy who used to wield a wand ill-matched for him; there was Dean, a boy who had posters of Muggle football teams up on his part of the dorm; there was Seamus, the boy who sang Irish ballads in the shower room; there was George, who played dozens of pranks with his twin, Fred; there was Lee, who was a spectacular announcer during Quidditch games; there was Luna, who wore a bottle-cap necklace in honor of her mother; there was Justin, Susan, Dennis, Oliver, Angelina, Lavender, Terry, Anthony, Hannah… what once defined them in Harry’s mind barely defined them now, especially because they’d each fought this war almost as long as he has. They’d been soldiers these past five years, each of them having lost someone; a brother, a friend, a sister… Hogwarts was more than just a few years behind them. Hogwarts felt like eons ago.

The elder membership had increased, as well. And now of course, they had werewolves and vampires in their midst. The rest of the army were on stand by, awaiting the call of their captains and lieutenants.

Harry suddenly heard his name called and he shook himself out of his thoughts. He stood behind the podium and stared at the many faces around him. He was struck by how intently their gazes rested upon him, and he had to will himself to speak. He didn’t have to time to analyze what their blazing hard looks meant. He proceeded to outline all the information they’d gathered since the previous night. He told them about the possible points of attack: St. Mungo’s, Hogwarts, the Ministry, Azkaban, and Beauxbaton; Harry stated evidence that might support these findings, particularly because he didn’t want to explain how he got the information; he made rough suggestions of who should be assigned to each location and why; and he etched figures on the giant map indicating how many enemies each location would likely have. Harry then explained to the captains and lieutenants how they would delegate tasks under such short notice, and that they should—above all else—act in the best interest of all: human, vampire, or werewolf. It was at that point Harry turned the podium over to their allies.

Jamil Patel, alpha to his wolf pack and designated representatives of the werewolves, nodded at Gabriel. Gabriel nodded back respectfully and took the podium first.

That the vampires selected Gabriel as their representative was a stroke of genius. He had the entire audience enthralled, and he oozed calm charisma. He assigned vampires to each location by mediating between the vampire masters and the various captains, right there, and made reasonable suggestions to strategy. He took questions from the audience, explaining a few general things about vampire groups and loyalties.

When the vampires were done, the werewolves took over, Patel doing roughly the same thing as Gabriel, but including the vampires in his discussion as well, just because vampires had werewolves under their employ.

The discussions went on the rest of the night, and Harry had to participate in most of them, just because the vampires seemed to think he led the entire Order. He had been given no leverage to deny this “misconception,” as McGonagall, Remus, Arthur, and Shacklebolt seemed to support the idea with clear resolve, and even more than that, he suddenly felt that if he came out and said, “I’m not your leader!” he’d irreparably damage what appeared to be morale among the attendees.

It was amazing, but everyone seemed reassured by the idea that there was someone leading them, as if one was better than five, and to have them all looking to him like he was the one was slightly unnerving. It was one thing to be called the Chosen One by the Daily Prophet, especially since Harry didn’t think much about their journalistic integrity, but for a room full of people to look at him and tell him with their eyes that they believed it… well, it was something he hadn’t thought about since Hermione and Shacklebolt last pointed out that he was going to fill the shoes Dumbledore left.

Only once was Hermione’s abduction brought up, and before anyone could say anything, Harry said, “It’s being dealt with.” Maybe it was his tone, or perhaps there was some sort of look in his eyes, but no one asked again, as if they didn’t dare.

It was all knotting Harry’s stomach, and he struggled to keep still through it all. The last thing anybody needed was their supposed leader having a melt down.

The meeting ended a few hours before dawn, after which everyone seemed to scramble to get to their tasks. There were a lot of things to do, and they didn’t have time to waste.

Harry stood at the receiving hall, seeing everyone out. People were leaving in groups of two and three, and most of them left with words of thanks and encouragement. He hadn’t told them that he had to face Voldemort alone; he hadn’t told them what was in store for him. Maybe they knew it the whole time; perhaps even longer than he has.

Many of the members, vampires and werewolves were gone by the time it struck four in the morning, but there were veteran members of the Order still remaining. He could hear Mad Eye making bold declarations while Fleur and Bill politely listened on. He could see Remus, Tonks, McGonagall, and Arthur engaged in serious conference in one corner. Nearby, Ron, Dean, Ginny, and Seamus were staring at Luna in disbelief while, no-doubt, she told them something baffling.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” asked someone from the shadows.

Harry shot Draco a look of barely-concealed hate. “She’d have to be, or else there’s nothing Voldemort can say or do that would make me cooperate with them.”

Draco nodded, conceding the point. “They’ll kill her after they’re done with you, you know. There’s no reason for them to keep her alive.”

“Which is why I have to get her out of there.”

Draco scoffed. “And if it’s a choice between getting her out of there and defeating Voldemort? What will your choice be?”

Harry glared at him.

“Are you going to sacrifice the rest of the Wizarding World for your One True Love, Potter?”

“Shut it. It’s not going to come to that. Hermione won’t let it come to that.”

“How sure are you that you’re strong enough to do the right thing if you have to choose?”

Harry’s fists clenched. On top of everything else, with his sanity hanging on a precarious balance, Draco Malfoy voicing his deepest fears was the last thing he needed. “Why are you doing this? Why do you have to be such a pain in the ass?”

“I’m not doing this to be a pain in the ass. I just want to make sure you’re clear about the choices you might have to make, and that if you’re going to chicken out and choose Granger, let me know now. I’d like a running head start, thank you very much. Contrary to popular belief, you’re not the only one on the Dark Lord’s shit list.”

Harry shot him a grimace. “You know what, Malfoy? Don’t you think it’s about time you started taking a more active role when it comes to your personal interests? Like if you want a Voldemort-free life, maybe you should go and fight the war with us. I know this is a concept you might find hard to comprehend—“

“Do you know why I never did laundry until I got stuck here in this God-awful place?” Draco interrupted, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Because back in the Malfoy Manor, in spite of the fact that my personal interest is to have clean underwear, I had someone to do my laundry for me. Get what I’m saying?”

Harry grimaced. “Fine. I’m sorry I suggested it.”

“No need to apologize. I can understand why you think I’ve somehow softened up and that I might help your cause without expecting anything in return.”

“Heaven forbid you’d expect something back, because you are a pillar of selflessness and unequaled virtue.”

Draco ignored his sarcasm. “You still can’t explain why I told you all those things before you met up with Snape. You know that Granger talked me into it, but you don’t know how, so you—wide-eyed hero—figured that Granger appealed to my good nature and convinced me to help you.”

Harry was losing patience. “If you mean she threatened to rip your throat out, then yeah, I suppose I can understand how she appealed to your ‘good nature.’”

“She told me that since I hadn’t the power to exact revenge on Voldemort, that you’d serve my revenge for me.”

Harry was surprised. “She said that?”

“She didn’t exactly mean that you’d be driven by a self-righteous need to avenge my mother, if you get what I’m saying, but considering I want Voldemort dead as much as you do, to me it’s the same difference. Helping you defeat him is something I’m willing to do.

“Well, she always knew how to push your buttons, Malfoy, and I just bet you hate that.”

“Exceedingly, but I’m past dwelling on that. She told me one other thing, though.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“She said revenge has a tendency to make false promises.”

“And that means what, to me?”

“It means hardly anything to you, but it got me thinking about intentions. Revenge would be proper motivation for the likes of me; it might even be proper motivation for the likes of Granger, but you… being the way you are…”

Harry frowned. “What way?”

“Doing… things out of the goodness of your—“ Draco made a face. “Heart.”

Harry couldn’t resist, sneering. “Well, now, that wasn’t so painful, was it?”

“Shut it, Potter. What I’m trying to say is, if you go in there fighting Voldemort fire with fire—well, you’re not going to win. Hate is his thing. You… have a different thing altogether. Get what I mean?”

“Why don’t you explain to me what that thing is.”

“Blow me. Go buy a greeting card. You’ll get your explanation.” Draco then straightened his rumpled house robes. “That’s really all I have to say to you.” With that, Draco turned and left.

Harry was too tired to pursue Draco. He needed sleep, even if he knew his mind wasn’t going to let him.

He made his way up to the gym, regardless of whether there were still guests left. He was past being polite.

Harry activated his golem, and proceeded to trade blows with it. The dummy didn’t stand a chance. He kicked it, threw it, punched it, and he even twisted its neck—up to a point where he actually broke the wood upon which it was made.

As he stared gasping for breath at the oaken carcass sprawled at his feet, he fell to his hands and knees in exhaustion. A moment later, he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling until he finally drifted off to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron and Remus woke him three hours later, telling him that there were things that needed attending to in the defensive front.

Harry didn’t even ask what he could possibly do. He just showered and met Ron and Remus at the floo from where he was whooshed from one floo to another, seeing teams as each were sent off to mount their defense in each location.

It took Harry all day, but he could sense something in these soldiers when he looked into their eyes and shook their hands. Was it hope? Harry wasn’t sure. He never thought he could ever inspire such a thing. He’d been rather dark, almost surly these last five years, fighting Death Eaters, searching for Hermione, and wallowing in alcohol whenever his search failed… he wasn’t exactly the harbinger of glad tidings, but behind the fear and apprehension evident in the tight clasp of their handshake, Harry saw what it meant to them that he was there, bidding them good luck. It was terrifying to carry that burden, but it wasn’t something he could choose to refuse.

Mad Eye, being in one of the last groups that was dispatched to Hogwarts, held him by the shoulder and said, “You got us this far, lad, and we’ll see this to the end with you.”

It felt strange. The last time Harry remembered Mad Eye giving him a pep talk was in fourth year, during the Triwizards Tournament, and that wasn’t even Mad Eye.

Still, it got Harry wondering. Did Mad Eye really think he had gotten them to this point? And what exactly did “getting to this point” mean? Did it mean that he had gotten them this far, alive, therefore it was a good thing? Or maybe Moody thought it was the inevitable outcome from someone like Harry, cursed to fulfill a prophecy that could spell the difference between bondage and liberation? In that case, then it didn’t seem so much like a bad thing, as it was that no one had a choice…

Harry wasn’t sure about what he felt, considering. He had fought in this war since his first year in Hogwarts; he had felt the burden of it since his fourth. Looking back on it, he now wasn’t sure if he’d been fighting for a cause. After all these years, having lost so many, he was more familiar with the concept of fighting to survive, and perhaps to prepare himself for the day he could end it all by facing off with Voldemort. Sometimes he worked with a team, and he did everything to ensure their survival, but had he actually stood on the battlefield and felt driven by self-righteous passion? That this was a fight about good triumphing over evil?

He was surprised to realize that it hadn’t been like that for him. His motivations certainly hadn’t been driven by selfishness, but “fighting for the side of good” seemed so abstract to him now, having lived the realities of war. The last eight years of his life had been about getting the guy next to him—on the battlefield—home, preferably alive, or making sure that Ron got to spend the next Christmas with his family, or having Tonks and Remus live so they could raise a family in peace, or getting Hermione back alive so that maybe they could have their happily ever after, dark fairy-tale though it might be. All these things meant something to him. These things were comprehensible and real. In the face of all that, “fighting for the side of good” seemed nothing more than Ministry propaganda.

Harry realized then that the soldiers he’d sent off weren’t looking to him because they saw him as the Boy Who Lived. They looked at him and saw a bloke who understood exactly what they were fighting for. He wasn’t like Dumbledore who was a symbol of wisdom, goodness, and strength. That image, however gloriously inspiring, was inaccessible and distant, almost divine; like Merlin and Morgana. At any rate, he didn’t want to be like that. He wanted these soldiers to look at him and see a man who fought with them on the battlefield; someone they could call to for help and expect to pull them up by the hand, physically, should they happen to fall, or find themselves hanging off a cliff, or buried under rubble. He wanted them to see a bloke who had reasons for living, reasons that weren’t so far from theirs.

Those men who shook his hand weren’t just telling him to defeat Voldemort. They were telling him to get through it alive, because if he survived it, then maybe they would, too.

How Harry wished it were that simple, but he wasn’t about to shoot down their faith just because he felt inadequate. If they needed that faith, he was going to let them keep it, and so if he went down, the least he could do was go down with a great resounding bang. He certainly wasn’t going to roll over and let Voldemort kill him. He would go kicking and screaming, and if he had to, he would take Voldemort down with him.

They sent the last of the groups off, and just before Ron stepped into the floo, Harry said he was going to pay Solomon a visit. Ron and Remus gave no objections, letting him go without a word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Solomon had been awake for a little more than an hour and given a few pints of healthy blood. He was recovering quickly for someone who had such extensive burns, and Harry had a feeling that Solomon’s eagerness to be up and about had a lot to do with Hermione’s captivity.

At that point, Solomon was still weak from his injuries, and his eyes still looked haunted from unvoiced grief. He wouldn’t be able to fight with the same competence he’d been trained for, but he was very much lucid, and he had complete control of his faculties. He wasn’t going to jump Harry for blood, so his chains had been removed.

Solomon received him in the sterilized sofa chairs situated at the corner of his chamber. The idea that a vampire could get infected by disease was laughable, but the chairs didn’t look the least bit cozy. There was a tiny table that could be used as a chessboard and there were several outdated magazines tucked into a nearby rack, as if it were acceptable reading material.

Harry noticed Solomon cringing a bit as he limped and sat, gingerly making himself comfortable.

“What’s the plan, Potter?” Solomon asked as he slowly settled back on the sofa chair.

Harry supposed he should’ve expected that Solomon was as concerned about getting Hermione back as he was. “The plan is to find out where they’ve kept her, and then get her out of there alive while I engage Voldemort.”

“And how are we going to find out where she is?”

“Spies. We’ve got someone on it.”

“You’re not meaning that bloke Snape, are you?”

“No. This one’s different.” Harry trusted Solomon, but he couldn’t go into any more details. Apart from the fact that Harry didn’t know who this spy actually was, Ron had asked him to be discreet in discussing it with anyone else.

Solomon nodded grimly.

They stayed silent for several moments and Harry gave Solomon the chance to think on it.

“It was Janus who killed Lucien,” said Solomon, breaking the silence. “There was nothing Hermione or I could do. Lucien could’ve fought back, but then they would’ve killed me, instead. Lucien wouldn’t have let me die.”

Harry felt his apprehension clenching his insides. “Don’t go there. Don’t blame yourself. Trust me when I say you don’t want to go down that road. It’s nothing but destructive, and its not going to help find Hermione.”

Solomon seemed to understand. “You’re going to the Riddle House tonight?”

Harry nodded.

“It means then you’ll see her. Alive, likely.”

“Likely. If they want me to cooperate at all.”

Solomon looked ponderous. “Are you ready for the worse, then?”

Harry didn’t even have to ask him what he meant. “I don’t know. I thought the worst Voldemort could do was create Horcruxes. Then he goes and gets the notion of stealing a soul to make himself immortal. That’s—like ‘out-worsting’ himself.”

Solomon could only shake his head in resignation. “It’s going to be bad.”

“Yeah… Solomon, I need you to promise me something.”

Solomon stared at him a moment before he glared. “Are you going to make me promise to take care of Hermione if something happens to you?”

Harry paused.

“Are you? Because that’s a load of bullocks, Harry. I’ll take care of her with or without a promise to you, but you can’t be going into that fight thinking it’s okay to die because I promised. You don’t get a free pass to sacrifice your sorry-arse. No way. Do you realize what it’ll do to Hermione if you’re killed?”

Harry sighed, rubbing gingerly at his eyes so that he didn’t have to look at Solomon. “Of course I want to get out of this alive, but I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. That’s the honest truth. I just don’t know… Ron will be there for her. He’s her best friend, but I know how different… Ron’s not a vampire. There are a lot of things he doesn’t understand about your kind. So please. Please do this for me, Solomon. I need to hear it, just so—just so I don’t have to think about it when it gets really rough. Do you understand?”

Solomon was silent for several heartbeats before he finally sighed and nodded. He shook his head several times before he said it. “I promise. I’ll take care of her. If there’s a way for her to be happy again, I’ll find it. There. Satisfied?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“But you’ll try to come back alive, yes? Promise you’ll try.”

Harry nodded. “I promise. On Hermione’s life and Lucien’s grave, I promise I’ll try.”

And that seemed good enough for Solomon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Little Hangleton was a nice little Muggle town with tree-lined streets and four bedroom houses that could accommodate up to at least two cars in their respective garages. The front lawns were manicured to perfection and there wasn’t a clay gnome in sight, much less any pink plastic flamingos. The sprinklers went off one after the other at precisely the moment Harry stepped through the shadows and out on the sidewalk.

He pushed back his hood and he immediately felt sprinkler mist settling gently on his cheek. The miniscule droplets stuck to the fleece material of his jumper.

He walked a bit through this picturesque town, reaching the town park with its wrought iron benches and neon-plastic child-safe jungle gyms, slides, ball pools and swings. Harry could just imagine the yuppie parents sitting at the nicely burnished wooden tables, chit-chatting amongst themselves as their children played over the rubberized mats and rolled in the association-maintained sandbox.

Harry trained his eyes in the distance and saw the hill with the house atop it. It had been easy enough to find the place through the Muggle network. The vamps, for one, had extensive data on maps and locations. The Riddle house, passed on from one owner to another, had stayed unoccupied in the last twenty-two years. It was Little Hangleton’s haunted house, though no reports of ghosts or phantoms reached Wizarding records. The rumor-mill said that the house was being kept by its owner for “tax purposes,” sans the owner’s name, of course. The owner was not named.

Harry felt his stomach turn with apprehension.

He could have Apparated straight to the foot of the hill. His trip would have been faster, and he could have avoided the risk of being seen, but he’d reached the proverbial edge of his cliff, the tiger behind him, and it was now time for him to jump. He wasn’t afraid. He just needed that one moment to stare into the abyss and think, “This is it.”

The house was a dark monolith under the light of the moon, creatures—bats—fluttering out of the tallest spire and into the night. He fished something from the pocket of his jacket, extracting the vial of Revivisco potion that Ron had given him when Harry asked for it.

“Is it safe to drink?” Ron had asked, sharply.

Harry had said, “It is,” after which he shoved the letters from McGonagall and the Ministry Poisons Specialist into Ron’s hands. “See for yourself.”

Ron had shoved the letters back and simply gave the vial to Harry. “I’m not telling you to drink the potion, but I do believe in your instincts. If you think you should, drink it. Just please remember, I don’t want you to die, and neither does Hermione. You come back to us alive, Harry.”

Harry had nodded as he held the vial in his hand.

Now, staring at the Riddle House from a distance, he popped the cork from the vial and tossed its contents into his mouth. It tasted vile, and for a moment, Harry thought he would gag, but the nausea could have just been nerves, and Harry wasn’t about to choke now. He took deep cleansing breaths to steady his gorge, and finally getting it under control, he proceeded to walk.

Further into the park, he found the second Apparition point from where he set off to fulfill his destiny.

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The roof was alive. Amidst the chipped and missing tiles of the Riddle house, an eerie blanket of life stirred its derelict surface. Ravens flitted about, hopping from one broken tile to another. The broken windows were boarded, overgrown ivy infesting the house’s facade.

It was a mansion, larger than any structure, would have been grander than any house in the village it overlooked from its perch atop the hill, but it was old and derelict, its former glory succumbing to neglect and the ravages of time.

The house leaked water on one side, the ground beneath the broken pipe sodden, and mosquitoes buzzed about frantically above the murky pool. The steps leading to the front porch looked ready to give way. The wood appeared rotted through even as dust blanketed the worst of the decay.

He approached the front steps, feeling the wards grow heavier around him.

The moment he steps into the house, he would be at their mercy. He had but one weapon at his disposal: His will.

Apprehensively, he checked the pendant around his neck and felt the shape of the fanged angel familiar against the pads of his fingers. He tucked the pendant safely back into his shirt and climbed the front steps carefully.

Harry found this strangely hilarious and actually chuckled midway up the stairs. “What am I doing?” he muttered to himself. There’s a Dark Lord waiting for me inside the house and I’m afraid of falling through the front steps? Brilliant.

He reached the porch without mishap and he stood at the door, turned the knob and realized that it was locked. It seemed silly to knock, so he stepped back, aimed his wand, and was about to blast the door open when there was a click, and then a latch shrieked. He heard the rumble of a bolt being slid out of the way, and finally, the door opened.

Harry glared at the rat-faced man that peered out of the crack. “Peter.”

Peter squeaked slightly before a poisonous smile spread from his lips. “You’re right on time, Harry.” The door was swung wider open and Harry stepped in. He dealt Peter an even fiercer glare and while Peter did not shrink back, Harry saw him swallow.

Satisfied, Harry turned his eyes down the long walkway as the door was closed behind him.

As soon as Peter jammed the last lock, the walkway enlarged, turning into a great, grand hall with plush carpeting, thirteenth century French décor, and two grand staircases rising on both sides.

Descending the stairs were Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix Lestrange, and Antonin Dolohov. A few other Death Eaters followed behind them. All of them were human.

Lucius looked as impeccable as ever, poised and put-together in his expensive robes and immaculately combed blonde hair. It was strangely shocking, to be looking at Lucius and thinking Draco was staring right back at him. Harry always knew that Draco favored his father, but perhaps in the last five years, he hadn’t thought about Draco and Lucius in that sense. Lucius was Draco’s father, but Draco hadn’t acted like Lucius’s son in half a decade. It was startling to realize that Lucius and Draco were once mirror-images of each other in both looks, principle, and ambition.

Or maybe Draco hadn’t really changed all that much, just that Draco’s loyalties to himself far outweighed anything that Lucius had tried to make of him.

Bellatrix Lestrange wasn’t much of a surprise. The woman had always been on the frontlines of Voldemort’s raiding parties. She was a fighter, and she was driven by blind adoration. She had regained some of her former good looks, but age and Azkaban had taken a lot from her. Harry still considered her a crazed bitch, and nothing she did or wore could make her seem like a beautiful woman.

Antonin Dolohov looked as frightening as ever, with his eyes still livid with psychotic zeal. Harry still couldn’t look at him without remembering how terrified Harry had been when Dolohov hit Hermione with that purple, zigzagging curse. It was a horrible moment burned into Harry’s brain.

Harry found himself surrounded by these terrible people, but he didn’t move.

“Did you like the package I sent you, Potter?” Bellatrix asked with a sneer.

Harry ignored her. “Where’s Hermione? I want to see her.”

Dolohov laughed.

Lucius dealt Harry a disdainful frown. “Your Mudblood is alive. That is all you need to know.”

Harry shook his head. “I won’t cooperate unless I see her.”

Dolohov smirked. “You won’t like what you see.”

“Antonin,” Lucius said, piercing a glare in Dolohov’s direction.

Harry waited, stifling the urge to demand for what Dolohov meant by it.

“Your Mudblood,” Lucius continued in a overly dignified tone, “is alive. I needn’t explain to you—however, why the circumstances of her captivity is most uncomfortable—“

Harry’s stomach turned. “What have you done to her?”

Lucius seemed annoyed. “Nothing she didn’t merit, I assure you. I am sure you will be pleased to know that she managed to kill two people and wounded three others very severely while in captivity.”

It didn’t please Harry in the least. Random killing was not something Hermione would do. They had to have done something to merit her ferocity.

Like killing Lucien before her very eyes?

Harry took a deep breath. “I want to see her.”

“You will. In a few hours, we’ll show her to you, alive and… I suppose alive would have to do.” Lucius signaled the Death Eaters behind him and they were upon Harry, stripping him of his weapons, his wand, his vampire and werewolf implements; all but his clothes, his glasses, and the pendant around his neck.

Lucius nodded to Bellatrix and Bellatrix led the way, Dolohov tailing her.

Harry, hands bound behind his back and surrounded by Death Eaters, was forced to follow. He stumbled as they pushed him, and he cringed as they twisted his arms. He was led further into the house, and reaching what seemed like the farthest corner, Dolohov opened the heavy iron doors leading to stairs. They descended, torches lighting as they came.

At the bottom of the steps, they walked a damp and narrow hallway, at the end of which were three empty cells in a semi-circle.

Peter emerged from behind Harry and opened the cell door, after which Harry was shoved in, hands still bound.

Harry spun on his feet, glaring at them all, but he said nothing. There was hardly anything he could do now except hope that Snape and Ron’s spy would find Hermione soon.

Bellatrix walked into the cell and stood by the door, wand drawn, and for a moment, Harry feared that they had brought him there to kill him, that the entire thing was a ruse, and that there was no real need for him to have been there, except to dispose of him.

Her wand whipped in his direction. “Expurgo!”

The curse flung him backwards, his back crashing against the wall. The blow knocked the breath out of him, and he crumpled to the floor, gasping. He was glowing deep orange, and he could feel something warm pooling in his belly.

Steam began to rise from his skin, as if something was escaping his body, and the urge to vomit suddenly became overwhelming. He doubled over on his knees just before his gorge rose and his stomach emptied its contents. It was disgusting, especially tasting Snape’s potion in his mouth, mixed with what he could only figure was his own bile.

He kept spewing and gagging, and his body continued to emit strange vapors of varied colors.

His throat began to hurt from throwing up, and perspiration broke out of his skin from all the painful effort.

After several more minutes of this, the effects of the curse waned, and try as he might to stay upright, he fell back against the wall as he caught his breath. He felt a bit weak, but he figured it was the sort one recovered from quickly.

At any rate, he had to recover quickly. He didn’t have much time to spare.

“Think that’s enough?” Antonin asked, eyeing Harry.

Bellatrix nodded. “It is. My spells are always perfect.”

Antonin scowled at this. Apparently, it was some kind of slanted criticism of him.

With that, Bellatrix turned and led the way out. Dolohov followed after her, the rest of the Death Eaters trailing after them. Peter was left to close the dungeon bars.

“What was that?” Harry rasped. “What did she do to me?”

Peter shot him a scowl. He showed no desire to answer.

“You owe me that much,” Harry hissed through his labored breathes.

Peter looked like he’d rather eat slugs than let Harry talk him into answering questions, but perhaps he did remember very clearly how Harry spared him that night at the Shrieking Shack, because with obvious reluctance, he replied. “It was a detoxification spell. It removed any impurities from your system. Its one of the milder dark spells.”

Harry could have sworn his stomach dropped, and it wasn’t from the spell, either. “Removed… impurities?”

“Potions, Muggle medicine, food… anything you might have ingested in the last twenty-four hours. It’s mostly used for dark-ritual preparation.”

No, he thought with climbing despair. The Revivisco…

With that, Peter slammed the cell shut. “You have to be clean when the Dark Lord uses you. Just to be on the safe side, you know? So sit tight. The Master will be here to see you in a few hours. You needn’t do anything.”

Harry shut his mind from the inevitable implications of what Peter said, at least for the moment. Despairing was going to get him nowhere. So long as he was alive, there had to be a way. “And Hermione?”

“You’ll see her later.”

“Is she in the house?”

Peter smirked but didn’t reply. With that, Peter turned and left, the torches dying as he ascended the stairs out of the dungeon.

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A/N: Pass “go” and on to the next chapter!

38. Chapter Thirty-seventh: Captivity

A/N: STOP!!!! Have you read Chapter 36: Purpose yet? If not, you better! Or else this chapter will make absolutely no sense to you. Click back and read Chapter 36. I promise you, it fits with this one nicely.

Again, thank you, Tome Raider!

Standard disclaimers apply.

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Chapter Thirty-seventh: Captivity

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Severus Snape had only ever respected two people in his entire life, both of which were dead, both because of him. And as fate would have it, both empowered the object of his hate with their unconditional love.

Lily Evans-Potter, wife to his bitterest rival, mother to the insufferable so-called Boy Who Lived, was a woman Snape would have followed to the ends of the earth, if she didn’t happen to be on the unfortunate end of a fate-altering prophecy.

The moment Snape learned that Lily’s life had been endangered by the very prophecy Snape had so eagerly conveyed to his master, all thoughts of glory, power, and revenge fizzled like the last drops of a potion at the bottom of the cauldron. All he could think was that everything he had done, all the things he wanted to do, and everything he wanted to gain, would be nothing if Lily were to die in his pursuit of it.

In hindsight, everything he had done had been for Lily. He had sought to be better, for Lily. And while at first it seemed as simple as getting straight-Os on his N.E.W.T.S., seeing her fall in love with that horrible James Potter pushed him over some kind of edge. So the promises of the Dark Lord seemed enticing at the beginning, as easy as pumpkin pie: An errand here, a delivery there… he supported the Dark Lord’s cause, all the while thinking that he would only go so far; that he would only do so much. He knew from the beginning that Lily wouldn’t approve of his methods, but he figured she would forgive him up to a certain point, and he was willing to push that envelope just so it could get him what he needed to be better than James Potter.

Of course it occurred to him later on that his tasks had gotten darker, more dastardly, but at the same time he realized this, he was already in too deep, irredeemably embroiled, and that he couldn’t possibly get away now. Lily was never going to have him for what he’d become, but he could have glory, power, and revenge; consolation for his lost love—until he found out that his pursuit of it all would be the death of her.

And so she perished, and James became nothing but a bad memory, but the child that lived, loathsomely adored, who looked almost exactly like his unbearably perfect father, fit so easily into the mold of Snape’s bitterness and regret. It was so easy for him to hate Harry Potter.

Then there was Albus Dumbledore, powerful, wise, respected. Snape had gone to him in his darkest hour, and the old wizard had taken him, offered him sanctuary, and gave him a second chance. Albus had a heart as tender as Lily’s, but his power surpassed even that of the Dark Lord’s. At the beginning, Snape’s respect for Albus was almost grudging, but through the years, seeing that the old man believed in him, the way Lily had believed in him; it wore away at his old prejudices, and Snape understood that Albus’s power was not like that of the Dark Lord’s. Albus’s power came from somewhere else, and it was the kind that Lily would have approved of.

When Harry Potter arrived at Hogwarts, the old man believed in him, confident that the Boy Who Lived could, and would, follow in his footsteps. Snape couldn’t conceive of it. Snape had called Albus a fool; trusting everything to a boy who has proven nothing and shown no aptitude for saving the known Free World. Snape had, until that moment, respected every decision Albus made. The thought that Dumbledore would trust this child, so obviously wanting in everything that made Dumbledore and Voldemort great in their respective abilities, grated at Snape’s senses.

It was out of respect for Dumbledore that Snape taught him at all and protected Harry Potter from mortal peril. The boy was a horrible ingrate, and he was everything his father would have aspired him to be. And one would think seeing Lily’s eyes on Harry’s face would warm Snape to him, but it had done the exact opposite. Those eyes were a reminder of how Snape had failed her, and how—as punishment, he had to serve this slip of an incompetent boy.

Snape had resisted believing in Harry for a long time, and even after Snape—destined to betray, had murdered Albus Dumbledore, he was bitterest in the thought that he had to destroy the one man he had ever felt true loyalty for, because Albus’s death paved the way for Harry to take up the Order of the Phoenix while it rose from the ashes.

Harry bloody Potter.

Snape still wasn’t sure if he believed the hype, but he had pushed his proverbial cart off the top of the hill, and he was powerless to stop its decent. He had begun the series of events that would lead to Harry and Voldemort’s confrontation, now all he could do was assist Harry all he can, because Albus could not—absolutely should not—die in vain.

I’ve put up with too much shite for it all to just crash and burn at that blithering Boy Who Lived’s wake, he thought sourly. I have come this far. I will not let it all go to waste.

He spied Peter Pettigrew emerging from the basement doors and he wondered momentarily if he should risk it. His time was quickly coming to an end. He could feel it. The Dark Lord was hardly telling him anything anymore, and Lucius, Bellatrix, and Dolohov had barely bothered to acknowledge his presence when he dropped by the study to give them a courtesy visit. They had been stiff and guarded, and their body language suggested his impending total ostracism. They didn’t want to get too close, as if what he had was contagious.

Snape could only turn up his nose at such treatment. They were all smiles and platitudes when Voldemort was relying on him for the “ultimate” potion, but now that his use had waned, so did their so-called good graces. Not that Snape was hurt by any of it. The truth was, the arse-kissing had gotten terribly old, and Snape was only too glad he didn’t have to put up with the shite any longer, but he had to admit it was convenient being secure in the fact that they weren’t going to kill him yet.

Right now he didn’t have that security. It was making him a tad constipated.

Peter walked past Snape’s hiding place, and with hardly any effort, Snape grabbed the back of Peter’s collar, pressed a pin-head sized tracing charm on the rough fabric of his undershirt, and dragged him into the shadows.

Peter gave a ratty little squeak, caught absolutely off guard. His pudgy nose wiggled in agitation and his beady eyes shot to Snape’s face, like a mouse, caught by the tail in the jaws of a Kneazle.

Snape stuffed him in a corner and stared soullessly into Peter’s terrified eyes. How many times had Peter hidden behind James and Sirius, laughing as his two “popular” friends humiliated Snape in the hallways of Hogwarts? How many times did Snape think, You, Peter, are nothing without James, Sirius, and even Remus?

It would be so easy to crush the pathetic rat beneath his boot, but that would serve nothing, because even Voldemort didn’t think much of rodent-faced Peter. Peter was Voldemort’s gopher and nothing more. Peter would wipe Voldemort’s arse if Voldemort asked him to.

“Hello, Pettigrew,” said Snape in a silky tone. “Sprung any mouse traps lately?”

Peter’s beady eyes narrowed to slits, and a soft whistling hiss escaped the space between his two protruding teeth. “What do you want, Severus?”

At least the little snitch doesn’t beat around the bush. “I was told by Bellatrix that it is to you the keeping of the Know It All Mudblood was given. I want to know where the Mudblood is being held captive.”

Peter scowled, his un-manicured fingers twitching with annoyance. “And why would you want to know that?”

Snape stepped threateningly towards him, and Peter gave another squeak, shrinking further into the corner. “That is my business, which means I need not explain anything to you.”

Peter glared, a dangerous glimmer igniting his gaze. “And I needn’t tell you anything. Do you think I don’t know that you grow more unimportant by the second? It won’t be long now before your use diminishes completely, and the Master will have the killing of you.”

Snape sneered. “Right, because unlike me, you are indispensable and there is no one else like you.”

The full-meaning of Snape’s sarcasm seemed to hit Peter hard for a moment, and his eyes widened briefly in horror, but then they regained their vicious resolve, and they grew fiercer.

“The difference between you and me, Severus, is that the Master knows you’re too smart for your own good. Me… I may be stupid and useless, but I’d lick his boots at a snap of his fingers. I’d do his bidding whether he promised me remuneration or not. I cut off my own hand to bring him back to life… I will be serving in the Master’s house long after your ashes are thrown out with the rest of the sad, Mudblood-loving, Muggle-born sods. So tell me again why I should give you answers to the questions you so desperately seek?”

Snape really loathed Peter Pettigrew. “Have you never known anything but cowardice, rodent? Always hiding behind someone bigger? In the end, are you going to betray the Dark Lord, too? The way you betrayed James and Sirius? Traitors are destined to do their deeds, Pettigrew. Just between you and me—from one traitor to another… who do you think will save you when your betrayal becomes known?”

Peter shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I will not betray the Master…”

Snape sneered. Pathetic. So easy to break. It would be child’s play to barrel into Peter’s mind to find the answers he sought, but he didn’t. Not yet.

At this time, Peter wouldn’t bother the Dark Lord with stories of a Potion Master wanting to know where Hermione was. Voldemort knew about Snape’s dislike of the Mudblood, and it was natural, to Voldemort’s mind, that Snape might want to torment the captured Know It All while she waited for her hero to save her. It was common for Death Eaters to seek an audience with their Order of the Phoenix captives off-the-record, after all, but it was one thing to ask the keeper where the captive was, another to use something as extreme as Legilimens to find answers in the keeper’s mind. Peter would howl about it to his precious Master, and Voldemort wouldn’t take kindly to it at all. The Dark Lord was suspicious enough of Snape as it was, and to that end, Snape felt there was no need to quicken his death sentence.

“Is Potter down there yet?” Snape asked, changing the subject as he maneuvered his hands into his sleeve.

Peter frowned. “No one is allowed to see him alone. You can’t break the lock—“

Snape did not let him finish. He brought his hand to Peter’s throat, squeezing as he held the funny little man against the wall.

Peter tried to gasp for air, but Snape’s iron grip restricted him.

“My advise to you, Pettigrew,”—said Snape in an even tone, his eyebrow arched—“is to know who your betters are, and not second-guess them. Do you understand?”

Peter had no choice but to nod feebly as he choked and turned blue in the face.

Snape let him go roughly. “Take me to Potter.”

“I’d rather no—“

“Take me to Potter, Wormtail, or I’ll tell the Dark Lord that you owe Potter a life-debt. Imagine what your Master will do to you if he finds that out.”

Peter looked positively horrified at that one. He scrambled to grab his keys, and muttering and squeaking under his breath, he hastened to lead the way back to the dungeons. He made quick time of unlocking the doors and leading Snape through it.

Snape followed wordlessly, keeping his smirk to himself. They descended the steps of the dungeon and came to the bottom of it where he spied Harry Potter leaning back against the wall, breathing heavily while looking exhausted.

“What’s wrong with him?” Snape asked.

Harry’s eyes popped open at the sound of his voice, and his mother’s gaze shifted between Snape and Peter.

“Detoxification spell,” Peter said. “Bellatrix dosed him with it quite heavily.”

Snape’s eyebrow arched. He had expected that. He just hoped Harry had expected it as well. He had to find out. “Well, Potter, I hope you liked your lunch well enough to savor the taste of it again.”

Harry didn’t reply for several seconds, until finally, he said. “Nasty, that spell. Nothing stayed down. Absolutely nothing…”

Snape paused and something akin to horror began to blossom in his mind. Was Harry trying to tell him…? “You should know by now that we’re a rather thorough lot. We couldn’t risk any contaminations in our ingredients, especially not for an ingredient as rare as you.”

“Well, I didn’t know,” said Harry harshly. “It caught me completely off guard. Totally unprepared.”

Snape had to stifle his growing anger at how utterly stupid Harry had been. Judging from Harry’s response, Snape had to assume that either Harry hadn’t and couldn’t take the Revivisco potion, or he had taken the Revivisco but had expelled it when Bellatrix detoxified him.

It was all very infuriating, as Snape had given Harry the potion ahead of time specifically because Snape might not have the opportunity to give Harry the potion while Harry was in captivity. His foresight on that matter had proven correct, but Harry’s foresight—or lack thereof, had miserably failed them.

There was no choice. He needed to speak to Harry, but he couldn’t quite do it with Peter breathing down his neck. Snape discreetly took hold of his wand and sent one of the torches into a fiery blaze.

Peter gave a yell of surprise, and Snape, true to form, frowned with impeccable calmness and said, “Put out the fire, you fool.”

Perhaps a bit panicked, especially when the flames began to lick at the dungeon moss, Peter scrambled to cast extinguishing spells, which of course didn’t quite work.

Snape took advantage of the distraction. He cast a Legilimens on Harry, and Harry resisted for only a moment before hastily letting him in.

Do you have the potion on you? Snape asked.

No… do you have any left?

Snape resisted the urge to berate Harry for his supreme idiocy. It took him five months to brew the amount of potion he gave Harry, and after that, he had to maintain its viscosity for several weeks, which was about as long as it took for Harry to figure out the clues and meeting up with Snape in Spinner’s End. Snape had been certain three hefty vials of it was enough to cover all possible contingencies. Obviously, he had overestimated the Bumbling Boy Who Lived.

I do not, Snape replied, stamping down the panic he himself was feeling. Where have you kept the vials I gave you?

Peter screamed for help, the smoke in the cavern thickening. Snape told him to be quiet and just do his job.

Where, Potter?

There is no more. I sent one vial for the Ministry and Horace Slughorn to share for examination. Ron gave me the vial I let him keep…

And the third one?

I gave it to Hermione… she might have already lost it…

Snape snapped out of Harry’s mind. There was no time to waste. But Harry tugged him back frantically, demanding Snape to tell him if he knew where Hermione was.

Not yet! thought Snape impatiently. But I will know in a bit, I promise you. Now let me do what I have to!

He slammed his mental doors on Harry and walked off, flicking his wand to extinguish the torch fire and clear the smoke. Snape took a few moments to scold Peter for his incompetence and blow off some of his pent-up annoyance while he was at it, and marched up the steps in a hurry.

Peter scrambled after him, tripping in Snape’s wake.

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Viktor jerked from his seat behind his desk, the charmed map of Great Britain, Ireland, and the North Sea glowing briefly as activity began somewhere in Little Hangleton, London. The blinking image of a rat stood unmoving for several moments before it waned and almost immediately reappeared far into the North Sea, northeast of the coast of Scotland.

The rat moved slowly after that, millimeter by millimeter, but Viktor didn’t need to wait and see where the rat was headed. Viktor already knew.

He sent out a messenger spell to Severus Snape and sent Stian, his eagle, to Ronald Weasley.

As the spell and the eagle disappeared from view, Viktor pulled his drawer desk open for his supply of pilfered Polyjuice potions. Further into the desk he brought out a packet of Death Eater hair. He took a tiny pinch of the Death Eater tissue and dripped it into the potion. The sizzle of it smelled awful, but it was proof positive that the potion would work. Hastily, he drank the potion down, the pain of his transformation drowning out his anxiety of having to go to Azkaban.

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The ferryboat to Azkaban docked in a tiny, unmapped islet several kilometers off the Scottish coastline. It stayed well beyond any magical wards that might have been set to keep Azkaban isolated, imprisoning, and impenetrable. The islet was, among many, a Wizarding Apparition point, and the two ferrymen posted at the port to wait for Azkaban-bound travelers were not the most social of men.

At present, there was only one ferry and one ferryman, the other boat having been used by one “rat-faced chap.”

The ferryman grumbled as Viktor, Polyjuiced in his Death Eater form, alighted his craft.

“All the ferrying I’ve done lately,” he mumbled. “Enou’ to throw m’ back for mo’s. Must be one hell of a party in Azkaban. Whole of England be going there… vampire prisoners and such…”

Viktor, doing what he did best, nodded and said nothing.

The ferryman seemed more inclined to respect his silence. Pushing the boat off the port, the deep, choppy waters rocked the boat for several minutes before they slipped into a thick white mist. The boat calmed, rolling along easily as the ferry’s wood creaked and groaned, as if pushing through the mist was an effort.

The ride was a long one, and when Viktor looked at his Dark Mark, it seemed to shine brighter the further they floated into the fog.

After what seemed like an eternity, the mist lifted, and Viktor, for the first time, saw the terror that was Azkaban. The boat began to rock violently once more as the current came to life. Ocean waves crashed against the craggy rock that was Azkaban Island.

Jagged spires of rock rose from the sodden coastline, as if the dark, crenellated monolith of despair, pain, and forgotten convicts sat on a crown of angry thorns. Dementors circled the massive and crooked tower topping the nightmare structure. The castle’s walls were infested with moss, salt scum, and thick decay, even as the stone beneath the sea-grime lay hard and impenetrable.

Viktor felt the icy coldness licking his skin and his hairs stood on end while dreary thoughts knocked on his mind’s door.

The ferryman began to sing a sprightly song about prairies and elves, and listening to the words, Viktor found that he could keep those dreary thoughts out.

They reached the island’s docking station, and Viktor hopped on the wooden planks.

“Sing a happy song,” said the ferryman. “Helps to keep you from their notice.”

Viktor nodded again, and with that, the ferryman began to row away, his song on his lips.

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Viktor unrolled his hand-held map, just before he stepped into the fortress that was Azkaban prison. Taking his wand, he touched its tip to the map’s North Sea and the image instantly enlarged. He spied the blinking rat and enlarged the map even further from there.

The map of Azkaban was a strange one. The layout of the structure on the map looked nothing like the exterior shape of the castle, but it wasn’t surprising, really. The Krums of old were known to have laid their castles out in a similar fashion, meant primarily to confuse enemies who managed to lay siege.

Viktor spied Peter in the southeast quadrant of the castle. He wondered if Snape had already gotten the messenger spell he sent out. It felt like hours ago, but that was only because his trip across the sea had felt impossibly long.

He walked through the massive doors of Azkaban and immediately he felt—not the presence, but—the influence of the Dark Lord. His Dark Mark flared for a heartbeat and it seemed to make his presence known to everyone there. Death Eaters looked up briefly from their work before going back to their respective tasks.

Azkaban was alive with activity, and Viktor had a feeling it wasn’t always this way. Hooded Wizards and Witches flitted about from one archway to another, some of them holding maps, others just walking briskly from point A to B. The witch posted at the booking counter waved him over, her expression one of business and authority.

“State your business,” said the woman.

“I was sent by Bellatrix Lestrange to assist Peter Pettigrew with the prisoner.”

“Which prisoner?”

“The prisoner.”

The witch’s eyebrow arched before she reached behind the counter and produced a parchment. “Your authorization papers came in the floo just a few minutes ago, Mr…?”

“Croxton. Robert Croxton.”

The witched approved what was, no doubt, a forged document. She stamped the parchment and made a quick copy of it, giving him the original document. “Southeast wing, lowest level. The dungeon keeper will see you to her cell. You were also sent this.” The witch handed him a sealed envelope.

Viktor nodded, not bothering to show his surprise of the note, and hurried along to get to the dungeons. He wasn’t very sure how to get to the southeast wing, mostly relying on his sense of direction. As he wove deeper into the fortress, the activity died down and he found himself mostly alone as he walked the dark and deserted hallways.

When he was sure no one would see him, he fished the envelope from his coat and broke the seal. The blank parchment bled with words the moment he unfolded the paper.

Ask her where she kept the potion. Boy needs it badly. Distract Wormtail by telling him he must floo me.

~S.S.

Viktor had no idea what it meant, but of course he knew it was important. He remembered the exact words on the note before he incinerated it with a wave of his wand. He proceeded to find his destination.

It took him a while, but one or two quick glances on his map helped him manage, and he soon found himself standing before an Imperius-ed dungeon keeper.

Viktor showed the stamped parchment and the dungeon keeper gave it a cursory glance before opening the dungeon doors to walk them both through it.

He was led down several winding staircases, the cries of miserable prisoners growing weaker as they deepened their descent. The smell of decay became stronger at each downward step, and Viktor felt that the cold creeping into his skin was not from Dementors. The atmosphere pressing on them in the bowels of the southeast dungeon was more depressing, and more soulless than anything a Dementor could manage. This was where prisoners were brought when they were sentenced to obliteration from the memories of everyone who might have known them.

From the darkness and hopelessness of its depths floated an eerie hum and the dim flicker of torchlight. The stench of death was thick enough to make Viktor want to gag, but he held it in as he walked further into the chamber, leaving the dungeon keeper at the archway.

Viktor spied the rat-faced man who was called Wormtail. He bustled around an open steel casket held upright by a thick iron rack. The rack had wheels, levers, chains, and knobs, implying that the contraption, with the coffin, could be moved and rolled around, and the coffin could be propped up, as well as laid flat and suspended on its back.

Wormtail was speaking into the coffin in a singsong tone, about how they had James’s son, and that it wouldn’t be long now before his Master finally triumphed over war and death.

Viktor made a sound and Wormtail looked up at him, startled.

“Hullo,” cried Wormtail in an oddly cheerful tone.

Viktor held out his authorization letter from behind the contraption. The creatures and monsters carved into the coffin’s exterior shifted slowly in their ironclad sleep.

Wormtail took it, read it and arched an eyebrow as he handed the letter back. “I suppose I could use some company. This one right here’s bloody boring. Wouldn’t say a thing.” He looked up into the coffin again. “Sulking is a bad habit, young lady.” He giggled.

Viktor swallowed the lump in his throat. There was something inherently sickening about Wormtail. “Snape wants you to floo him.”

Wormtail frowned at this. “Did he say what for?”

Viktor shook his head.

Wormtail looked impossibly annoyed but did nothing for several moments.

“Now,” Viktor added.

The rat-faced man cursed and finally began to head for the exit, muttering something about self-important oily-gits.

Viktor watched him leave, the dungeon keeper following him up the stairs. When the sound of ascending footsteps had faded, Viktor hastened to see to Hermione.

He stopped cold at the sight of her.

She was tucked securely in the coffin, unable to move. There was a thick steel clamp, possibly silver-alloy, wrapped around her neck, wrists, thighs, and ankles, possibly tightly enough to blister her where the steel ended and her skin began.

Chains were wrapped around her midsection, securing her even more firmly. Perhaps it might not have been so bad if that were all that held her in place. But right through the clamps, probably just where major arteries were expected to be, spikes had been driven through the brace.

Viktor could see the blood oozing down her fingers and legs. Dried blood had pooled at her feet. Her smeared and soiled face looked pale as death, her eyes half-lidded with weakness. Her lips were completely gone of color. Her hair was matted with blood, unwashed perhaps since she and her Shadow Kin were attacked en route from Herdfordshire. They hadn’t changed her clothes, either.

They had stuffed her into the casket with her ruined leathers. Her jacket, blouse and jean trousers were filled with bullet holes, torn in places and stained, even sticky, with blood.

“Her-my-own…” he choked, blinking back tears as he sought to undo the clamps. His fingers scrambled about helplessly, trying to find the right knob; the correct lever. Several minutes into the fruitless task, he slammed his palm against the rack in frustration, finding no way to undo any of the locks. “Sheebanyak!”

“Your language is atrocious, Viktor,” she said, softly but with her usual vampiric attitude. “What would your children say?”

Her chastisement brought Viktor unspeakable comfort, even as he stared up at her ghastly appearance.

“I cannot remove the locks,” he said sullenly, blinking back the intensity of his emotions. “I cannot set you free.”

“It’s charmed,” she said. “Only a Death Eater can undo it by speaking the password.”

Viktor pulled up his sleeve to remind her. “If you know what the password is, tell me.”

A weak smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Even if I knew, I don’t know if I’d tell you. If you release me… I’ll kill you. I’ll drink you dry.”

Viktor didn’t know what to do. “You will not. I know you will not.”

She was silent for a moment. “Do they really have Harry?”

Viktor wanted to insist his point, but decided it was useless for the meantime. “Da.”

She was silent again. It did not seem like the news sat any better for her than her present state of captivity.

For a moment, Viktor wondered if she was going to say anything else when he remembered Snape’s note.

“Snape is asking where you kept the potion,” said Viktor all of a sudden. “He says Harry needs it badly.”

Hermione’s eyes widened momentarily and her lips pursed. Viktor could make out some form of struggle, from the expression on her face. Finally, she spoke. “My left boot. There is a secret pocket on the side. I don’t know if the vial is still whole.”

Gingerly, Viktor felt around the leather of her shoes. He had to rip through her trouser to get to it, but he found the pocket, undid the zipper and fished out what looked like a handkerchief. The handkerchief was immaculately white, Hermione’s initials on the hem of it. Inside the handkerchief was the vial.

“How will you give it—“ Hermione’s question was cut off at the sound of faint humming from beyond the stairs.

Viktor wrapped the vial carefully in the handkerchief and tucked it into his coat.

Moments later, Peter reappeared with the dungeon keeper in tow. At their feet slithered a great big snake, circling between Peter’s legs, much to his annoyance. It appeared that Peter would like nothing more than to step on the snake’s neck, but he didn’t.

Viktor had seen the snake before, shadowing Voldemort’s many minions. It was said that Nagini was Voldemort’s eyes. Perhaps it was. The Dark Lord was, after all, known to speak the snakes’ language.

Nagini circled Hermione’s casket once, tasting the air around her, before slithering away, retreating back up the stairs, as if her rounds were complete for the meantime.

Whatever Snape had told Peter seemed inconsequential, because Peter did not bother to talk about it. He merely went back to blabbering nonsense at Hermione, giggling gleefully every time he spoke of Voldemort’s victory.

Viktor had to keep his gorge from rising. Hermione retreated back into silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron was not in a good place. He was seated at Harry’s desk in the Ministry, biting his nails, and waiting for answers he wasn’t sure were forthcoming. He had cursed Harry, Viktor, and Snape by turns, thinking alongside his ire that if he had just been firmer—more assertive—with the two former, the latter wouldn’t have all of them by the balls.

In the last hour, Ron had also grown to question his own judgment of the entire thing. Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted Viktor with such a dangerous assignment. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let Harry go alone. Mayhaps Snape wasn’t going to help them after all.

I’M GOING TO LOSE THEM BOTH, he thought frantically of Harry and Hermione. They’re both going to die, and it’s going to be all my fault. OH MERLIN! PLEASE DON’T LET THEM DIE!

At several intervals, Ron had stood, paced, sat back down and clutched miserably at the hair on his head. The Aurors sitting and waiting nearby were already giving him nervous looks as they clutched their wands with whitened knuckles.

The wait was driving Ron insane, and if in the next few minutes, he received no word at all, he feared he was going to go out there and start flushing Death Eaters out, just so he could start doing something instead of just sitting on his arse.

“Ron, ‘ou must seet down. ‘Ou are making me nervous.”

Ron sighed, staring at Gabrielle Delacour. Her golden hair looked lovely even under the mundane lights of the Ministry office, her beautiful eyes like a shining beacon of hope. He began to wonder if all of those of her ilk—angelic and divinely gorgeous—were all named the same…

Lord, she’s a sight to see…

But she was an object of pure adoration. Cold and delicate porcelain, precious, but inhuman. The sting of her break-up had waned in the face of his greater concerns, and while he was the one who suggested to Fleur that Gabrielle be kept at the Ministry, where she could be protected by the likes of Shacklebolt, Remus, and a whole department of Aurors, he looked at her now and all he could think about was that he should’ve done the same for Ginny, who had insisted on being assigned to the Hogwarts unit.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “But I can’t. I’m too worried. I’m too anxious.”

“I am, too. We are ‘orried for the same people, no? Your fameely iz my fameely, yes? But I believe in zem. Zey will get through. Zey are Weasleys.” She grinned broadly.

Ron gave her a small smile. Her naiveté actually soothed some of his anxieties away and he remembered why he had been so taken by Gabrielle Delacour. She was the personification of innocence and wide-eyed wonder. She was hardly touched by the ravages of war, and cynicism was an alien thing to her. She was his escape, but—as he once admitted—that was unfair to her. And perhaps that was a little unfair to him, too.

He spied Luna and George talking a few tables away in hushed tones and immediately looked away.

It was then that a slightly thick parchment carried atop a purple paper airplane, straight from the Ministry Owlery, came zipping into his line of vision.

Ron’s heart thumped most eagerly with restless anticipation as he snatched the parchment from its carrier. When he opened the letter, he found himself staring at a charmed map, a small rat-like dot beeping in the middle of the North Sea.

“I have to go,” said Ron hurriedly, getting up.

“Ron? What eez--?”

Ron turned to her and squeezed her shoulder. “You keep close to Remus and Shacklebolt, you understand? You keep close to them and they’ll protect you. Promise me?”

Swallowing, she nodded.

He smiled, kissed her forehead and hurried to Shacklebolt’s office where Remus and a few other unit captains assigned in the Ministry had converged.

The word had gone out earlier that Azkaban had been captured, Beauxbaton and Hogwarts showed signs of falling under silent siege, and while St. Mungo’s and the Ministry appeared safe, the units stood in their respective positions, expecting the worse.

Ron did not bother to make any polite interjections as he burst through Shacklebolt’s door. “Hermione’s in Azkaban. My source has gone there to confirm this information. I want to be reassigned to one of the Azkaban units.”

He said this all in a rush, hoping, perhaps, to bustle everyone into giving him what he wanted.

No one was fooled.

“So she might not be in Azkaban?” Shacklebolt asked.

“I want to be there if she is. The place is crawling with Dementors and that means there are going to be Patronuses everywhere. I have to be there for her.”

It wasn’t the soundest of reasons, Ron thought on hindsight, but perhaps it was enough that he wanted the reassignment so badly that he would come up with lame excuses for it.

Remus gave a nod, sending out a messenger spell to Tonks, captain of the Azkaban unit. “Go. And perhaps Solomon would appreciate it if you took him with you.”

“He will,” said Ron. “Thank you, Remus.”

“Merlin speed.”

And with that, Ron left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron found Solomon amongst his kind at the upper levels of the Ministry. Solomon didn’t look fully recovered. He was still burnt in places and walked with a slight limp, but he had been determined to fight just like everyone else, and he insisted on being assigned.

“Even like this, I’m twice as strong as the strongest and healthiest human you have in this entire building,” Solomon had said, and it was true. No one could really argue with that.

Solomon, while they stood ready in their respective defensive positions, was currently listening to one other vamp who was explaining the angles of the Ministry hallways, how it could be used to their advantage in an attack.

Solomon caught Ron’s gaze and Ron waved to him, gesturing that he was coming over. Ron was just about to reach him when an explosion sent Ron into a panicked halt.

It was Solomon who grabbed Ron and threw him to the floor. Spells flew everywhere at the same moment vampires and werewolves barreled through the Ministry’s orderly halls.

Ron whipped out his wand even as he slid across the marble, throwing a powerful blasting hex at the werewolf looming above him.

The werewolf whimpered as he was thrown off.

Ron scrambled to his feet with Solomon grabbing him by the collar of his shirt.

They both ducked behind some filing cabinets as chaos and mayhem exploded all around them. The bloody clash of vampires and werewolves broke out through wizard fire. Enchanted candles overhead turned and spilled, raining wax and flames. The air was filled with flying parchment and thickening smoke.

“Hermione’s in Azkaban!” Ron yelled into Solomon’s ear through the din. “I’m heading there right now! You coming?”

For a moment, Solomon stared at him as if he had gone mad. Hell had just broken loose around them, yet here was Ron, telling him, casual-like, that he was going to Azkaban like he had decided he was going to the mall. Ron’s question of, “You coming?” sounded no less odd.

But after a few seconds consideration, Solomon found himself replying just as casually with a, “Sure. Let’s go!”

It was most assuredly easier said than done. The vampires and werewolves had been situated at the front lines, owing to the fact that they weren’t easy to kill, but it also meant Ron and Solomon were in the thick of the battle. Their progress to the nearest exit was slowed by countless confrontations, most of which they avoided, some of which they couldn’t.

Ron figured that if they wanted to get out of the building, they had to use the emergency exit at the back. It didn’t assure their safety, but the emergency escape was charmed to change exit-locations every few minutes. They had a chance of getting out without further interference from Death Eaters.

They rushed through the Ministry, dodging spells, werewolves, and vampires as they went, until finally they reached the service rooms. They sprinted through the storage areas and found the exit. The flashing red sign that said, “USE ONLY IN CASE OF EMERGENCY AND IF YOU REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO GET AWAY!” was quite the beacon. Pushing through the doors, they found themselves exiting into a bathroom stall of some public toilet. It was a tight fit, but they stumbled through without slipping into the toilet bowl.

Ron kicked the stall door open and he spilled out, followed by Solomon. The scandalized looks they received from other bathroom goers were the least of Ron’s worries, and even the fact that they were in the women’s loo hardly bothered him.

Rushing out of the bathrooms, Ron realized they were at King’s Cross. There were Muggles everywhere, rushing to and fro. They seemed agitated, and worried. Many of them looked lost and panicked. And when the Muggles weren’t trying to get somewhere, they were clumped around the station television sets. The soundless screens scrolled words as the reporter mouthed them.

Ron read “bombs,” “riots,” and “death toll.”

“It’s bleeding into their world,” Solomon said from behind him.

Ron nodded and hurried on. They had to get to Azkaban. There was no telling what was happening over there, and the sooner they reached Hermione, the safer she would be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter stopped humming as he hissed in pain. He rolled back his sleeve and checked his Dark Mark before looking up at Hermione, then at Viktor.

“It’s time. The Master summons us.” Peter shimmied to the back of the contraption. “Undo the locks on the wheels. Some help will be by, shortly, but I suppose we can roll her to the prison lift together. It’ll take some doing, but it’s best not to waste any time. We still have to get her to up to the tower so we can Portkey her. It’s the only place on this rock where the warden could disable the Portkey wards.”

Viktor had little choice but to comply.

“Will I see Harry now?” Hermione asked.

Peter chuckled. “Ah, so you do speak.”

“Will I see Harry now?” she repeated.

Peter’s eyebrow arched. “That is the plan, yes. He said he wouldn’t cooperate until he sees you alive. We intend to give him what he wants.”

“And then you’ll kill me?”

For a moment, Peter didn’t reply then he said, “Well, I won’t kill you, that’s for certain.”

Viktor’s hand instinctively went to his wand, but he caught Hermione’s gaze, and her eyes were piercing, warning him to hold still. Her eyes dropped swiftly, darting to the space beside her.

Peter rounded the corner to the back wheels and Viktor discreetly went to the front. As he bent over the fore-wheels, he heard whispered words in Bulgarian.

“The potion.”

Viktor looked up at her questioningly.

“Later,” she breathed. “When I tell you, give me the potion to drink. It’s a long shot, but it is the only chance we have.”

He wasn’t exactly certain why she was asking him to do that, but given the circumstances, he was willing to do what he was told.

“What was that?” asked Peter.

“Prisoner is babbling,” said Viktor hastily. “Nonsense.”

Peter laughed. “She always had a tendency to speak out of turn. Her friend Ron Weasley used to hate it like anything. He would tell me she had a big mouth, and that her stupid, ugly pet was a menace.”

Hermione’s cheek twitched, and she looked terribly annoyed by that. Viktor hoped that by the time Hermione saw Ron again, she’d have cooled down from her ire.

Two Death Eaters, both of them twice the size of Peter, came through the cavern entrance. With the wheels unlocked, they rolled Hermione to the lift. The lift was a large platform that could accommodate them all, and as the lift ascended, Viktor kept his hold on the vial in his coat. He watched Hermione carefully for her signal.

It was a rather long ride, but they reached the tower at last. They rolled her out of the lift and into the open air. Viktor could see Dementors flying around the fortress in a wide perimeter. The wind was bitterly cold, and he leaned in closer to Hermione, or else he wouldn’t be able to hear her above the wind.

Another Death Eater met them, and Viktor recognized him immediately as Bellatrix’s husband, Rodolphus. There was a cage, large enough to fit Hermione’s casket-rack and five able-bodied men. They pushed her into the cage, and as everyone scrambled to get in after her, Viktor heard her whispering, “Now!”

He was swift, with clever hands. He was a professional Quidditch Seeker after all, and he’d caught many a snitch fooling his opponents with common Muggle Magician’s tricks. With a sleight of hand and skillfully applied misdirection, he knocked the vial’s contents into her mouth just as the Portkey was activated to bring them to the Riddle House.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was Lucius and Bellatrix who came to fetch him, with Snape trailing close behind.

Harry dared not give Snape a glance that looked nothing less than loathing, and he dared not use Legilimens either.

“The Dark Lord summons you, Potter,” Bellatrix said. “It’s time you paid your respects.”

“I’m fresh out of Knuts. D’you’ve change for a Sickle?”

“Impudent—“

“Now Bella,” said Lucius smoothly. “There’s absolutely no need to get aggravated. Potter was just joking, weren’t you, boy?” He made a smooth gesture with his hand, and several robed Death Eaters emerged from behind them, accosting Harry and dragging him to his feet by his arms.

“I’ve actually lost my sense of humor this last hour or so,” Harry said through grit teeth.

“Potter has always had a problem with authority,” sneered Snape. “Always thought himself above the rules.”

Harry glared at all three of them, and even his anger at Snape was real. What was the oily git prattling about? He was in no mood to take Snape’s contempt, whether or not Snape was pretending for his benefit, because while Harry felt he still had a chance at defeating Voldemort without compromising his soul, he wasn’t exactly in the best of dispositions to take Snape’s verbal abuse, affected or not.

He was pushed up the same flight of stairs, and as he emerged from the dungeons, the faint draft wafting through the hallways was surprisingly refreshing.

They took a relatively long time to get to their destination, and it took long enough for Harry to brace himself for the worse.

They finally came upon large double doors, the grandeur of the room’s exterior suggesting that they were entering some kind of entertainment hall, like a ballroom, or a theater. It was Snape who pushed the doors open, and Harry saw the sprawling ballroom, its carpets and candle-filled chandeliers worthy of royalty.

Typical, thought Harry, stifling a snort. Voldemort always thought himself more important than he actually is.

He was nudged to continue walking, and he complied. The rich carpet muffled their steps, and when finally, the carpet ended and marble dance floor began, Harry was finally able to get a closer look at He Who Was Called the Dark Lord.

He didn’t look that much different from when Harry last saw him in the Department of Mysteries.

Voldemort’s skeletal frame had not gained girth, neither had his unnaturally ashen skin blushed with the slightest hint of color, but he seemed taller, and his snake-like face seemed more reptilian than ever. The ruby-gleam of his eyes were filled with malevolence, even as Voldemort smiled through the cage of his spider-like fingers.

“Been quite a while, hasn’t it, Harry?” Voldemort asked in a deceptively charming tone. He rose from his throne-like seat, his dark robes luxuriant in its elegance, his pale, hairless face striking against the deep colors of his cowl. He pushed the cowl back, his bald head gleaming against the candlelight.

To one side of his chair stood Janus, clad in his slick clothing, his sword on his back and another at his hip, on the other, Greyback, his shredded clothing and jointed paws a reminder of his ferocity. Two creatures, both children of darkness, one beautiful, the other beastly.

Harry wondered if Voldemort found Janus’s immortality fascinating and Greyback’s ruthlessness admirable.

“Not long enough, Tom,” Harry replied blithely.

Voldemort’s face did not change expressions, but Harry’s scar seared with poker-hot pain.

Harry hissed through his grit teeth, fighting down the urge to cry out. He succeeded, mostly, but only because Lucius knocked him to his knees from behind.

He felt the bindings on his wrist come loose and he fell forward, palms to the floor. His wrists were already raw, some of the skin scraped off by the rough rope.

Voldemort flicked his wand and a tray of three different potions, two vials each, floated between them. “There is no strict ritual to this spell,” he said as he set the tray down. “It is straight magic, with activating potions, systematic charms-work, and natural enchantments. You’ve seen one of the like done before, at my father’s graveyard. You remember that, don’t you, Harry?”

Harry remembered all too well. It was a memory seared into his brain, because he had to watch Cedric die. It was also the very first time Harry had lost a friend to death.

“Your cooperation is… preferred,” said Voldemort in a slightly regretful tone.

Harry refused to get provoked. “Where is she?”

Voldemort seemed utterly disgusted. “They’ll be here in a moment. It baffles me still how you mortals rely on the weakest of emotions during your most…” He paused, searching for a word. “Trying times.”

Harry shot him a sardonic grimace. “You’re not immortal yet, Tom. Horcruxes are the boob-jobs of immortality. It may look and feel real, but the fact of the matter is it isn’t.”

Janus actually laughed, but Voldemort understandably didn’t seem to find the humor in it. Given another second, he might have hexed Harry with something very painful, but a gust of wind struck the room, and it proved ample distraction for all of them.

Sparks of blue crackled throughout the ballroom and a spinning, phantasmal mass began to form. The mass solidified, a bright azure lantern of moving light. It came to an abrupt halt and revealed a cage carrying five men and a strange, rather large contraption that looked like an iron coffin held upright by a rack.

Harry recognized two of the men as Rodolphus Lestrange and Peter. The others looked like Death Eater lackeys, their faces hidden within their hoods.

The contraption was rolled out of the cage on wheels, and Harry couldn’t keep his eyes off it. He seemed to bear an awful sort of fascination with it. It might have been the lazily shifting gargoyles and creatures that had been carved into the casket’s metal exterior, or maybe it was just the rack itself, so medieval and terrible that it was almost reminiscent of the Gothic churches of old.

One of the Death Eaters edged slightly away from the group and sidled up to Snape.

Harry let his eyes rove discreetly, wondering if anyone else noticed. No one appeared to be paying Snape attention. All eyes were fixed on the contraption as they rolled it in Harry’s direction, and Harry began to get a sinking feeling as to why.

The contraption was turned and the horrible reality of the situation dawned on him. His throat tightened at the sight of her, and blinking back his tears only made them spill over.

He rose from the floor and delicately trailed the pads of his fingers on her cheeks, afraid to hurt her even more. He whispered her name.

Her pained, hollowed eyes opened, and she gave him a tight-lipped smile.

He swiped the back of his hand over his eyes and glared at Voldemort over his shoulder. “Let her go. Let her go now or I won’t—“

“If we let her go now,” Lucius said, speaking out of turn, “she’ll seek the nearest blood-source, so no, we’re not letting her go.”

“Janus will take care of her,” said Voldemort with a slight sneer. “Won’t you, Janus?”

Janus gave a tiny smile. “Better than how I took care of Lucien, surely.”

Tears broke from her gaze, and that haunted look in Solomon’s eyes were reflected on hers at that moment.

Harry’s heart wrenched just as his fist tightened, and he desperately wanted to hit someone. He stepped closer for what little privacy he could get in a room full of people Harry had hated for most of his life. “It’s going to be alright…” he said softly, gently wiping her tears away with his thumb. “It’s going to be fine.”

Her eyes widened, and she said nothing, but in spite of the tears trailing down her cheeks, her gaze blazed, as if she wanted to tell him something but couldn’t.

Harry stifled his alarm. Had they cut off her tongue?

She mumbled something, lips sealed shut, her liquid gaze filled with urgency.

Discretely, Harry slid into her mind and her mental words were whispered.

Kiss me… kiss me, Harry…

His eyes widened in astonishment, but he did not question her intentions. Cupping her face, he pressed his lips to hers, and the feel of her tongue against his mingled with the taste of the last remaining vial of Snape’s potion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yasmin looked up from her meditation and watched Nagini slither through the entryway of the cavern. Yasmin smirked in spite of the fact that her vision was swimming and her body felt drained of life.

“Well, hullo Nagini,” she said. “Where’s your mum?”

Dendera emerged from the darkness, beautiful and poised.

Yasmin couldn’t help but sneer a bit, hating the fact that her lack of sustenance was beginning to make her look withered, her skin flaking at the edges. She imagined that her hair lacked luster, too. It was very aggravating.

Dendera spoke to Nagini in Parseltongue and Nagini curled up at the side, hissing at Yasmin with jaws wide upon before settling comfortably on her own body.

“They have taken Hermione for the meantime, and Harry seems to be in their custody. Everything is going according to plan.”

Yasmin smirked. “Whose plan? Yours or the Oracle’s?”

Dendera checked her nails, seating herself on a nearby bench. The seat looked fit for a cow-maid, yet Dendera managed to make it look regal. Yasmin thought Dendera such a waste of good breeding. Dendera could have gone places no vampire has ever known. She had such great power, and yet she succumbed to the lure of the Oracle’s manipulations. The Oracle was, indeed, wise beyond imagining.

“Why do you think, Dendera, the Oracle chose to tell you, out of the three ancients, (for)this world-changing prophecy? Why did it not choose to impart this important piece of knowledge to Kalfani, who is older and wiser? Or Nehkbet, who is gentler and kinder? It chose you because of your ambition, and because of your blood… it knew that out of the three, you were the one it could sway most easily.”

Dendera’s eyebrow arched. “Ambition, I have. It is a trait I value, but I’d rather you didn’t pretend that you don’t share this trait with me. Your ambitions, child, are even greater than mine.”

“True, but my reasons are sounder than yours. You are motivated by old-fashioned ancestry. You think that just because Voldemort happens to be your half-brother’s descendant, you are entitled, somehow, to the spoils of this prophecy—“

“A vampire’s mortal blood-relatives are held most sacred—“

“Yes, yes. I know the old saying, but I do not see Voldemort sharing this sentiment. Tell me… does he call you Great-Auntie Dendera?”

“What he knows of his relations to me is inconsequential—“

“He will turn on you,” hissed Yasmin. “When he has his power, and he has his immortality, he will spill your blood with the rest of the poor mortals at his feet. He cares not whether you were half-sister, or bastard-daughter, to his great ancestors. He wants the power all to himself. He will not share. Just like his Great Grandfather wanted it. You wait and see, Dendera. He is just like Salazar—“

“Enough,” whispered Dendera with palpably controlled rage. “Salazar never fooled me into trusting him. Even while I was so young, I knew Salazar was destined to fail. He went at his quest alone, and he was too human to see that immortality is the only true power. His heir has learned from his great grandfather’s mistakes.”

“Perhaps, but the question is… have you learned from the mistakes of your half-brother?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Standing on the islet just off the coast of Scotland, Ron looked at the charmed map he received from Viktor and frowned.

Solomon, noticing the indecision in his gaze, asked him what was wrong.

“The tracing charm’s not in Azkaban anymore,” Ron replied.

“What do you mean she’s not in Azkaban anymore?”

Ron looked up, slightly annoyed. “I didn’t say she isn’t in Azkaban, I’m saying the tracing charm isn’t. Snape said he would attach the tracing charm to Hermione’s keeper. It’s quite possible that the keeper left her in Azkaban and went back to London…”

“She’s back in London?”

“Solomon! You’re not listening!”

Solomon sighed. “I am! Just that I’m very confused right now!”

“You blokes going to Azkaban or aren’t you?” asked one ferryman whilst sharing a bottle of whiskey with another.

“We don’t know,” said Ron helplessly.

“Vampires seem to be the rage these days,” said the larger of the two ferrymen. He gave Solomon a cursory glance before turning to address Ron. “Bunch of them going on over there… course, the last couple of vamps on my ferry were prisoners. You seem to be getting along with that there vamp you’ve got.”

Ron paused and eyed the ferryman curiously. “Wait a minute… did you just say, ‘Last couple of vamps…?’ As in plural?”

“As in what?”

Solomon shot Ron a look of annoyance. “How many vampires have been transported to Azkaban in the last two weeks? As prisoners?”

The ferrymen exchange glances and they both shrugged.

“Two by my count,” said one to the other. They seemed to agree and together they said, “Two.”

“Can you tell if they were both women?”

The smaller ferryman gave a lewd giggle. “Can we! Nice shape to ‘em both, ‘specially the firs’ one. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore…”

Ron looked at Solomon.

“We’re going to Azkaban,” Solomon said. “If Hermione’s with Harry, Harry will look out for her. If she’s still here, we can find her, and find Yasmin.”

Ron thought it over a moment before he nodded. “Let’s go, then. We’ll find Tonks’s unit and go from there. Merlin save us, if we’re going to spring anybody out of Azakaban, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: And as you can see, it ain’t over yet!!! Until the next chapter, people!

39. Chapter Thirty-eighth: Engage

A/N: Start the countdown, folks. Two more chapters to go, plus the epilogue, and this story is DONE.

Colossal, mega-thanks to Tome Raider for being Jedi Master to me, the Padawan learner. She rocks with the force. ::grin::

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

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Chapter Thirty-eighth: Engage

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The taste of the potion washed away at the intensity of the kiss, and he felt amazingly empowered. That he could feel such wonderful emotion in a room filled with hatred was intoxicating. He didn’t know how long he would have let himself drown in her kiss if she—well, if she hadn’t bit him.

He pulled back with a quiet hiss, his wince slightly rebuking.

“Sorry,” she whispered, with a soft penitent wail. “I-I’m injured… just happened...”

His heart wrenched, realizing that her need for blood, to heal and recover, had made her do it. He was about to murmur tender reassurances of her having done nothing wrong when his scar seared, shooting blinding pain through his head. He fell back with a surprised cry, cursing with audible outrage.

Voldemort’s lip curled in impatience and disgust. “You’ve seen your Mudblood, now we get on with the ritual.”

“I won’t let her be held this way,” Harry choked through his pain. “I won’t—“

“You have no choice in the matter. She is a menace right now. I am sure you understand that much.”

Harry never thought he would ever ask anything of the loathsome creature that was his worse enemy, but he found himself petitioning. He would do anything for her, even this, and he wouldn’t begrudge her for it. He needed her to be alright. “At least remove the spikes.”

“No. The Mudblood suffers. Her existence is an embarrassment to Wizards everywhere and I have treated her kindly enough as it is.”

Harry tasted his blood on his lips and it pushed him to lose some degree of control. He advanced towards Voldemort, fists tight. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do, but he hardly cared.

He must have moved quickly—certainly unexpectedly for everyone in the room, their Wizarding sensibilities more akin to magical reactions than physical ones—, but he was suddenly in front of Voldemort, the Dark Lord easily within his reach. He couldn’t even remember exactly how it happened, because he seemed to be acting on instinct.

He threw a punch. It was probably stupid, and useless, but he jammed his fist right on Voldemort’s jaw. He had been aiming for the nose, or what was left of it, but Voldemort must have turned away, because Harry’s knuckle felt hard bone.

There were shouts of shock, and he felt arms pulling him away; dragging him back. Voldemort stumbled a bit to the side, blinking wide-eyed with surprise. His surprise didn’t last long, anyway. Quickly enough, Voldemort whirled to face Harry, his gaze reflecting fury because Harry dared to attack him wandless.

Harry felt a surge of satisfaction satisfying, surprising Voldemort like that, and Harry cracked a sneer.

Voldemort’s red eyes flashed, and with barely a flick of his wand, he had Harry writhing on the floor. The Crucio was excruciating. Every nerve of Harry’s body was twisted with agonizing pain. Every pore was on fire. Every bone felt like it was being crushed to powder. He couldn’t breathe, yet a scream was ripping from his throat.

An eternity passed before the effects of the curse waned, and as the pain ebbed in a horribly slow pace, he could hear Hermione’s trembling voice.

“Stop it! Just stop it! He’s here. He’s going to give you his soul!” she cried with helpless rage. “You’ve taken everything, you bastard! What more do you want?”

Her voice cracked, but her anger was palpable. She wasn’t going to let Voldemort break her, but she didn’t want Voldemort to break Harry.

She shouldn’t have seen that, he thought mournfully. She shouldn’t have… she shouldn’t have to see any of this.

He blinked several times to staunch the tears of pain, willing himself to recover from the debilitating torture. He was still gasping for air, but he was becoming slowly more aware of his surroundings.

“Wormtail, bring him here,” said Voldemort, sweeping to the center of the dance floor where the potions were. “Now.”

Harry felt the grip on his arm; of the strange Death Eater who had kept close to Severus Snape and of Peter, whose pointy nose wiggled in agitation.

Stifling his moans of pain, Harry, doubled his mental barriers against the portal that was his link to Voldemort’s mind and summoned his Legilimens, whispering into Peter’s head. He only had a few seconds to hold the barriers. It was difficult, having Voldemort so near. Even now, blocking his mind, Voldemort might know that Harry was trying to hide something.

You owe me, Peter, he said ruthlessly. You take those spikes from her, and I’ll release you from your life debt. If you don’t, I’ll tell the Dark Lord what you owe me, and he’ll kill you—

Peter dropped him with a cry of surprise, and if it weren’t for the Death Eater on the other side of Harry, Harry would have crashed face down on the floor. Peter was staring at him in horror, hands to his ears. In his eyes was pure disbelief, that Harry had summoned magic without apparent access to a wand.

Voldemort looked hopeless irritated and Lucius, perhaps having been put too many times on the painful end of Voldemort’s bad mood, stepped forward and shoved Peter aside.

“Idiot,” Lucius muttered, grabbing Harry none too gently to finish Peter’s task.

Harry craned his neck and caught Peter’s gaze again. Do it, or I swear to you, Wormtail—

Peter scrambled to Hermione’s casket, stumbling behind it. Harry could almost smell Peter’s fear. He heard Peter’s mental cry of promise floating between the link of their minds and that was enough. That was all Harry needed.

He let Lucius and the Death Eater drop him at Voldemort’s feet and Harry caught the Death Eater’s gaze.

The Death Eater nodded, his eyes darting to Snape and Hermione. Harry understood then that this was their spy.

Snape approached them as Lucius and the Death Eater stepped back. Lucius stood by Bellatrix and Rodolphus, the Death Eater by Hermione.

Harry heard Hermione’s gasp of pain, and as he looked up, he saw Voldemort’s eyes bearing down on him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She felt a thin film of magic envelope her from the neck down. It wasn’t something particularly noticeable, especially in the magic-saturated room, but since it seemed to have been cast on her, she was quite sure it was there.

It was familiar tingle, something she might have been able to identify, if she hadn’t been so wrought with pain.

“Distorqueo,” came the whisper of Peter behind her. “Abreptum clavus.”

And instantly, the spikes began to retract, twisting out of her thighs and wrists like corkscrews. She felt her blood flowing from the wounds, and Hermione felt an overwhelming feeling of vertigo as she gasped, the pain of the pikes being retracted instant and sharp.

It took another heartbeat for the pain to ebb, but she quickly realized that the removal of the spikes gave her great relief, and that even if her wounds were still there, at least now the pain was considerably lessened. Her blood vessels throbbed once, twice, and then lessened to a continuous trickle.

Relieved of the torturous pain, her mind began to regain focus.

Details. Think of the details…

No one had noticed the removal of the spikes, which was interesting enough. One would think that a room full of dastardly Death Eaters would notice something like that, but they didn’t.

There were magical ways to accomplish such things, of course. There were disillusionment charms, misdirection charms, or a simple glamour. It would explain the alien tingling she felt just a few seconds earlier. Someone—likely Peter—could have cast any of these spells to take the attention away from her, and it was even easier for being redundant, since everyone seemed transfixed by Harry and Voldemort’s ritual at the center of the room.

The fact that Peter had circumvented Voldemort’s will was unexpected in the extreme, but something had apparently shaken him a while ago; frightened him enough to remove her spikes from her cuffs and braces.

Harry did it, she concluded. Hermione was sure of it. His will had always been amazingly strong, and she marveled at the fact that even now, when he was about to give up his soul to Voldemort, he was thinking of her. It was an overwhelming thought, that someone loved her that much, but it was empowering, too, because she wasn’t going to stand around and watch Harry die. It wasn’t going to happen that way.

Voldemort and Harry were speaking, Snape and the potions between them. Voldemort summoned Janus, and Janus approached.

Distorqueo. Abreptum clavus. That’s what Peter said.

Distorqueo meant to twist apart, distort, and torture. Abreptum clavus meant to remove a nail, or a spike.

The words altogether made a little sense, but the first word wasn’t a spell. Distorqueo was a password. Bellatrix had spoken it when she nailed Hermione into the coffin, and it was a password worthy of the Cruciatus specialist who loved her work.

“Distorqueo. Praepedio,” Bellatrix had said earlier. The chains and shackles had wrapped around Hermione with frightening enthusiasm, pressing Hermione to the back of the coffin without the slightest room to move. And then Bellatrix said. “Distorqueo. Perfido.” That was what caused the spikes to activate.

And now Peter had removed the spikes using the same formula: Password plus a spell, or maybe it was just an instruction. It could only be activated by a Death Eater, or someone with a Dark Mark. She hadn’t been sure about it earlier, and she was in so much pain that she dared not risk making her situation worse by an incorrectly uttered word, but she could have told Viktor. She could have risked it anyway. He might have set her free, but it was true what she thought. If she told him the password then, she would have sucked his blood dry. If she told him the password then, Peter wouldn’t bring her to Harry. If she told him the password then, she might get Harry killed by sheer lack of forethought.

Timing was important. Timing was everything. The odds were not in their favor. The only help she might find was Viktor and possibly Snape, but it wasn’t enough. There were too many Death Eaters, and she couldn’t vamp half as well in her weakened state. She needed Harry.

I have to trust him. He wants me safe. He will do something to ensure that, whether I approve of his methods or not.

She waited. She would have her chance. And when she was free; when she was unfettered, she would strike.

She eyed Bellatrix Lestrange as the lights of the ballroom withered to a dim gloom. Death would be too kind for her, Hermione realized. It was more satisfying in the end to make Bellatrix pay.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron and Solomon found Tonks in one of the many Auror Department issue crafts the Order had commandeered from the Ministry. They were high-speed crafts powered by the same enchantments used on flying carpets.

The ferryman who had brought them into the mist looked immensely annoyed, especially after he figured there was a whole fleet of boats situated around Azkaban.

“You could’ve helped ferrying folks back and forth,” said the ferryman to Tonks and her crew. “Saved us lots of trips.”

Tonks had frowned, being in absolutely no mood to humor anyone. “It’s not as if you’re busy three hundred sixty-five days of the year, Jessar, so quit complaining.”

Jessar scowled, but said nothing after that.

Tonks signaled to one of her crew and a chap who appeared to be an Auror told the ferryman to row him back to the main dock. Jessar left with him, grumbling as the mist swallowed them whole.

“Those two coots blab about everything,” said Tonks. “We don’t need them warning our enemies of our numbers, or our presence. Thurston will take care of their memories.”

“Good idea,” said Solomon. “He was the one who told us that Yasmin’s in Azkaban.”

Tonks looked properly astonished. So much so that Neville, who was listening from the side, began to look constipated. When Tonks was surprised, it was usually a bad thing, especially because Tonks looked exactly like the kind of person who didn’t shock easily.

The vamps and werewolves listening to the conversation looked at one another with raised eyebrows. This was interesting news to them, too.

“You’re serious,” Tonks said after a quick examination of both Ron and Solomon. “She’s been in there? All this time?”

“Apparently,” said Ron. “And of course no one bothered to look there.”

“No one entertained the possibility that she’d been kidnapped until two days ago,” Solomon explained. “You don’t just kidnap a five-hundred year old Master of the Coven of Isis. It’s just not done… and now see what’s happened? Lucien’s been murdered by Janus, Hermione’s been taken, the Blood-Kin of Ramses has betrayed us, vamps rising up against vamps… nothing is the way it should be.”

“We’re going to get her back, then,” said Tonks, looking a bit flustered, like someone just hit her over the head with a Bludger.

“Hermione might be in there, too,” said Ron. “And if she is, we have to find her.”

Tonks expelled a big breath. “You chaps just love springing these bombs on me, don’t you?”

Ron was about to apologize when Tonks waved his words away.

“Never mind,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll do what we have to do. You and Solomon come with me. We have some last-minute plotting to do.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco turned the knob on the Wizard Wireless and heard nothing but static. This was unusual, but Draco knew what was happening. The Ministry had been taken, and therefore there wasn’t going to be a broadcast; not until the radio people found a new station.

He grumbled and contemplated going to the library, but he didn’t feel like reading a book.

Nothing to do.

He looked at his ankle, saw that it was unfettered, and still couldn’t believe it.

Earlier, before Harry left for the Riddle House, he had given Draco one of those infuriating looks of compassion. Why Harry felt sorry for him, Draco didn’t know, but it prompted Draco to go with his signature utterance of “Piss off, Potter.”

Harry hadn’t looked the least bit bothered. It seemed to Draco that Harry had too many other things to bother about, anyway. The Mudblood had been kidnapped, the Dark Lord had picked a fight with him, the whole Wizarding World was waiting for an impending invasion, and Harry’s life was on the gambling table. Draco couldn’t entirely blame the bloke for being so unaffected by rude epithets. Compared to the rest of the shit in Harry’s life, someone else’s bad attitude was like a bowl of cherries.

But it was still a complete shock when Harry waved his wand and didn’t hex him. Draco had somewhat expected to get turned into a ferret, but that hadn’t happened. Harry had, instead, removed Draco’s ankle-brace with a deactivation spell.

“You’re free, Draco. It’s probably stupid of me to take the restrictions off, but just until I get back from this battle… if I get back, you’re free. You do what you want with that freedom. You decide what you think is best for you. And if I come back, whether or not you’re here, I’ll take into account what you’ve done, or didn’t do. Agreed?”

Draco hadn’t replied. He had been too baffled by the shocking turn of events. Harry wasn’t prone to trickery, but for a brief moment, Draco was actually afraid that Harry was up to something. Maybe Harry had implanted a tracking device on Draco and he was expected to go running to his father, after which the Order would come barreling in, arresting Lucius and Draco Malfoy. Maybe they thought he would lead them to the Mudblood, after which the Order would come barreling in, arresting…

These were Draco’s thoughts long after the entire household had left to fight the war.

The whole of England was in turmoil, and he sat there pondering his existence.

He was astonished to note that there was a fair amount of guilt. It was infuriating to realize that the sappy sods he’d lived with in the last five years had managed to infect him with this emotion.

He had no illusions, or desire, to become like the lot of them—stupid and naïve, fighting for some cause that they consider “good” and “right.” They were a bunch of impractical morons who seemed to gain satisfaction just by knowing they were on Harry’s side of things, and yes, it was difficult for Draco to comprehend.

With that non-conclusion, Draco rose from his seat and hauled out two trunks from one of the many storage closets of Grimmauld Place. Only one of the trunks was his, but he figured Weasley wouldn’t mind so much if he took it. In any case, it wasn’t like Draco cared if Ron minded or not.

Draco stuffed the trunks with what little belongings he had accumulated over the last five years. It was true what he told Harry, that Grimmauld Place had never really been his home, that it was some sort of halfway house, that his only reason for being there was to have a place to stay until he can find a place of his own where he could settle, and live.

And decorate. Something a bit more modern than all this… 18^th century furniture that makes me want to hang myself.

His first stop would be Gringotts. The Ministry had frozen his accounts with regard to his Malfoy fortune, but his mother would have left him her Black accounts, and he was half-certain the Ministry hadn’t frozen those.

When his closets were emptied and he had packed all he could, he shrunk his trunks and headed out of his room, out of the house, and finally Apparating into the deserted streets of Diagon Alley.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry stared at the first vial of potion he was being forced to drink. It was a bright, alluring orange glowing in the dim light of the ballroom. It looked like one of the many alcoholic beverages he had drowned in during those five years he’d spent searching for Hermione in the dark alleys of London.

He doubted, however, that this potion brought any sort of pleasant promise the way those Apricot Brandies, Blueberry Martinis, and Tequila Roses had, so many times in his past. He had liked his cocktail drinks, almost as much as he liked hard drinks, though the hard drinks won out most of the time.

He wasn’t sure why he was thinking such thoughts now, when everything was so dire. Maybe it was because he remembered that his failures had always been marked by drinking something, and that fact was making him apprehensive, because he couldn’t fail anymore. Not right now, at least. There were too many things hanging in the balance.

He looked over his shoulder, at Hermione and his unlikely ally, the unknown Death Eater by her side. He looked at Snape, a traitor so many times that his loyalties would always be in question. He looked at his enemies; and he looked at the evil that was Voldemort. Was he destined to be the Ruler anointed by the Ancients?

“Drink it,” Voldemort said impatiently. “Or I will see that your Mudblood suffers. I’m sure you know that a vampire’s tongue—taken alive—makes for very powerful elixirs, Potter. I’d like one in my supply cupboards—“

Harry shot him a potent glare and swiped the potion from the table, tossing it in his mouth. The taste was not pleasant at all and Harry had to breathe deeply not to gag.

Voldemort chuckled softly, drinking his half of the same potion. The taste did not seem to bother him.

Snape waved his wand at them both. “Devicio.”

Something began to stir in Harry’s scar and chest, building pressure and causing him to black out in short intervals. He thought for certain that his head and chest were going to explode and kill him. He tried to resist but the force was too strong.

There was a burst, and something ripped open from inside him. He yelled out, but in the next moment he realized he wasn’t dead, that he was very much alive, and that there were threads of phantasmal green mist snaking from his scar and his chest, reaching for Voldemort.

Harry stood there in disbelief. He had a vague idea of what to expect. Snape had, after all, written a bit about it.

The first potion opens the trappings of your soul and the Horcrux. It makes both entities accessible, though not necessarily removable.

He moved his hand and he saw a faint glow of green shadowing it. He looked up at the impenetrable gaze of Snape.

Snape handed him the second potion.

The second potion severs the souls from your body. It will be painful—be prepared.

Harry took it and drank. It tasted incredibly sour and oily. It was horrendous.

Snape stepped back, snapped his wand like a whip and cried, “Dissertio!”

Harry actually heard the snap, just before a gust of wind rose from beneath his feet. It was like a tornado, wrapping him in its suffocating embrace. He felt himself being torn in two inside. His soul and Voldemort’s soul fragments being ripped from his body, and he screamed from the agony. It was worse than Crucio. Worst than anything he had ever experienced in his life; like he was being severed limb from limb. He was dying; he had to be, because if there was a God, there was absolutely no way He could be so cruel as to let Harry suffer this agony.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was frightening. It just was. There was just something so hideously powerful in seeing a man like Harry Potter scream with horrendous pain. For all the Death Eaters’ disdain for the Boy Who Lived, it was unmistakable that Harry had been a huge threat to Voldemort these past five years; that something in Harry incited a twinge of fear in the Death Eaters’ black hearts, no matter how much they denied it. Harry could kill vampires with his bare hands. Harry could fight werewolves, three at a time, and survive unscathed. Harry had defied the Dark Lord, perhaps by sheer luck, but still more times than any of them had ever dreamed of.

The only other person who could frighten them was Voldemort, and that was saying something. It told them, in the deepest recesses of their minds, that Harry was their Dark Lord’s equal in some awful way.

And yet here was the great Harry Potter, screaming with unspeakable pain as the potion and spell buffeted him. He was luminescent in the darkness, and they could see through him. They could see the potion spreading through his system, wrapping around his nerves and bones, piercing his heart, mind and belly. They could see the spell encasing him in a deadly cocoon, twisting his soul to rip it away.

Voldemort pulled back the sleeve of his robe, offering his wrist to Janus, and it only made the scene more ghastly. Janus bared his fangs, sinking his teeth into Voldemort’s flesh and drinking of Voldemort’s blood. Janus didn’t drink much, and when he pulled away, he broke the skin on his wrist, pouring a small stream of it into the third potion set on the table. The potion, a golden liquid with floating bubbles of green, turned a dark, crimson red when Janus’s blood was introduced to it.

Death Eaters stood transfixed, their faces grown pale with terror. One would think this was the sort of thing they lived for, but it seemed the horror of stealing a soul, of mutilating it, was a universal nightmare.

The whistle of wind rang in Hermione’s ears like a bullet train; she barely even realized she was screaming. She was screaming her throat hoarse. She might have been hysterical, like her heart was being ripped out and she was watching it happen. She sobbed. She screamed for Harry. She didn’t know if her sanity would survive it.

And then Viktor was there before her, the wind whipping his hair. His face was so unfamiliar, yet when she looked into his eyes, she saw him lurking beneath the disguise.

“Molya te,” he said in an imploring tone as he held her face tenderly in his hands. “Ne. Ne pravi taka, Her-my-own. Molya te!”

Please. Don’t. Don’t do that, Hermione. Please!

For a moment that felt like forever, she refused to listen. She wanted to rage and scream. She was helpless. She couldn’t protect them. Crying and screaming was all she could do.

I couldn’t protect them!

“Ne plachi. Ne plachi, Molya te…” Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry… “It is Harry. His strength is your faith!”

The words, suddenly spoken in English with Viktor’s quaint penchant for poetry, hit her with its intensity. Her screaming stopped, and she looked at Viktor as the chaos of magic swirled all around them. Her eyes widened with growing realization, guilt for doubting Harry mixing with her renewed conviction. And then words began to escape her lips.

“Distorqueo,” she said. “Distorqueo. Liberatio.”

For a moment, Viktor looked at her in great confusion.

“Say it,” she hissed. “Say it, and stand back.”

He knew then, and he stepped away. “Distorqueo. Liberatio.”

The effect was frighteningly instantaneous.

Chains slithered away, braces snapped off, and Hermione felt absolutely unfettered.

Peter’s screams were drowned out by the howl of the enchanted winds.

Bellatrix didn’t even know what hit her when Hermione sent her crashing back and zipping through the curtained walls, tearing the cloth from their rungs. Hermione’s teeth sank into Bellatrix’s neck, orange and gold silk drowning them both as the gush of Bellatrix’s nourishing, healthy blood warmed Hermione’s tongue.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry saw himself leaving his body.

He saw his body drop to the floor like he was dead, eyes and mouth wide open. Another entity, alien and dark, hovered above him. They were Voldemort’s soul fragments, and Voldemort was calling those soul-fragments back, just as Harry felt Voldemort summoning him, too.

The last remaining soul fragments that had been held in Harry’s scar flared and speared its way back to Voldemort’s body, as if the souls were eager to find their way back home, but Harry found that he could resist Voldemort’s summons with a considerable bit of effort.

Voldemort took the third potion and drank it dry.

Harry felt the pull begin to gain strength, and Harry saw the phantasmal talons emerging for Voldemort’s body; screams of murder, suffering, and grief following at their wake as the spindly fingers roared his way.

Harry could only watch in horror as they came for him, but just before they could ensnare him in its claws, he was yanked back. He was fleeing, and suddenly he was back in his body, breath rushing back into his lungs.

He gasped, the air like knives through his chest. The ghostly hands dissipated like mist against his solid form, unable to take what they had come for.

It worked! thought Harry frantically. The potion worked!

Voldemort, wrapped helplessly in the magic, gave a wail of rage. The enchantments flailed around him in confusion, tangling him in their chaos, and Voldemort’s angry voice mingled with the screams of terror emanating from Peter.

Curtains were drifting to the floor from their hooks and the lights had completely gone out, adding to the general disorder. The only thing illuminating the ballroom now were the rays of the moon slicing through the overhead and side windows. The stained-glass made for darker, eerier lighting, the red tints of the glass marking the floor like the spill of blood.

Harry’s gaze darted from one thing to another as he struggled to push himself off the ground. Hermione was gone from her coffin, Snape and his Death Eater had run for cover in different directions, Bellatrix and Peter had disappeared, and spells were being fired everywhere. Janus and Greyback pushed through the milieu, fangs and claws bared for fighting while Rodolphus was somehow trying to order them to “Find Bella!”

Voldemort’s shout of fury echoed through the ballroom, and with an awesome burst of magic, he released himself from his enchanted bindings and threw a powerful Reducto in the process.

Harry scrambled to get to his feet and jumped just in time to avoid it.

The curse connected with the casket in a metallic explosion that sent splinters of iron and silver alloy in all directions. Rodolphus and one of the Death Eaters collapsed, the first with a rod pierced through his leg, the other taking an iron shard in his eye.

Everyone else had successfully ducked, even as Greyback gave a howl of outrage. His anger was understandable. A stray sliver of silver-alloy could have killed him instantly.

Voldemort’s gone insane, Harry thought.

He looked wildly around, searching for Hermione in the chaos and darkness. One thing he could take comfort in was how Hermione could see in the dark.

But so can Janus…

Voldemort gave off another string of curses that blew bits of ballroom into debris. Harry had to duck and keep still, hiding.

“Harry Potter!” Voldemort cried. “You will not get away!”

The way things were looking now, Harry was fairly confident that his chances of surviving had gone up exponentially. However, that was if he only had himself to worry about.

He felt his forehead and almost gasped when he realized that he couldn’t feel his scar. That lightning-shaped aberration; the bane of his existence, was gone. That thought was immensely empowering. No more link. No more connection.

No more Horcrux inside me…

“Bella!” Rodolphus cried as he thrashed ungracefully about the floor. “Bell—“

His cry was cut off by his own strangled scream and Harry felt a distinct knot in his belly.

“She’s picking you off,” said Janus, pure amusement and pride evident in his voice. “One by one…” That he didn’t consider himself among one of the Death Eaters was telling, and judging by the look on Voldemort’s face, the detail hadn’t gone unnoticed, but there were more important things to attend to at the moment, and Harry was willing to bet Voldemort understood this more than Harry did.

“Find her, now,” Voldemort said, “I want her dead. I want her destroyed.”

Harry summoned his senses, steadying his rattled nerves, and with his hands barely trembling, he grasped the pendant around his neck and snapped it free of its chain.

The sound of steel whispering against steel sliced through the air and Harry could see one of Janus’s two swords swiveling into the light.

“Here, my pet,” Janus sang. “Come to daddy…”

Harry’s anxiety for Hermione tripled, and he remembered that horrible dream; of darkness and helplessness as Hermione fell into Janus’s embrace while Janus took her life. It was a nightmare that would never leave him, and only Hermione’s voice, her touch, could ever begin to alleviate it.

He felt the shimmer of magic aching to help him right at his fingertips, and so he reached, yanking away the fabric that stood between Wizards and the powers that aided them. He sought the threads and grids of magic laid throughout the room, his eyes seeing through the darkness and complicated emotions. He saw that the entire ballroom was warded, so that no sound could escape it, which explained why there weren’t more Death Eaters beating down the doors. The Apparition and Portkey wards were up, but some Portkeys were evidently allowed, and the Portkey wards for leaving were easier to break. He saw Peter’s Animagus form hiding in the rubble as he skittered off to the safety of some escape hole. He saw Snape, making his own escape stealthily through a broken window, beyond anyone’s sight.

Harry was wrapped in a golden light, tendrils of it reaching for Voldemort even as Harry crouched in his hiding place, though he felt none of the effects of the earlier ritual. It was troubling, that his soul still seemed connected to Voldemort somehow.

It’ll pass, he told himself. At any rate, I can’t worry about that now…

Harry looked at the pendant glowing in his hands, a tight cocoon of power around it. It was the shrinking spell binding the object from expanding to its original size. He severed the threads binding it and the magical seams burst open. The pendant began to expand, lengthening to almost half his height. And when it could grow no more, he peeled back the Transfiguration spells that so assuredly transformed, or rather disguised, the object from what it actually was.

The Oracle’s pendant, the real one, had been left in his armoire at Grimmauld Place, unworn since the day he unraveled the message within it. The fanged angel, copied from the original, was some of McGonagall’s best work, the face on the silver work of the copy giving him the same sense of odd familiarity he had gotten from the real pendant.

Harry let the threads of power go for the meantime, and as his eyes regained normal vision, he saw Gryffindor’s staff in his hand as it thrummed impatiently to be used.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione felt the rush of Rodolphus’s blood replenishing her strength as he stared up at her, wide-eyed and dead with equal parts terror and ecstasy. The expression would be a permanent fixture on his face and Hermione’s memories.

She looked over her shoulder at Bellatrix, breathing and pale on the floor; too weak to move; bound by the magic of her own wand when Hermione had used it. Bellatrix was too weak to do any kind of magic, anyway, but there was no room for ill-placed assumptions. Hermione had snapped Bellatrix’s wand in two and tossed it aside after using it. The bindings stayed, and unless someone else released her, she would be bound tight.

Painfully tight, Hermione thought with vampiric satisfaction.

Hermione had barely left her alive, but still alive, nonetheless, because death wouldn’t account for all of Bellatrix’s atrocities. Bellatrix had to answer for many, many things, and Hermione wanted Bellatrix to pay.

I’d nail her to a coffin if I had any say in it…

Hermione shook such thoughts back deliberately. Her bloodlust had dampened, but she wasn’t quite satisfied. She would need more blood, and there was one more Death Eater for the picking.

Janus had already brought out his sword, calling to her. He would be able to see her in the dark, of course, and if she stayed still long enough, he would find her, but right now, in the chaos, she had the slightest advantage. Not much if she came out to attack him directly, but she could definitely skulk around, “picking” Death Eaters off, as Janus put it, without Janus actually falling upon her to slice off her head.

Malfoy was being himself, standing close to Voldemort as he held out his wand. It was almost laughable, the way she knew Lucius because she knew Draco, and while she knew that Draco’s perceptions had taken on a drastic change living five years in Grimmauld place, it was fascinating to realize that Draco’s core values was very much Lucius-bred. She would leave Lucius alone for now; handle him later—if he didn’t go his usual coward’s way and make some sort of retreat.

She spied one of the Death Eaters, unprotected and isolated. The man didn’t even have a name, but she could regret slaying him later. She needed blood, and she needed to protect Harry. One-less Death Eater would increase Harry’s chances of survival by immeasurable degrees.

Bracing herself, she summoned her vamp-powers and shot off, sinking her fangs into the Death Eater’s neck as she dragged him into the darker recesses of the room and strangling his screams with the press of her hand.

Janus and Greyback whirled in response to her silent attack, and as she drank of her victim’s blood, she heard Malfoy’s shaking, but haughty voice.

“She’ll kill us all,” Malfoy hissed. “She’s a monster! She’s—“

“One among many in this room,” Janus said, chuckling as he brandished his sword. From the sound of his voice, he didn’t just mean the vampires and the werewolf.

The Death Eater’s blood filled her, and as the throb of his heart slowed in her ears, she felt her wounds healing completely, her strength doubling, and her mind clearing of most of her bloodlust. She’d had enough blood, and complete recovery could only be gotten from a good day’s sleep. Sleep was obviously not an option, so her present state of improvement would have to do.

She licked the last of the Death Eater’s blood off his neck and stared a moment into his horror-drawn eyes.

Monster, she thought, recalling Malfoy’s words, and she was almost shocked to find herself unaffected by this dark truth.

She had, in the last five years, embraced her vampirism with emotionless acceptance. In the service of the Coven, she thought, “I am what I am,” simply because it was what she surrounded herself with; the culture, the vampires, the lifestyle. Since finding her way back to Harry, she had insisted on the great wall dividing their existence, only to realize that Harry would scale that wall over and over again, just so they could be together.

“I’m still here,” Harry had said, and that summed it up quite beautifully. He was still there, and he wasn’t going anywhere, so long as she, Hermione Granger, loved him enough to be who she really was underneath all the Coven-ruthless vamping.

She saw Greyback sniffing the air, and he bounded off to one of the alcoves of the ballroom.

Hermione felt a brief moment of panic. Who was it that Greyback found? Was it Harry? Viktor? There was little time to lose. She amped her vamp, and just when she was about to take off, a curse flew and blood sprayed everywhere.

Janus screamed in rage as his sword clattered to the ground and a stump that used to be his hand bled gruesomely.

There was Harry, a staff in his hand as he jumped from behind one of the Grecian columns and ran in Greyback’s direction.

Another shout penetrated the air. It was filled with pain, and it was followed by a Bulgarian oath.

From there, Hermione felt like she was seeing things happen in slow-motion.

Harry exploded debris around him, causing a smoke-screen to swallow all of them whole.

Hermione shot out of her hiding place and felt the hilt of Janus’s sword slip into her grip as she scooped it from the ground.

She saw Janus through the dust, speeding towards Harry with his fangs and claws drawn to kill, his severed hand re-growing as quickly as it was blown off. That show of power—the fact that Janus was at least four hundred years older than her, shook her for an instant, but she willed herself to be brave. Harry had walked with barely a hint of hesitation into the dragon’s mouth, armed with little but his great convictions. She could do the same.

Bloodied sword drawn and with the determination to see Harry through, she jumped in Janus’s path, aiming for his neck. He dodged gracefully, but he skidded to face her, slashing at her as he turned and drew the second sword at his hip.

Janus didn’t miss a beat. Just as her sword blocked his, he had gone for a second strike, and a third. He was fast; he was amazing. And if she didn’t back away now, he would have her head.

She jumped away from Janus just as the dust settled around them.

Greyback lay on the floor, a silver rod poking through his throat and the back of his head. His tongue hung limply from the side of his open jaws. Just beyond him was Harry, crouching low and panting for breath as he stared at Greyback, almost in disbelief.

Hermione took account: Bellatrix was incapacitated, Rodolphus and the nameless Death Eater was dead by her bloodlust, the other Death Eater lackey had been taken out by Voldemort’s wrath, and Peter and Snape were nowhere to be found. Voldemort, Lucius, and Janus were really all that were left standing, but that was alarming in itself. They were formidable enemies. Voldemort and Janus alone was enough to kill them all.

Hermione glanced briefly to the side of her, seeing both Harry and Viktor.

Viktor’s shoulder was bleeding profusely from what looked like claws slashed down upon them. He was crouched on the ground, too, his face screwed in pain as he tried to staunch the flow of blood with his hand. The hand holding his wand trembled, and the damning realization of what happened to him was clear in his gaze.

She could smell it—the infection. It was spreading through his blood, and no potion could stop it.

Oh, Viktor no…

“It’s between you and me, Tom,” said Harry. “Let them be and we’ll settle the fight—“

“Do you think the ritual has been disrupted completely, Potter?” said Voldemort. “Do you think that I can no longer call your soul? Because I can.”

Hermione’s gaze darted to Harry, watching for signs that Voldemort spoke the truth.

Harry’s face remained impassive. “Not as easy for you as it would’ve been, though. It’s going to take some doing to get your immortality from me now, Tom.”

Voldemort’s eyes flashed with fury. No one, since Dumbledore, had anyone called him Tom. That Harry dared was infuriating. That Harry could say it so casually was unforgivable. His gaze darted to Janus sharply, as if to signal Janus of something.

Hermione saw it coming before Janus attacked. She took off, springing from the ground with her sword raised to block Janus’s weapon.

She might have heard Harry’s shout of warning, but she was so focused on protecting him that she completely missed the fact that the cage they had brought her there was heading straight toward them with the grinding groan of steel.

The mouth of the cage swallowed them both as it arced in the air, and Hermione heard the metallic crash of a closing gate. The bars glowed; the Portkey activated, and the last sound she heard before they were wooshed away was Harry shouting her name and the echoing laughter of Voldemort.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry tried to fight the effects of the Portkey; tried to keep them from disappearing to Merlin-knew-where, but Portkeying was a force in itself, fast and powerful. He could not stop it.

But I could go with them.

And there it was: The choice.

Draco Malfoy’s voice, of all people, came to his memory. “Are you going to sacrifice the rest of the Wizarding World for your One True Love, Potter?” he had asked.

I can come back, thought Harry desperately. I could come back and finish Voldemort once and for all.

And what if he isn’t here when you come back? asked another in Hermione’s bossy lilt. And so maybe you’ll kill him then, but how many lives would have already been lost—how many more will die, because you decided to put this confrontation off? Things have already gone your way more than you expected, tonight. All things considered, your chances of survival are at least even if not in your favor…

He cried out her name as she disappeared, but he stayed firmly in place. He wasn’t going to follow. He wasn’t going to go after them. He let the cage disappear in a flash of gold and blue.

When the wind settled, Harry had to duck to dodge Lucius’s curses, but Lucius had been too long seeing to Voldemort’s less-combative pursuits. He lacked practice, and Harry caught him with a powerful Stupefy that sent him flying back against ballroom debris.

Voldemort seemed only the tiniest bit annoyed and cast an Enervate at Lucius before he hit the ground. Lucius did not wake up, and that seemed to annoy Voldemort even further.

Harry swiped a stray piece of debris from the floor. He looked at the Death Eater who helped them, the wound evidence of Greyback’s malice. The Death Eater won’t be much help, soon. He wasn’t going to turn for another day or two, but he was going to grow very, very weak. The man needed treatment.

“Get out of here and get help for your wounds.”

The Death Eater started to protest. “I’m not—“

“Go.” Harry picked up a piece of debris, cast a wordless Portus on it, and tossed it at the Death Eater. Just as Harry thought, the Death Eater caught it—expertly, and was immediately swept away in a Portkey that would drop him off at the Little Hangleton playground.

Voldemort’s eyebrow arched, and if Harry wasn’t mistaken, he looked impressed.

He ought to be, thought Harry sourly, the Portkey wards in this place are no joke…

Agitated, Harry barred the doors of the ballroom with stronger wards; his wards, so that Voldemort couldn’t just break them.

“And do you think this is a good thing? Being trapped alone in here with me?” Voldemort asked.

“We finish this now. No matter what happens, I’m going to make sure I finish you off tonight.”

Voldemort smirked. “And your Mudblood? Are you not worried about her?”

“Every second,” Harry said, a slightly weary smile crinkling the corner of his lips. “But I believe in her, because if I didn’t, all her sacrifices will mean nothing, and I don’t want that to happen. Besides, she’ll be disappointed in me if I let my worry of her get in the way of kicking your arse.”

“You’re a cocky one, aren’t you? You are nothing to me. You are a sprite of a boy—“

“Big words from someone who got beat by a one year old once upon a time.”

Voldemort’s lips pursed, but only for a second. He raised his wand, as if to warn Harry, and Harry braced himself for an attack.

Harry saw it coming, an Expelliarmus, and he felt sure he could deflect it, but the charm went right through his shielding spells, knocking Gryffindor’s staff right from his hands and flinging him back against the rubble. Harry felt stone and debris bite painfully on his back as he crashed. His breath got knocked from him and one side of his glasses cracked. The glasses stayed on, with its sticking charm so well-cast, but one eye’s vision was slightly impeded now.

Harry swore an oath under his breath as he gasped, scrambling to get to his feet.

Voldemort had walked calmly to the staff and kicked it away. “Do you honestly think you’ve grown better than me, boy? And you truly believe that on that fateful All Hallows night, it was your magic that saved you? It was your mother’s magic that got you out of that fix, boy, and guess what, she died by my wand. You were lucky. You will not be lucky again.”

Harry stood tensely, prepared to bolt or dodge if Voldemort threw a curse his way. He eyed the staff distractedly, but looked up to meet Voldemort’s gaze. “I think maybe you were the one that got lucky that night, lucky enough for one of your experiments to work. That would have sucked, if you made seven of them, not counting the dozens of experiments before that, and none of them had done you any good. I suppose it works the same way it does in a shooting gallery at the pier. You shoot enough rounds and you’re bound to knock a duck off its shelf.”

Another hex came Harry’s way, but this time Harry dodged it, rolling skillfully away and preparing for any follow-throughs. There was none, but Harry saw the hex marking a smoking path in the marble. The displaced stone had been reduced to powder. Harry could’ve been sliced in half.

“Wow, good one,” Harry said. He didn’t mean it as a compliment in the least, and Voldemort saw right through him.

Voldemort’s ruby eyes narrowed, as if to peer into Harry’s very soul, and Harry stared back, absolutely unafraid. It was then Harry realized, to his total amazement, that while the thought of facing his death was understandably unnerving, the possibility of confronting Voldemort hadn’t really frightened him for—well, quite some time now.

Had I been fighting this war for so long that I’d somehow… toughened up, or something?

No. It hadn’t been the war that toughened him up. He hadn’t been frightened of Voldemort since—

Since sixth year.

Dumbledore had taught many, many things to him that year, the least of which was the secret of the Horcruxes. Dumbledore taught him how to face his responsibilities; taught him to understand the importance of friendship, and trust; to know the difference between what was right, and what was easy. But most of all, Dumbledore showed Harry that Voldemort was—in spite of the Horcruxes—human. Voldemort was Tom Marvolo Riddle: Little Orphan Boy, shunned by his father, abandoned by his family, borne by his scorned mother. He had been a child making the easy choices. He had been an adult who aspired for power and immortality.

But there are no more Horcruxes left. And that means…

“You’re mortal,” Harry said all of a sudden, and not without a bit of awe. “You’re mortal and you can die just like the rest of us.”

For the first time since Voldemort gazed upon Albus Dumbledore, Harry saw true fear in Voldemort’s eyes. That fear was unmistakable for a solid second, and then it was gone; banished. The lines on Voldemort’s reptilian face hardened, and he threw an Sectusempra so powerful that Harry was half-certain it would get him, no matter what.

But Harry’s vision flashed, and he saw the lines; the ley-magic; the intricate spells and enchantments that crisscrossed the entire room. He saw the curse coming, but he saw the gaps between the Apparition wards, too, the way he did in the Krum courtyard.

He pushed the wards aside, his body assuming the colors and appearance of the magic surrounding him. It let him through, catapulting him to the proximity of Gryffindor’s staff.

The staff crackled to life, just as Harry Apparated beside it.

Harry scooped up the staff, aimed it at Voldemort and cast a hex.

Voldemort’s mouth opened in sheer surprise, raising his wand to deflect Harry’s spell. The spell hit. Voldemort stumbled, but he did not fall unconscious.

Harry’s lips pursed, disappointed that his Reducto had failed, though not entirely.

Voldemort looked visibly shocked. Harry wasn’t sure why, but the Dark Lord had been surprised of something. His red eyes suddenly glowed with fury, and he raised his wand again.

It was then that Harry saw it. There was a cut on Voldemort’s hand, and it was bleeding.

Harry had never seen Voldemort bleed before.

And why not? Mortal men bleed.

Harry smirked.

Voldemort struck and Harry countered it with a curse of his own. Their curses clashed in midair, sending both of them flying at the explosion.

Harry crashed against the doors, knocking the wind out of him, but he didn’t waste time dwelling on the thought, rasping to gain back the even pattern of his breathing, Harry scrambled to his feet, throwing a follow-up hex that had Voldemort scrambling to protect himself.

Voldemort cast a counter-curse. Harry saw that it was a simple but powerful Expelliarmus.

Harry didn’t even bother to put up a protection spell. He jumped from harm’s way behind a pile of rubble.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Voldemort jump behind a column.

Oddly enough, seeing Voldemort run for cover was immensely satisfying. Since Harry last met Voldemort in the Department of Mysteries, the man had been so self-assured about besting Harry in magic. He had seemed invincible until Dumbledore came, and Harry had just been so distracted by so much power contained between two men that he hadn’t bothered to see how Voldemort had struggled to stay afloat in the fight.

Now Harry was seeing, and he was thinking that if he could just calculate it perfectly, he just might be able to take that wand from Voldemort’s hands.

A curse flew above Harry’s head, and just as it passed him by, Harry rolled to the side, seeing Voldemort through the magical lines. He ended in a low crouch and threw a hex. It caught Voldemort’s hand, sending his wand flying, but just at that moment, something bit at Harry’s back painfully. His insides felt leaden and he fell to the ground, his legs helpless.

For a moment, Harry was filled with confusion. Where had that jellylegs hex come from?

He held on to Gryffindor’s staff, but Voldemort threw another hex, and it collided with his wrist, shooting pain up his arm.

The hex—probably a magnified Expelliarmus—was so powerful that it traveled up Harry’s arm and broke it. He gave a shout, as Gryffindor’s staff stumbled out of his waning grip, just out of reach.

He saw Voldemort, grinning as he waved his recovered wand triumphantly.

The Dark Lord emerged from his hiding place. “I wager you didn’t know that trick? My spell had a rebounding charm attached to it. A simple Jellylegs charmed to find its target at least twice. And see, after all that, you’ve lost—to a Jellylegs curse no less. Well, isn’t that funny?”

Harry bit his lip to stifle his pain and stamp away his despair.

This isn’t the time. Don’t lose hope. Not now. I can’t fail. I just can’t.

Voldemort’s wand whirled in the air as he uttered an incantation, and immediately, Harry felt that soul-wrenching pull. Harry fought, his will endured, even if his magic looked as if it wouldn’t.

Sensing Harry’s resistance, Voldemort pulled harder, and Harry began to feel how painful it was to fight.

He cried out at the agony, but he held on. Voldemort was not going to get his soul. He had to resist. He had to hold on.

But for how long? How long, Harry?

Unmentionable pain assaulted him and Harry twisted and writhed on the ground.

HOW LONG?

Probably not long enough…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The cage came crashing down on the cobbled ground, spinning and skidding out of control. It came to a jolting halt as it smashed against moss-covered parapets, throwing the door open and rattling the cage all over.

Hermione slammed into the bars, the ring of steel reverberating through her with bone-crushing intensity. Her sword clattered to a corner, just out of her reach.

Janus bounced no more gracefully than she did, spilling beside her at the bottom of the cage, his own sword flying out of the cage door.

Janus lunged for the sword in the cage and Hermione cursed, scrambling outside to retrieve the one that got away.

They went into stance at about the same time, swords in hand.

Janus didn’t even make small talk. He attacked, and Hermione recalled everything Yasmin taught her.

“He’s fast, but he leaves his left open to attack. If you take advantage of that, you might not hurt him, but you can surprise him. So… take the chance. Give him a surprise,” Yasmin had said.

Hermione blocked his strikes, saw the opening, and swung to Janus’s left.

Just as Yasmin said, it distracted him for a precious second. Hermione threw a kick, landing it in his midsection.

He stumbled back, a displeased frown on his face. “Learned a few tricks from the bitch, did you?”

Hermione didn’t reply. Tricks, Yasmin did teach her, but she had learned a few more on her own. She had fought dozens of vampires in the last five years, and one couldn’t help but pick up a few things, but every moment she’d spent fighting—every block, strike, and deflection—had been for the sole purpose of preparing for this moment when she would meet Janus again and make him pay for what he’d done.

Janus had turned her, had massacred her parents, had taken Lucien away from her, and had brought a scourge upon Harry’s soul. There was nothing for him but death. She would make Janus suffer if she could, but he was too strong. He had to die, or he would merely rise back from the pain and strike back even harder.

And he would kill everyone and everything that meant something to her.

But it wasn’t always like that, was it?

“What changed, Janus?” she asked, poised in a defensive stance. “What changed between creating me and Voldemort’s orders to take me head?”

Janus was in a stance of his own. He sniffed audibly in what appeared to be disdain. He never had to explain himself to anyone, least of all to his vampire-get.

“You take orders from no one,” she continued. “Not Yasmin, not anyone, least of all a human. Why do you want to kill me? You wanted to create me then. What changed?”

His eyebrow arched. “I do take orders from someone, you know. I have a master just like the rest of you.”

“And this master told you to turn me, and then kill me?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“Why turn me at all, then?”

“Because you needed to be turned. Because without you, the prophecy couldn’t be set into motion.”

“And so after I was turned, I became useless?”

Janus smiled apologetically. “Not useless, but a liability. You refused to be one of us, and then Yasmin got to you first. You were going to be strong, and you would use that strength to make sure Harry survived, and Voldemort is killed. With Harry and Voldemort bound, either of them could wield the sword that would sever the vampire’s curse. We preferred the one that was more likely to fall under the master’s control.”

Hermione frowned. “And you think you can control Voldemort? Are you daft? He’s no more willing to be controlled than Harry is! You can’t control people! You’d think your master would know this, living so long.”

Janus seemed surprised that she had assumed—probably correctly—that his master was long-lived, possibly ancient, but Hermione thought it was an absolutely natural deduction. Who else could command an old vampire but an ancient one?

“Of course he can be controlled,” said Janus. “He willingly drank my blood…”

Hermione remembered the last potion Voldemort drank and she frowned. “That’s a vampire myth—“

“Is it?” asked Janus quietly. “Is it a myth? Of the three of us… the children of the Fang—who do you think drank of the turning-blood willingly?”

“I didn’t. You forced it down my throat, remember?”

“Yasmin didn’t drink it willingly, either. I was the only one. And see? I take the Fang’s commands, whether I want to or not. I am under the turning-blood’s power.”

“You’re the Puppet.”

Janus shrugged. “Roles must be fulfilled. Twice I’ve bled for the prophecy; once for you, the other for Voldemort. I’ve served and bled, I turned you because it is what I was told to do. I gave Voldemort my blood, because he needed it. I’ve fulfilled all that I was meant to fulfill.”

Hermione scoffed a heartbeat later. “Anybody could assume whatever role they want in that message. It’s what the Oracle wants! It wants us all to scramble for a foothold; to take the role that would fit our interests. It doesn’t matter what the message means; it only matters what the Oracle wants you to think it means, and we all do the work. Don’t you see? What you think and what I think doesn’t matter. It’s what we all do about it that’s so damning!”

Janus shook his head, looking—of all things—a bit saddened. “Our roles have been defined, but only the outcome will tell who between Harry and Voldemort is the Wielder and Catalyst. They’re bound. Either one can be the other, and only they can decide that.”

“If that’s true, I’m the one meant to nurture destiny’s seed. I nurtured Harry, didn’t I? It means he holds the key to vampire destiny. It means he’s the Weilder.”

“That’s what it possibly means, but it doesn’t mean Harry has to live, does it?”

Hermione felt her heart wrench, her deepest fears reflected in Janus’s words.

“There is a chance yet for you to live,” said Janus softly. “I do not want to kill you. My master does, but if you wish to reconsider your loyalties, I could possibly convince her to—“

“No,” she said before he could finish. It surprised her that she felt no indignation for his proposal. Maybe she understood, in more ways than she would admit, that Janus had his perceptions, and she had hers, the way Yasmin had a perception all her own. “I won’t ever swear my loyalties over to someone if it means giving up my loyalties to Harry. Never.”

She was even more surprised when she saw disappointment in Janus’s gaze.

“Then you leave me no choice,” he said.

He came at her like lightning with an overhead strike so quick that if Hermione hadn’t anticipated it, she would have been cleaved right down the center. The clash of swords was shrill in the whistling wind. Janus’s skill had rivaled Yasmin’s, and Hermione felt he hadn’t gone rusty in the least. Hit after hit was a fight for her life, and she struggled to keep up.

Yasmin always said she had amazing footwork, and perhaps Hermione was better, or at least equal to Janus in that, but Janus moved with almost five hundred years of experience behind him. He was better. She parried and deflected, but his skill did not afford her a strike.

She couldn’t believe that she ever thought she was prepared for him. She couldn’t believe she was stupid enough to think she was ready. She wasn’t; he was better, but she had no choice but to fight. She had to live. She had to make it. But right now, she didn’t know how.

He pushed her back, her turns and kicks never landing properly. She couldn’t get through his defenses, and each time her sword struck his, the jarring blow traveled up her arms, rattling her bones.

Why he hadn’t killed her yet, Hermione could only guess. She could feel him pulling his strikes, even as his hits brought pain through her body.

She flicked her wrist, seeing an opening towards his neck, and when she swung, she was sure she was going to connect, only to have Janus meet her steel, twist it, and have her sword flung over the parapet and down in the mist.

She was weaponless, and the inevitability of her failure struck her.

I promised him I’d be alright, she thought with dwindling hope. I promised Harry…

Janus stepped back, as if to watch her horror. “It doesn’t have to end in your death, child.”

She stared at him, trying to steel herself from the emotional onslaught of the inevitable end.

“I can let you live,” said Janus. His final offer.

Hermione would never take it. “I’d rather die than serve you and your master.”

He nodded, expelling what appeared to be a sigh. It didn’t take long after that. He attacked, sword poised to take off her head. He had come at her a millisecond slower than she expected, perhaps taking it for granted that she was completely helpless in her state.

Chance.

Take your chance.

She ducked and swept beneath his arms, bracing herself to heave upwards. She slammed against him, connecting with his midsection, and she sprung from her knees, angling herself so she could deflect him whole-bodied and tip him over the edge of the tower.

For a moment, she thought she succeeded, but then he shifted in midair, and he twisted himself out of harm’s way. Amazingly, he landed on his feet. Her confusion came in a whirl, and she was filled with dread when she felt his arms around her. He seemed to exploit the momentum she had been using earlier and turned her own attack against her. With hardly any effort, he hoisted her over the edge of the parapet to follow her sword.

She arched over the wall. She was going to fall. It was too high up from the ground for her to land on her feet. She was too young to withstand the impact from their height.

Hermione cried out as she fell off the tower. She reached out for a handhold, but she had been flung too far.

Janus jumped off the tower on his own, following after her in a more graceful arc.

Her mind, amazingly, began to process.

When she reached the ground, shattered and broken, Janus would be there, alive and whole. Unlike her, Janus was hundreds of years older; hundreds of years stronger. He would land on his feet, graceful and healthy.

Even if Janus managed to injure himself in the fall, who knew how fast Janus could heal? She had seen him regenerate a hand in seconds. He would heal faster than she would, and he could kill her while she lay healing and helpless on the ground.

It’s time, Hermione. Embrace what you are. Be what you are.

She closed her eyes, feeling her vampire magic build just as the pain of ripping muscle and flesh emanated from her back.

Her scream pierced the night air as black feathery wings burst from her skin. Her wings spread around her and she flapped once.

She kept falling.

She flapped a second time, caught the wind and felt herself rise as Janus continued to sink into the fog, his face a picture of pure shock.

Hermione gained altitude quickly, rising high above in seconds. She turned and swooped down through the fog, just in time to see Janus land gracefully into the loose earth. The weight of him impacted the ground and sent bits of soil into the air.

The wind from her wings pushed the debris back, and she saw him bare his fangs at her, like a cat; eyes filled with defiance.

It was a challenge she was willing to meet. Surprise was her only weapon now, and she would take it. She dodged his sword and slammed right into him, grabbing him by the arms as she made a sharp turn upward. She heard his gasps of shock as he rose back up with her.

She flew high above Azkaban, remembering that the craggiest rocks jutted at Azkaban island’s western shore.

The crags reached for the dark skies above.

Hermione saw Janus move, no doubt ready to swing into action even so high up in the air. She saw that he still held his sword, and she couldn’t help but be amazed at his strength. He was going to take a swing at her, and given the chance, he would connect with her neck.

She bunched her muscles, slicing through the wind faster than she ever thought possible.

There was no way she was going to beat him on a one on one fight, and so when the tallest, sharpest crag was right below them, she simply let him go.

He dropped like a rock, and he screamed in outraged surprise. All it took was a second and Janus was impaled upon the sharp rock, through his chest, his heart ripped right from his body.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NO!

It was that voice in Harry’s head again. That voice that made him listen to reason when he was being unreasonable; that voice that reminded him why he did things, even if he didn’t like doing them; the voice that made him stronger when his resolve began to weaken.

The choice is always yours.

Harry looked right into Voldemort’s eyes, even through the pain of his soul being forced from him. He saw the flicker of surprise in the ruby gaze, and Harry reached within himself for that magic Hermione taught him to harness.

The lines became clear and he saw the magic for what it was. He saw the complicated tangle that bound the jelly legs hex to him; saw the way the room was warded; saw the magic Voldemort was using to pull on his soul.

Snape’s spell, whatever it was, wove a complicated web of enchantments. It wasn’t something Harry could break. It was too intricate; too new. Harry had no knowledge of it. Fighting it would be useless.

But Voldemort did have a weakness. It had been his weakness all along.

Voldemort’s soul wasn’t whole. Voldemort had torn his soul so many times that what remained of it was so much less than what Harry had.

“You’re not stronger than me,” Harry whispered through grit teeth.

This seemed to take Voldemort by surprise.

“You’re not stronger than me,” Harry repeated. “You’re nothing but a torn soul. And I can destroy you.”

Voldemort was not pleased. He gave a mighty pull, stretching Harry’s soul to snapping.

Harry heard himself scream. Saw himself twist grotesquely to cope with the pain. But he knew what he said, and he believed it to the very core of his soul.

Pushing through the agony; willing himself to survive, his phantasmal hands punched through the magic of Snape’s spell and grasped Voldemort’s withering soul.

A scream of surprise and pain escaped Voldemort’s lips.

I am going to live, Harry’s mind’s voice whispered. Not because I’m afraid to die, but because I have good reason to stay alive.

Voldemort gasped as Harry’s grip on his soul tightened. Whether Voldemort heard Harry’s words or not, Harry couldn’t tell, but he kept on, remembering why he had to get through this in one piece.

I want to take care of Hermione. I want to be with her for as long as my mortality lets me.

A burst of anxiety for Hermione made him waver, and for a moment, Voldemort was able to resist him.

But Harry shook his head, pushing his anxiety away.

She won’t let herself die. She’ll live, if not for herself, she’ll live for me, because she knows I want her to.

Voldemort’s eyes widened with fear.

I want to see Ron find happiness, and I want to meet Tonks and Remus’s kids. I want to teach in Hogwarts and I want to see my students learning valuable things. I want to see the children live without having to worry about being half-blood, or pureblood, or Muggle-born.

And when my time comes—when my REAL time comes, I can look back and think that I’ve lived well; that I have nothing to be ashamed about. Hermione would remember me the way she’d want to remember me, and maybe she’d find happiness again…

Those I love are more important to me than life itself.

I am not afraid to die.

A scream ripped out of Voldemort’s throat when a black, bottomless void began to blossom where Harry’s soul touched Voldemort’s.

Harry watched it with frightened fascination as his soul glowed redder just while Voldemort’s soul grew murkier in his grip.

Snape’s spell began to slide off Voldemort like a loosened net, creeping slowly over Harry’s body through the conduit of magic connecting them.

For a moment, Harry panicked, wanting to shake the spell off, but he saw that his magic was actually pulling Snape’s spell towards him, its intricate braids alighting upon the crimson shades of his soul and easing him from Voldemort’s grasp.

“…the magic still needs something to work with before it could let you do those amazing spells…” he remembered Hermione saying.

Harry felt a surge of power run through him, exploding at his fingertips and drowning Voldemort in its iridescent light.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Next chapter, coming soon. ^_^

40. Chapter Thirty-ninth: Death

A/N: Counting down.

Oh, but Tome Raider has made my day with this one. I was so worried about this chapter, but she put me at ease. Thank you, thank you!

Everyone and anyone who read, reviewed, and recommended this fic to their friends… you have my sincerest gratitude. You’ve been excellent readers.

More to come after this chapter, but the next post may very well be my last for this story, since I’d likely release chapter 40 and the Epilogue together. Now, go read this chapter while I go over to that corner ::points:: to cry.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Thirty-ninth: Death

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The scenery shifted, and Harry felt the wind buffet them from all around. Swirls of colors wrapped around and flowed through them like liquid silk.

Voldemort’s ghostly claws clamped down on Harry’s phantasmal wrists, twisting so that Harry would let go.

They flew apart and Voldemort’s howl of outrage pierced Harry’s ears.

Harry saw a curse come his way and he threw up a powerful shield, the curse bouncing off the shield’s surface and sending it careening to parts of the ballroom, blowing it to bits.

He shot forward, casting a spell that shot right through Voldemort’s shields. It caught Voldemort dead center, and the ensuing explosion sent Harry hurtling away.

Harry was slammed back into his body with such painful force that he actually skidded across the debris-strewn floor and crashed against a pile of rubble.

He groaned and rolled over sluggishly, willing himself to move quickly in spite of the pain shooting through his body and up his broken arm. He forced his eyes open, his vision spinning as he hastened to make himself alert and aware of his surroundings. His vision was alternating between normal and magical, and right now it was very confusing.

Voldemort wasn’t where he used to be, and alarm spiked through Harry.

He scrambled to get to his feet, frantically searching for Gryffindor’s staff as he held his arm as immobile as he could. He had just spotted the staff a few meters away when he heard another moan, distant and miserable. As Harry picked up the staff, his gaze fell on the dark figure rolling over about several meters from where he was. The pasty white hand thrown carelessly over could have been Voldemort, but Harry wasn’t sure.

It occurred to him that he was standing, and while his legs felt weak, even sore, he could walk. Carefully, he made his way to the spill of dark robes that was supposed to be Voldemort. He clutched Gryffindor’s staff tightly as he inched closer and stopped when he realized exactly what was so wrong.

Voldemort shifted gracelessly on the floor, and his wheezing breath filled the silence of the room. He literally looked like a skeleton. With his bleached skin stretched over him, bones jutting starkly and his teeth and eyes practically popping out of his skull, he looked less human than ever. His spindly fingers looked longer, attached to what appeared to be a shrunken hand.

Harry was not the least bit thrilled. He wanted to double over and vomit. He knew he had caused it; knew that he had taken something from Voldemort. Harry had had to kill before, often in the heat of battle, but he’d never had to mutilate anybody. Not like this.

Voldemort shifted again, and Harry saw that Voldemort’s other hand clutched a wand.

Harry acted quickly, raising a protection charm and readying himself for a counter. His heart raced. He didn’t have the strength for another fight; he felt weak and drained, barely able to stand without wobbling, but to his utter confusion Voldemort struck somewhere else, and Lucius Malfoy was jolted from his enchanted stasis.

Harry immediately dove for cover, biting back the electric pain that his broken arm brought him. He threw an Expelliarmus at Voldemort’s wand arm as he ducked, preparing himself for a worse onslaught from Lucius.

The wand flew, Voldemort gave an amazingly frightening wail, and Harry aimed his staff at Malfoy.

Malfoy bolted from the floor, rising to a crouch in panic. He shuffled around for his wand while looking wildly around him, his long blonde hair a tangled mess.

“Malfoy!” rasped Voldemort. “Help me!”

Malfoy whirled in his place, his eyes widening as they fell upon Voldemort’s inhuman form.

Harry rose from his hiding place and threw a binding hex.

Malfoy gave a yell of surprise but managed to duck. The ground where he previously stood exploded and sent bits of marble everywhere.

Harry swore, feeling his magic go out of focus. He aimed at Malfoy again, but Malfoy had scrambled away to the same exit Snape had taken. Harry didn’t follow after him. He couldn’t. His legs felt weak, and he knew his magic wasn’t going to work the way he wanted it to. He could see it. His magic was a tangled mess, and he was feeling a heavy weight descending on his body.

He dropped to his knees on the floor.

I shouldn’t have thrown that hex, he thought wearily. Malfoy wouldn’t have hurt me. He was too scared to try anything…

Harry looked at Voldemort.

Voledmort was still breathing, but the red from his eyes had dulled to a maroon sheen. “Potter!”

Harry’s eyebrow arched inquisitively. What could Voldemort possibly want now?

“I will destroy—“

Harry shook his head, tired of it—tired of everything. “Stop it. Just stop it. You’re not better than me. You’re not better than anyone. Nobody stayed for you, Tom. Nobody’s here. I’m alone because I chose it to be that way. You’re alone because you have no friends. No one is loyal to you. Everyone who has ever worked for you did so because you promised them power and wealth. You lie, and you know that they were lying right back at you. And when all’s said and done, they followed you out of fear, and while I’m sure you like that, it doesn’t do you much good when the shit hits the fan. Bellatrix is the closest thing to a truly loyal follower you have, but honestly? She only follows you around like a dog because she’s a crazy bitch. She’s over there in the corner, sticking around. ‘Course, she’s also weak and incapacitated, so it’s not like she had a choice. You’re mortal, Tom, at least until the vampire blood you drank turns you—“

Voldemort made a sound of disgust. He murmured something under his breath, and it sounded soft and weak.

The voice of a dying man.

Harry swallowed, shocked at the weight of guilt, and the whisper of murder, in his heart.

He’d only ever had to kill in self-defense before, and perhaps he had merely ignored the fact that it still meant he’d taken a life. But now, faced with the end of all that, this final death on his hands, he realized that the burden of all those lives he took would be on him forever.

“Never a vampire,” Voldemort said. “Something older. Human, but better…”

Voldemort’s voice faded, and the light left his eyes.

One last thing…

Harry took Gryffindor’s staff, gripping it tightly. He did have hate, and anger. It was not something he lived on, but he had felt these emotions; knew them, and remembered. He needed to let it go; needed to relinquish it, and he gathered it as he raised the staff.

He stood over Voldemort’s motionless body, and swung.

One last time…

The Sectumsempra bit into the lifeless skin of Voldemort’s neck.

The magic sang as it hit flesh, stone, and then wind. Voldemort’s head rolled away and Harry noticed there was hardly any blood.

Harry looked at his handiwork for a blank moment before he picked his way through the debris. He needed to put a distance between them, and he could see, through his magical eyes, that his soul had ceased to reach for Voldemort, and that there was nothing but a black void over Voldemort’s body.

Harry tossed the staff away and it hit the ground, rolling on its awkward angles. Doubling over, Harry vomited. There were thousands of things he was feeling right now, the least of which was triumphant. He’d fought too long; shed too much blood; and while Voldemort’s death brought promise of better things, he was going to remember this day as the day he peered into another man’s soul and tore it away.

When he was done expelling the meager contents of his stomach, he clumsily walked a few feet more. He found a relatively clear patch of floor and stumbled to his knees on it.

I feel weak. So weak…

He was on the floor. He couldn’t even remember if he had laid himself down, or if he’d simply toppled over. He felt a throbbing pain on his head.

Definitely toppled over.

His vision rippled, the magical lines crisscrossing the room less complicated than it was before. The ballroom began to waver, and it wasn’t resplendent anymore. What once made it so rich was now a tumble of decay and destruction.

Riddle house is changing back…

He turned over on his side and saw Voldemort’s severed head.

He’s dead.

He saw his hands, the glow surrounding it thickening.

No, not thickening. It’s your soul. It’s leaving.

Leaving?

You’re dying…

He closed his eyes. He was dying. Snape said the potion would work, but he didn’t know for how long, whether the cure was permanent, or whether it merely bought him time.

Harry smiled in spite of it all.

I’m not afraid to die… I am not afraid.

And it was true. He wasn’t afraid in the least.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione didn’t so much land as she did crash. She spilled gracelessly on the southern Azkaban shore, a tangle of feathers, hair, limbs, water, and sand. The crashing waves of saltwater that entered her mouth was unceremoniously spat out even as she flailed about to find purchase. The aches on her body flared with pain as the adrenaline left her. The force of the ocean was not making things any easier.

The water receded, only to crash upon her again. She wasn’t nearly off-shore, and all she really had to do was straggle a few feet and she would be able to get away from the violent waves. But her wings made many things awkward.

She struggled, exhausted. Morphing took a great deal from any vampire, more so because she was so unused to it. She hadn’t morphed since the first time she ever did it, and that was almost five years ago, shortly after she began training with the Coven.

The signs of the ability had been there, and Yasmin knew it before she did. Hermione’s sudden non-fear of heights, her ability to spring higher than most vamps when she jumped, and perhaps even the twinges of pain she felt every now and again on her back, just between her shoulders. Yasmin had pushed her and pushed her to vamp fierce and hard without telling Hermione why, until one day, driven by so much vamp adrenaline, the wings sprouted from her back.

Hermione had thought it was horrible. Feeling those feathers and being all too aware of the inhuman appendages on her back had driven her to a temporary breakdown. Morphing was a brutal reminder of the reality of her situation, that she was a misshapen, inhuman monster. She already knew she was a vampire—fancied that she had accepted her fate, but being so depressed that she had to leave Harry and Ron behind for it, the morphing was like pouring acid on her wounds.

After morphing that first time, she had withdrawn into herself, refusing to speak and refusing to show emotion when she was in the presence of others, but in her solace, she wept and promised that she would never morph again. She had kept that promise, even after she grew weary of her own depression.

The thing about her depression was: it was bad enough that she wasn’t suicidal by nature, what made is worse was that it was just so much harder to kill one’s vampire self, mentally and physically. She supposed she could have handcuffed herself to the roof of the Coven mansion, waiting for the sun to burn her to ashes, but there was always something that kept her. A little reason here and there, that if she had really wanted to kill herself, she could have easily shrugged those reasons off and done the deed. But suicide was never Hermione’s thing.

And so she was stuck with the ability to morph, she was depressed, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it except live.

Yasmin had merely pointed and laughed, thinking her entire plight amusing, and perhaps slightly annoying. And even after years since Hermione “recovered” from her hyper-separation-anxiety, Yasmin apparently still considered it a big joke. When she gave Hermione the Oracle’s message to deliver to Harry, it hadn’t escaped Hermione that the silverwork on the vial had been modeled after her morphed appearance.

Well, ha-ha bloody ha, she thought miserably as she rolled over on her chest, grimy sand against her lips and cheek.

Gasping as she folded her wings, she lay on the small patch of shore, craggy rock all around. It was strange that she felt no blood lust after morphing. She was just tired, the way a human was too tired to eat; too tired to do anything else but sleep.

She twitched, and she realized that she was shaking her wings and preening them.

She groaned. There was no time for this.

Reaching within her, she retracted her wings back into herself, moaning at the pain it induced.

I have to get back to Harry.

She needed a wizard to Apparate and she had to do it soon.

Pushing herself off the sand, she scrambled up the rocks, and as she worked her way farther from shore, she began to hear the sound of wand-fire and the screams of battle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ron ducked behind a rock and shielded himself from the rain of pebbles, just as the overwhelming glow of blue light flashed from the top of Azkaban’s highest tower.

He grabbed Tonks’s and Solomon’s coats to get their attention amidst the chaos of battle. “Did you see that?” he shouted above the din. “Did you see that light? What was that?”

“I saw it!” Solomon yelled back.

“It looked like an activated Portkey,” Neville cried, ducking even lower as another hex connected and exploded near them. Aurors, and werewolves were attempting to break through Azkaban’s doors, and Dementors were swooping down on many of them. There had been several Patronuses already, and many of the Dementors had flow away for cover, but Ron had to keep Solomon back, threatening to put him in a full body-bind if Solomon dared to push back his protective robes.

“We have to go,” Solomon said. “It’s the perfect time. People are too busy defending themselves. No one’s going to notice us!”

Ron frowned. “We have to wait until the last Dementor has been cleared out, and we have to storm in with the rest of the unit. Settle down!”

As soon as Ron said that, a werewolf’s howl pierced the night air, signaling that the area was temporarily cleared of Dementors.

Vampires rose from the rocks, springing and scrambling for enemy blood.

“Go!” Tonks cried, hitching herself out of the rock while firing hexes and protecting herself as she went. Neville followed close behind her, protecting her as she protected him.

Solomon and Ron spilled out of their hiding places, staying close to one another. Everyone was paired off. Everyone had someone guarding their back, and there were plenty of them to lay the siege.

The Death Eaters posted to guard the facility weren’t many, but they were well sheltered behind Azkaban’s walls and lower battlements. If the Order and its allies breached Azkaban’s front gates, that was half the battle won.

Vampires began to crawl up Azkaban’s stonewall. It was one the scariest things Ron had ever seen, but he ran and ducked in sync with Solomon, throwing protection wards over them as hexes came at them from above.

Not all of them made it to Azkaban’s gates, and most of them were injured from the run.

Ron’s arm felt bruised all over when a hex caught it. He wasn’t even sure what the hex was, but he was whole and able. He could dwell on the details later.

He joined the other wizards who were throwing hexes and charms at the gates while Solomon went shoulder to shoulder with the werewolves, slamming the battering ram on the hard wood.

The loud groan of splintering wood and crumbling stone broke through the milieu, and screams erupted from inside and out.

Wood and stone flew everywhere as wizards hexed them out of the path, and as soon as the hole was large enough, the Order stormed in.

Death Eaters scrambled for cover as werewolves and vampires broke through first. Screams erupted from Death Eaters being bitten and mauled.

Ron fought back the rising nausea from the gruesome sprays of blood. He followed behind Tonks and Neville, guarding their flank with Solomon while several other wizards and witches spread out to secure the area. Tonks went straight to the docking-station where they accosted a Death Eater hiding beneath the desk.

She was bound and held while Tonks slid a regal-looking ring in a slotted hole and turned it. The box made a humming sound before the entire panel seemed to unravel. There were odd keys of various colors and make lined up all over the box, each of them slotted through what looked like ancient keyholes. Tonks began turning every single one of them.

The sound of slamming dungeon doors echoed through Azkaban, and when the last key was turned, Tonks ordered the units to go.

Groups of wizards and witches slipped through the entryway, bloodstained wolves and vampires joining them. They separated into several groups through the many hallways of Azkaban.

Azkaban’s layout was large and intricate, but there were hardly any rooms to hide in. Most of Azkaban was comprised of large caverns and cells. Everything else were cells converted into offices, which meant its cell-doors were still charmed to respond to Azkaban’s central controls in case of a lockdown, the box of which could only be opened by any of three things: The willing—not Imperiused or forced—hand of Azkaban’s warden, the willing hand of the Minister of Magic, and the ring of Her Majesty the Queen of England.

Lockdown prevented prisoners from leaving and hiding. It also neutralized wands when used from inside a cell. The emergency measures were there precisely because it prevented criminals from having access to blind corners where they could jump at a prison guard and hurt—possibly even kill—them.

The lockdown mechanisms hadn’t been used since Dementors were first posted to guard Azkaban.

Because of the lockdown, most escapees converged in the southeastern wing. It was dangerous place with many alcoves and caverns to hide behind. The shadows didn’t help, either, but at the very least, enemies were easier to round up in that enclosed space.

Tonks turned her attention to the last remaining group of Aurors. “The lifts in the southeastern wing heading to the tower have been locked, but the stairs are accessible. Don’t let anybody get to the stairs. The wards at the top of the tower have been deactivated. They can Apparate from there and Death Eaters from the outside could get in by Portkey. Secure the area.”

The Aurors sped off, a few more vampires and werewolves following at their wake.

Ron impatiently nodded in the captured Death Eater’s direction. She was pale and shaking, mostly because Solomon was staring her fiercely down. It was no joke, to be stared down by a disfigured vampire. “Tonks, ask her if she knows where the prisoners are.”

The Death Eater’s lips pursed nervously. Her body language suggested she knew something. “I can’t tell you where they are. I don’t know.”

Tonks frowned, brows knotting. “Tilt her head back.”

The Death Eaters eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare… I have rights!”

“That you do,” said Tonks, producing a vial from her robes. “But we’ve got people to save.”

Ron swallowed. He always said he never wanted to get on Tonks’s bad side.

The Veritaserum was administered and seconds after she ingested the potion, she began to answer their questions.

The “Mudblood” had gotten transported out of Azakaban not long ago. She was not set to come back.

Ron gripped his wand tightly, his tension mounting. Solomon didn’t look so good, either.

“And the other prisoner?” Ron asked. “The one that came in a little more than a week ago?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fat lot of help this one’s been,” Solomon muttered.

“Has she been moved out of the facility?” asked Ron, insisting.

“I don’t think so.”

Tonks asked her a few more questions, like how many Death Eaters were in the fortress, how many of them were human, vampire, or werewolf; where was the warden. Most of these questions were answered and Tonks relayed them on her communicator to her lieutenants.

“We’ll need a few people to conduct a search,” said Ron. “Yasmin’s somewhere in this castle.”

“Gather from teams 3 and 4 outside. Make sure you leave a considerable number for look-out,” said Tonks.

Ron nodded and gestured for Solomon to follow him. They were just about to leave when a vampire approached them.

“Hi Solomon!” she cried cheerfully, bouncing as she followed them. Her short bob-cut hair bounced with her, and she would have looked terribly cute if she wasn’t soiled with blood. “Where you going?”

“We’re busy, Caitlin,” Solomon said hurriedly.

“Sure looks like it! So where are you going?”

“Cait…”

“Just want to know for sure. Are you going to look for Yasmin?”

Ron shot Solomon a look, and Solomon made a dismissive gesture.

“Yes, and we’re going to need some help, so Ron and I are going to try and get it. I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

“Ok. But just so you know, Ambrose is coming over here. Someone told me earlier that you said Yasmin was here, and so I told Ambrose about it, because I figured he’d want that sort of information. He’s coming over here.”

“That’s great, Caitlin. Now, if you’ll just—“

“He’s not coming alone.”

“I’m sure.” Solomon turned to leave and Ron motioned to follow him.

“You don’t get what I’m telling you,” said Caitlin, grabbing Solomon by the arm. She still smiled like a child and stood bouncing in place, but her eyes were eerily serious. “He’s not coming alone.”

At that, Solomon stared at her, curiosity filling his expression.

Ron didn’t know why, but he began to feel nauseous. Or at least, more nauseated than he was to begin with…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yasmin opened her eyes, feeling the presence of mortals, werewolves, and vampires assaulting her senses.

She saw Dendera turning casually to the door. She had sensed it too.

“They’re going to find me,” said Yasmin. “I’m quite sure Hermione has put out the word that I’ve been missing. The vamps are going to want to get me out of here. At least those of the Coven would.”

Dendera looked unconcerned. “None of them could get past me. You know this.”

Yasmin gave an annoyed snort. “And to what end would killing them off, do? You’ll only be digging yourself into a deeper hole. I might not be as ancient as you, Kalfani, or Nekhbet, but you all know how important I am to our society. Without me, none of you could sit as pretty in your unreachable little thrones.”

Dendera smirked. “Just so you understand, I of all people acknowledge your worth. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that. Kalfani and Nekhbet are the ones who have shown concern for the power you’ve gained. They’re feeling a bit threatened.”

“Aren’t you?”

The flicker of offended pride in Dendera’s eyes was most satisfying to Yasmin.

“I understand what power you have,” said Dendera, severely. “Now I need for you to understand the powers siding with me could give you. I have no dreams of running Vamp-Europe the way you do. Like you said, I like to sit pretty.”

“And so I run things the way I want to, but only if you approve of it from behind the curtain. Is that it?”

“Essentially.”

“And why should I do it your way?”

“Because I can destroy you otherwise. One word to Kalfani and Nekhbet and all three of us can crush you like a bug.”

“That’s assuming they’ll think you’re in the right. I doubt that, Dendera.”

“When they see the power this project of mine will give vamp-kind, they’ll see it my way. Just think about it, child. We don’t have to sleep in the day anymore. We don’t have to be afraid of the sun. Isn’t that lovely?”

Yasmin frowned. “It can’t be as simple as that!”

Dendera’s eyebrow arched. “It isn’t. I’ve waited over twenty years for this to happen. Sure, I’ve lived almost a thousand years, but twenty is twenty. It doesn’t feel faster just because I can live longer.”

Yasmin had to admit that was true. Immortality meant one hardly had a deadline, but it didn’t mean spending twenty years in jail, or something equally as tedious, felt any less like twenty years. Everyone, even vampires, lived on a day to day basis.

“Is this how you convinced Janus to do your bidding?”

“I did not have to convince him. I invoked Blood Will. He couldn’t disobey even if he wanted to.”

Yasmin scoffed. “That’s a myth.”

“Is it? Janus does what he likes, but when I ask him to do it, he does it. He took my blood willingly during his turning. It’s true and you know it. Why do you think Henry’s so eager to do everything you tell him to do?”

Yasmin didn’t reply, and she loathed the fact that what Dendera had said about Janus seemed true enough. Janus listened to no one. He took orders from no one. But in the last five years, he’d claimed to have a master.

Maybe he always had a master.

That was slightly disturbing.

Oh, who am I kidding? It’s bugging the hell out of me.

“So all this time, he’s been taking orders from you?” asked Yasmin irritably.

“Goodness, no. I hardly ever ask him to do anything for me. In fact, I hadn’t been so much a master as I’ve been mothering him in the last four hundred years.”

Yasmin snorted. “Please. I’m five hundred years old. The last time a mother admitted to shagging her son, she was immortalized in classic literature as belonging to the second circle of hell. So don’t you be pretending he’s your son and you’re his mum.”

Dendera’s laugh was melodious. “Ah, Semirhage… now she was a true Nympho. But we digress. So what if Janus and I fucked a few times? That’s beside the point. He’ll do what I tell him to do.”

Yasmin shook her head. “And Voldemort? Do you think he’ll do what Janus tells him to do just because he’ll be taking Janus’s blood willingly? You don’t even know if Voldemort would get turned. You don’t know if what he becomes will be in any way affiliated to our kind!”

“Again, that’s beside the point,” insisted Dendera. “The Oracle promises that the curse would be broken. It will happen whether Voldemort wants it to or not. In the end, if we can’t control him, we’ll kill him. All I need is your support. Nekhbet and Kalfani don’t like changing things around, but they warm to new things when they see how it helps them. At present, I cannot do this alone. I need your help to make this work in the end.”

The sound of an opening iron door shrieked through the cavern from the top of the winding stairs. “Hello! Anybody down there?”

Dendera said nothing, arcing her eyebrow at Yasmin.

Yasmin sighed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t look at me. You’re over there and I’m over here. Do the math.”

“You do not care if I kill the human?”

Yasmin was truly offended. “Why the hell would I care? Honestly, there’s no need to resort to insults!”

Dendera shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. You seem to have warmed to them these last few weeks. I do not wish to be doing anything that would antagonize, you.”

“You kidnapped me, so I’m afraid it’s too late to worry about antagonizing me.”

“So have you?”

“What?”

“Warmed to them?”

Yasmin crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t shit where I eat. You might want to remember that, too. They’re handy words to live by.”

Dendera shot Yasmin a look of annoyance.

“Hello!” cried the human again.

Dendera stood and yelled right back. “Over here!”

Several voices followed, and soon, Yasmin heard the shuffling footsteps of humans.

Walking into the den of a lioness…

Yasmin sighed, rolling her eyes. This was not going to be pretty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a clamor at the door, people struggling through the wreckage and scrambling around importantly.

Ron turned at the sound, curious of the commotion. First there was a werewolf. The werewolf had sandy blonde hair, his fangs half drawn and his snout half-formed. He walked with a werewolf’s slouch, and his claws were considerably sharp, even if they looked more like hands instead of paws. He was followed by a vampire, or perhaps two; one vampire holding on to another for support.

Ron winced when he saw the tattered and battered vampire being ushered in, but he was filled with horror when he realized who it was.

“Hermione! Mother fu—who—“ Ron didn’t bother to finish his questions. He rushed towards her, grabbing a chair to let her sit.

He could hardly see any wounds, but she looked positively awful. Her clothes were torn and stained with what looked like old blood, her face was gaunt, and she was soaking wet, her brilliantly curly hair plastered flat on her in limp ringlets. Solomon dropped to her side as Tonks yelled for a medic.

“What happened? We thought you were at the Riddle house,” said Solomon.

“Janus and I got Portkeyed back here… Harry and Viktor—“ She gasped when Solomon’s hand touched the tender flesh of her back.

Solomon did not apologize, but his frown was filled with anxious curiosity. “Where’s Janus?”

“Dead. I killed him.”

Ron noted the bloodthirsty satisfaction Hermione’s voice had taken when she said it. Solomon seemed surprised, probably not by Hermione’s tone, but by the news itself.

“You—you did?” Solomon asked.

Hermione scowled at him. “I morphed, Sol. I had to…”

Ron wasn’t sure what “morphed” meant to Hermione, but Solomon seemed to understand, and the sympathetic look in Solomon’s eyes made Ron wonder just how bad “morphing” was. Tonks certainly thought morphing was a good thing.

After a heartbeat of silence, Hermione grabbed Ron by the sleeve of his coat. “I need you to Apparate me back to the Riddle house. I have to get back to Harry.”

Ron had every intention of going to the Riddle house, but he hadn’t planned on bringing Hermione with him.

Perhaps she realized what was on his mind by the expression of his face because she glared at him fiercely and stood. “Do not give me grief right now.”

Still as impossible as always! He was more than ready to give “grief.” “Oh, it’s all fine and dandy for you, because Harry can’t stay mad at you for very long, but he’ll be furious when he finds out I let you go with me! I’ll be the idiot who found you, out of the frying pan and helped you jump right back into the fire!”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched. “What, are you trying to beat me into submission with metaphors, now?”

Ron felt his face go warm. “I tend to use ‘em when I get upset, but that’s not the bloody point. You know what I mean!”

“You listen to me, Ron Weasley,” she hissed. “If you don’t bring me, I’ll force someone else to do it for you. I’m not going to let you stop me, and you should’ve known this before you tried to bite my head off with your stupid metaphors!”

“Oy! They’re not stupid!” was all Ron could say.

Solomon groaned. “So agree already! You’re both wasting time!”

Ron hated it whenever someone pointed that out. He threw up his hands and shook his head, beginning to walk away to head to the southeast wing. “FINE then. After all these years, you’re still a nightmare!”

“Shut-up!” Hermione hissed, following after him and ignoring Tonks’s protests.

Solomon gave a weary sigh as he followed them both.

“No, you shut up,” Ron spat back at her. “We’re going to the southeast wing so we can head back up to the tower. I want you to stay close to me and Sol—“

She was going to protest, but he cut her off.

“I mean it, Hermione. The castle hasn’t been completely cleared of Death Eaters, and I reckon most of them are hiding out in the southeast wing. The only reason we got this place so easy is because there weren’t that many of them here in the first place, but we don’t know if someone called for backup. Anything can happen—“

“Alright already! Merlin fuck me, I didn’t lose my brain morphing, you know! God!”

Ron broke out in a sprint. He did not want to have this conversation with Hermione. He pulled out his wand and braced himself for battle. Behind them, he heard approaching footsteps in a hurry. Ron tensed and realized that there was nowhere to hide, but he soon saw that the approaching group were Aurors, and behind them more vamps and werewolves.

“Southeast unit called for backup,” said one the Aurors hurriedly as he ran past them. “Death Eaters have commandeered the area and are going to fight for passage to the tower.”

Ron hastened to follow after them, but found that he was being held back by Neville.

“I received a message-spell from Ginny,” he said.

Ron felt a clutch of fear in his stomach and Hermione’s brows knotted with obvious worry.

“Is she alright?” Hermione asked.

Neville nodded grimly. “She sounded alright. Things are shaky at Hogwarts, but she said the Centaurs have gotten in on the fight. One of their own got done in by one of You-Know-Who’s giants. Centaurs didn’t take it well at all. But…”

“Oh, Merlin, it’s Dean, isn’t it?” Ron asked. He swore he felt his heart stop. His relationship with Dean hadn’t really changed much since their days in Hogwarts, but he supposed having Dean as his sister’s boyfriend developed some sort of closer kinship. The hardest part was seeing Ginny brokenhearted. He didn’t think he could cope with any more tragedy in his family’s lives.

Neville shook his head, his eyes going liquid. “No. Dean’s alive, but it’s—it’s Seamus. He’s gone. She wanted you to be the one to tell Harry.”

Ron closed his eyes for a brief moment. “How’s Dean taking it?”

“Terribly, I’d imagine. But Ginny’s with him. She’ll take care of him. I just thought—I just thought you should know as soon as possible, seeing as Harry isn’t here.” Neville’s eyes flickered to Hermione, as if he suddenly realized that she was there, and that she was Harry’s best friend, too. “I thought you should know, too. E-Either of you could—“

“It’s alright, Neville,” she said, sounding astonishingly gentle. “I haven’t been around much. You don’t have to explain. Now, if we want to round up those Death Eaters, we better hurry and get to the southeast wing. We can worry about telling Harry later.”

Neville nodded, and Ron let the way down the barren hallways. As they got farther into the castle, they began to hear the sound of wandfire and shouts.

There were two pathways going to the torture chambers, and smoke and debris was billowing out of it while people and creatures ran back and forth to cope with Death Eater forces.

The Death Eaters were moving back, but they kept persisting, especially since the Order had the stairwell to the tower blocked off.

“We have to get to that stairwell!” Hermione said.

Ron nodded. It was going to be a bit of a problem crossing the distance between where they were and where they wanted to be. The seemingly vast expanse was riddled with hexes, perhaps even an Unforgivable Curse or two. It wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

Hermione, Ron, and Solomon ducked behind an archway.

Ron had his wand out. Solomon had unsheathed one sword while he held his wand in another. He gave Hermione spare guns.

“Go! I’ll cover you!” Solomon said.

Solomon emerged first. Ron and Hermione immediately followed.

Ron realized he was running, dodging and firing between the two vamps. Solomon was shielding him against the worse of wandfire, but Hermione—though on the less embattled side, looked to be exerting supreme effort fending attackers off.

She looked absolutely exhausted, but Ron couldn’t very well chastise her for pushing herself. She was immortal. She could afford to take Unforgivable curses. He, on the other hand, can only take one.

All three of them ducked into a roll as an Avada Kedavra flew above them.

Immortal or not, Ron was sure neither Solomon nor Hermione wanted to get knocked out by the curse’s effects.

The stairwell wasn’t far, so they ran and dodged most of the remaining way.

The Aurors let them through and Solomon motioned for them to go ahead while he stayed and helped defend.

Ron hustled Hermione up the stairs, not that she was showing any signs of giving in to her exhaustion without a fight. He was mostly fit and conditioned, but stair-climbing at top speeds was no joke. But the time they reached the tower, he was ready to collapse and she looked about ready to pass out.

“Apparate now, Ron!” she cried.

Panting, he shot her a glare and tiredly motioned for her to step closer to him.

Destination, determination, deliberation…

Hermione frowned. “Are you thinking of the three Ds again?”

“Shut it, you. Do you want us to get there or not?”

“Alright. But hurry up! Too freaking long…”

“I ought to splinch your tongue behind.”

Hermione’s vicious reply was drowned with the pop of Apparition.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Viktor felt the flare of his Dark Mark shooting pain through his entire body. He was weak enough; tired enough. Walking had brought enough pain, his lungs bursting from the effort of trying to breathe evenly through what felt like a high fever.

He stumbled to the ground, crying out as he did. He pressed his arm to himself, somehow hoping it would staunch the pain, but the pain persisted, until it decided to wane by itself.

When finally, the pain had been reduced to a dull throb, he looked at his mark and saw that while it was still there, he knew that it was no longer alive.

He looked up as he sat at the foot of the hill, the Riddle House unchanged in its decrepit appearance, even as he felt every single ward around the house go down.

The prickle of tears was a shock. He was not a weeper. He was Viktor Krum, and yet faced with the overwhelming truth of Voldemort dead, and the growing reality that he might some day be able to go back to the life he had thought had been left behind forever, weeping was all he could do.

He swiped away the tears, pushing himself to his feet. He had to see if Harry Potter was alright. He had to see if Harry Potter survived Voldemort.

He was clumsily ambling up the hill when he heard the loud pop of Apparition. He turned, wand out and ready. But his vision swam, and his balance failed. He was just about resigned to the fact that he might yet still perish when he heard the voices.

“Viktor!”

They were like a harmonic chord, the voices of a man and a woman. And for a moment, he thought maybe he had changed back to his real form, for how else would these strangers know him?

But then his eyes fluttered, and he saw the bushy brown hair, pushing aside the blur of red.

“Her-my-own,” he whispered, smiling. She was a sight to see, even looking so battered and worn.

“Viktor, where’s Harry?” she asked urgently.

Some of his smile waned for a heartbeat. “Inside. I am trying to get back to him…”

He felt a masculine hand grasp him by the arm and hoist him to his feet. Ron Weasley held him up, the large man’s strong hold propping him on his feet.

“We’re going into the house,” Ron said. “Can you lead us to him?”

Hermione’s scowl was fierce. “He’s hurt, Ron!”

Ron was about to respond when Viktor cut in. “I will lead.”

And with that, Viktor steeled himself and pulled himself away from Ron. With each step heavier than the last, he began to walk up the hill.

Without another word, Hermione and Ron followed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The pain waned, and Severus thought, for a split-second, that when he looked at his arm, the Dark Mark would be gone.

He looked. It was still there.

Of course it would be, he thought derisively.

He heard the distant sound of sobbing through the trees. The infuriating wail of a man who had no idea what he was going to do next.

Wonderful. Why did I have to be the one to find him?

Snape shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. He stamped the dead leaves and twigs from the knees of his robes. He shook off the forest’s bracken and pushed back stray branches. The moon was high but lighting was bad. The forest, though not very vast in the way that urban reservations tended to be, was thick with foliage. Snape could hardly see.

Taking his wand, he cast a Lumos to light his path and surroundings.

Following the sound, he came upon Peter, curled up on the ground and crying.

“Hello, Peter,” said Snape, lip curled, gliding up beside him, wand clutched in his hand.

“S-Severus!” Peter gasped. He blinked up at Snape for a heartbeat before hastily wiping the tears away and then reverting to a rather surprising smile. He looked rattier than ever, as if he hadn’t completely left his Animagus form behind. “Fancy meeting you here, all the way in the woods. It’s a pleasant surprise!”

“Indeed, because I always invoke pleasant things.”

“Always, Severus. Always.”

“And what, may I ask, are you doing here?”

“Oh… just getting some fresh air.”

“Of course, because rats like the fresh, open air. Did you happen to notice the little pinch of your Dark Mark a while ago?”

Peter’s face tensed, and he seemed to be giving his reply some thought. “Yes, I did notice that pinch.”

“And you know what it means, of course.”

There was a noticeable pause before Peter replied. “I… could guess.”

“The Dark Lord is dead.” The straightforward statement did somewhat rob the color from Peter’s face, though his expression did not look any worse than it already was. “You are, once again, without your betters to make use of you.”

Peter swallowed thickly and gave it a thought. “I can find another master. One, perhaps, who is brilliant with potions…”

Snape’s eyebrow arched. The idea was most definitely tempting.

Perhaps sensing that the suggestion was being considered, Peter went on. “I am a loyal servant when I put my mind to it, and I ask very little in return. Hardly anything at all, except a roof over my head, and food, and promises of something great and wonderful…”

Snape sniffed, forcing himself to think of his fate. It was inevitable, of course, that he would be tried and convicted for Albus Dumbledore’s murder. Whether or not he did it under Dumbledore’s orders mattered little. He had taken a life. He had used an Unforgivable Curse. He would have to go to Azkaban on principle alone. The prospect of being incarcerated in the notoriously mind-damaging prison was the stuff of nightmares: No books to read, no potions to brew, no human contact for months except for the daily meals that were said to be shoved through a tiny slot under the door of one’s cell… Snape was quite sure it was a place he would give anything not to be sent to. And yet, the reality was, if he gave himself up to the Order, he was going to Azkaban. His punishment would be mitigated of course, but hadn’t done quite enough to exonerate himself in the last five years.

It had been easy to think himself a spy, keeping his arse safe while he devised ways to “help” the cause, the way he figured Dumbledore meant for him to help, but too many things—unforgivable things—had happened between murdering Dumbledore and assisting Harry Potter in defeating the Dark Lord.

He was going to jail and he didn’t want to, so indeed, the prospect of escaping and disappearing forever had crossed his mind, even if his existence from thereon would be quite miserable. He didn’t have a fancy vault in Gringotts to run to, unlike some people, to make his post-Voldemort life comfortable. No, he would live a rather impoverished existence, mostly because trying to gain himself some sort of wealth would lead everyone who ever hated him right on his doorstep. For him to risk having a comfortable life, he would have to move out of Europe; live in Asia, probably?

Or— ugh, America.

And he would have run away right this minute, if he hadn’t come across Peter, and if he didn’t have to face the moral dilemma of letting Peter—murderous, scheming, lying, treacherous, once-secret-keeper of Lily Potter—go about his merry way, as if they hadn’t seen each other, to turning Peter, and inadvertently himself, in.

A moment’s thought was all he needed, and the Slytherine in him kicked in. “I think maybe your coming with me is not such a bad idea, Peter.”

Peter rose from the ground, a delighted grin on his face. “Of course it isn’t! You’ll need someone to assist you in your daily habits, Severus. Someone to buy ingredients for you. Someone to fetch your groceries. Someone to clean your house. I will be useful to you!”

Snape sniffed, expression unchanging. “If I wanted someone to fetch my groceries, buy my ingredients, and clean my house, I’d find me a House Elf.” He brought out his wand.

Peter saw it coming, trained as he was to known an attack when he saw it, and run away before it could hit him. He proceeded to turn, preparing for his escape.

Snape whipped his wand. “Petrificus totalus!”

Peter didn’t stand a chance. He stiffened, teetered, and fell with a dull thump on the forest floor. His body seesawed a bit, his behind having landed on an exposed root of a tree.

“Honestly, Wormtail,” said Snape with utmost disdain. “Look at you. You are nothing without your precious Dark Lord. You are a simpering, pathetic leech living off the scraps of better men.”

Peter was silent. Of course he would be.

Lip curling in a sneer, Snape waved his wand again and levitated Peter’s body from the ground. “You will be pleased to know that you will be useful to me in a very profitable fashion.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco Malfoy sat in the office of one Proudlip the Severe, at the Gringott’s Wizarding Bank. He had, since he arrived, been engaged in tense, clipped conversations with Goblins regarding his mother’s estate. Several times, they had gotten interrupted, and Draco was losing patience. He wanted to yell at them and say that he didn’t exactly have all the time in the world.

He was just about to get up and start throwing a royal fit when Proudlip walked through his tiny backroom door.

Grunting, the Goblin climbed the steps of his office chair and sat behind the desk, twiddling his fingers as he affixed Draco with a piercing stare.

Draco found himself fidgeting, hating the fact that Goblins were notoriously powerful in their own right. “Well?” was all Draco could say.

“We have it under authority that the Dark Lord has been… liquidated.”

Draco’s eyebrow arched in surprise. He took a moment to absorb this before he came to any clear conclusions.

Son of a bitch… Potter did it! Potter killed the mother—“And that means what, to me?”

Proudlip shrugged nonchalantly. “It is news that affects us all, particularly impacting the financial trends of our world and… yours.”

Draco frowned. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Mr. Lucius Malfoy is presently at the front desk, asking to be given access to your mother’s vault. Given the circumstances at present, we thought maybe we’d consult you on the matter. Mr. Malfoy has no official right to your mother’s Black family vault. However, you might be… generous about letting your father into the vault, at least.”

Draco took a moment to puzzle out exactly what Proudlip was trying to say. The fact that his father was in the bank, at the same time he was, had thrown him for a loop. Emotions were wreaking havoc on his mind, and right now, all he could think of doing was running out to the front desk, grabbing his father by the neck, and hexing him point-blank. He wanted revenge, plain and simple, for his mother’s death.

The urge took over, and he rose from his seat, heading for the door. When he reached it, he found that the door was locked. He turned, furious, and glared at Proudlip. “Open the door this instant or I’ll—“

“We at Gringotts make it a point not to interfere with family affairs, particularly when it comes to post-mortem assets, but we find that it is to our great advantage that we keep one important client’s interests when we couldn’t keep two. Mr. Lucius Malfoy will take the money, go into hiding, and possibly get caught while escaping. Whatever happens, whether he is caught or not, we shall lose his…”

“Money?”

“…business. You, Mr. Draco Malfoy, whose business is as important to us as every generation of Malfoy that crossed our vaults, can still seek, and shall receive, our services, once you have—shall we say, settled accounts with the Ministry and its agents. I always believed everything in life is negotiable, Mr. Malfoy. Contracts, selling prices, ones circumstances with the law… there are many things in this situation that could help you mitigate whatever issues certain legendary scarred individuals may have about you, and possibly his clout might help you live a life more savory than forever running away from the authorities who would be obligated to hunt you down…”

Draco stared at him, processing everything he said. “Are you sure you didn’t go to Hogwarts, Mr. Proudlip? You would have made an excellent Slytherin.”

A frightening, Goblin smile spread his lips. “I shall take that as a compliment, as I know full well that you mean it to be that way.”

“Lead my father to my mother’s vault,” Draco said. “And maybe I’ll meet him there. Maybe I won’t. I probably won’t, but I may change my mind. I do admit, the thought of going into those vaults… always scared me. There have been stories of vault-visitors accidentally getting locked in.”

“Oh, that is a possibility, of course. Old charms, older facilities. Sometimes these are things we cannot control.”

“Understandable. I think maybe I’ll just go to my mother’s vault later, but feel free to let my father into it. Right now, I think maybe I’m not quite in such a hurry anymore. Is there a place here I can… wait, and perhaps read a few magazines?”

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy. We have a waiting room, and there are a few things there that would occupy your time while you wait. In the meantime, I shall entertain your father and his demands.”

“Thank you. I always appreciated Gringott’s impeccable customer service.”

“We aim to please, Mr. Malfoy. Now I entreat you to sit back and relax. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tonks felt a bit dazed after she and the Order started gathering surrendering Death Eaters. After the wave of flaring Dark Marks hit them, many of them had cried and wailed like banshees, shouting that something had happened to the Dark Lord. A few kept fighting, but a great many of them began to give up their wands.

It gave Tonks much satisfaction, rounding them up, but she wasn’t quite ready to rejoice just yet. Nobody was.

When they began to regain control of the southeastern wing, Tonks immediately checked with the other units in Hogwarts, St. Mungo’s, Beauxbaton, and the Ministry.

The reports were not good. While it was true that many Death Eaters believed that their Dark Lord was dead, or dying, some of them went on a rampage, while many simply chose to keep fighting. They were prepared to take everyone down with them, and they weren’t abating their attacks anytime soon. The Order had certainly gained a distinct advantage, but the battle wasn’t quite through. Another thing were the vamps and wolves. None of them cared if Voldemort was dead. They had orders and they intended to carry it through.

There was absolutely nothing to rejoice about. She was worried for Harry, Ginny had reported more deaths, Remus had gone werewolf, and people were missing. Humans, werewolves, and vampires were running all around her, frantically doing their duties, so she couldn’t exactly ignore the fact that all this was just the beginning of the end.

“Tonks!”

She started at the sound of the voice and saw Neville. He looked like he had been calling her for quite some time now, the way his eyes were wide with frantic impatience. Her brows knotted. “Problem, Longbottom?”

Neville nodded. “Something’s wrong in the Eastern-most dungeons. People are screaming down there and the two vampires we sent down haven’t come back out. There’s something down there.”

Her lips pursed. Of course there is…

She strode past Neville with brisk efficiency, barely tripping over her robes.

People were gathered around the perimeter of the area Tonks assumed was the problem-dungeon.

Solomon was right at the mouth of the entrance, blocking everyone who might attempt to pass.

“You do not want to go down there,” said Solomon. “I smell blood and death.”

“Do you have any idea what’s down there?” Tonks asked.

“Something bloodthirsty.”

Tonks rolled her eyes. “Real helpful, Solomon. Well, we’re going to have to flush it out, won’t we? Fire ought to do it—“

“That would not be advisable.”

It was an alien voice, extremely bossy, and absolutely without place in her ranks. Tonks turned, immensely annoyed, though her sense of authority wilted ever so slightly at the sight that met her.

Tonks recognized two of the vamps immediately. Ambrose and Gabriel were hard to forget, being two such gorgeous men, but the rest of the pack were unfamiliar to her. There were at least twenty more of them clumped as a group, but it was the two heading the congregation that had Tonks staring.

Quite simply, they looked like Egyptian royalty, tall, svelte, and extremely regal. They exuded power and beauty like they’d been doing so…

Well, like they’d been doing so in the last one thousand years.

The woman, her long inky hair and amazingly almond-shaped golden eyes, shimmered in her beady, crystalline, barely-covering-her dress. Her smooth arms and legs were decorated with henna-tattoos. Her fingernails were perfectly manicured. Her jewelry was oddly understated, except maybe for the tiny diamond stud on the side of her nose. A quick inspection told Tonks that the woman wasn’t really tall, but the heels of her expensive footwear were about a mile high. The richly-jeweled scimitar on her hip was terribly intimidating.

The man, by contrast, was all about earth colors. He wore a dark beige, red, and orange tunic that showed the contours of his body. He was trim and shapely, the yellow-gold of his jewelry bright against his dark skin. There were beads on his floor-length kilt, too, though not as intricate as the woman’s. His feet were in sandals, though Tonks was not inclined to laugh at this sandaled man, not if he knew how to use the huge sword strapped to his back.

Tonks stood there a moment, perplexed. Should she bow? Pay homage? Prostrate herself at their feet? She was never the type to kneel for anyone, but these beings exuded an aura of greatness that couldn’t be ignored.

It was the man who spoke earlier, and he wasn’t going to be bothered by her confused expression.

“If you try to flush her out with fire,” said the man. “That would only anger her, and she would kill everyone in this dungeon.”

There were at least sixty members from Tonks’s unit in the area, not counting the Death Eaters.

Her eyebrow arched in disbelief.

None in the man’s entourage looked like they were going to take what their boss said back.

“She is a thousand years old,” said the woman in a hypnotically soothing voice. “She can kill you all, and you wouldn’t even know what hit you. Kalfani and I will see to this affair. All you need do is wait here.”

With that, she swept past Tonks, the man she called Kalfani following after her. They descended the steps of the dark stairwell, and moments later, they heard the dull thud of an iron door being shut.

After a moment’s silence, Tonks—wanting to feel angry—whirled on Solomon, demanding what the hell just happened.

Her anger waned a bit when she saw that Solomon looked pale enough to go on cardiac arrest. He seemed to have lost the ability to speak, and he didn’t look eager to say anything anyway; none of the vampires and werewolves were. They all seemed to shrink within themselves, looking both nauseous and awed all at once.

Gabriel, though looking a bit out-of-sorts himself, cleared his throat. “That was Kalfani and Nekhbet. Two-thirds of the Most Ancient Ones of our society. They are powerful and revered. They know our history; lived it. They are wise and ruthless. They do what is best, but they can also do what they please.”

“In other words,” said Ambrose. “No one fucks with these fellas.”

Tonks, for some reason, felt something clench in her stomach. “Two-thirds, you say? Where’s the third one at?”

Gabriel and Ambrose’s eyes swerved to the dungeon Kalfani and Nekhbet had disappeared to.

She swallowed. “And you say this third—“

“Dendera,” said Ambrose.

“Dendera… you say she could have killed us all? By herself?”

“Yes, she could have. You were very lucky, Mrs. Lupin, that Ronald Weasley and Solomon happened to report that Yasmin was on this island, or else we might not have reached this place on time.”

“So they came for Yasmin?” asked Tonks, confused.

“Yasmin is a powerful vampire and Master of the Coven of Isis. One just couldn’t kidnap one such as her, unless she was taken by someone better than her, and only three vamps could be better than Yasmin, one of which had been missing from their ranks since Yasmin’s disappearance. Nekhbet and Kalfani were quite sure Yasmin and Dendera could be found together. Either Yasmin kidnapped Dendera, or Dendera kidnapped Yasmin. Either way… it means someone wants to hog all the power and that simply wouldn’t do, not when there are two other perfectly powerful vamps who don’t like being less powerful than others. So the Most Ancient Ones had taken it upon themselves to… fix whatever needs fixing.”

“Fix?”

“Kill.”

Tonks didn’t know what to say but she heard Solomon’s breath catch, which was the oddest thing, since vampires, in general, didn’t breathe.

“Kill who?” Solomon asked.

Gabriel’s brows knotted momentarily. “One of them.”

Ambrose nodded. “Or both.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione saw the grand doors down the ruined hallway. The carpet, once thick and resplendent with color, was now worn and blackened with mildew. There was no softness beneath the soles of their shoes, and the jarring hardness of the wooden floor was muffled by dampness.

The house creaked, groaned, and dripped. Nothing about it was reminiscent of the grand ballroom Hermione had earlier found herself in.

Viktor was still bleeding, his wounds looking raw and painful. He held his arm close to him, but he walked quicker than she expected of him. It was taxing him. The paleness of his face was most unnatural and he was breathing through his lips. Ron had tried to help him walk—twice. Viktor refused help the first time. The second offer was accepted, and he leaned on Ron who was strong enough to heft two of him.

She pursed her lips when the urge to tell him to get to a healer became overwhelming. She had no time to argue with anybody right now. Harry needed her. She felt it.

“There,” Viktor said, pointing to the doors.

Hermione didn’t even wait for them. She broke off in a run, noting that there were no wards on the door as she went. She could kick the door down and nothing would stop her.

When she reached the doors, she pressed her palms to it, pushing them apart. They gave easily enough, and Hermione began to search frantically through the horrifying rubble. She saw the bodies, saw Bellatrix, but she stumbled when she saw what looked like a robe in the darkness.

She hurried to it frantically, only to halt with a violent lurch, her face twisting in disgust as she saw Voldemort’s desiccated, bleached husk, mouth wide open in a silent scream and eyes empty of life.

“Harry!” she cried out hysterically “Harry, where are you? Harry!”

There was a soft moan behind one of the pillars and she knew it was him. She scrambled to reach the sound, found out where he was, and she saw him sprawled on the floor, hidden by the shadows.

She stifled a cry. His arm was broken, he was bleeding in parts, and he had a few apparent bruises. Other than that, she couldn’t tell where else he was hurt, but he didn’t look good in the least.

“Ron, get help!” she yelled, an unbearable sting burning her eyes. She had to take in air to stifle the tremble in her voice. “Now, Ron!”

She didn’t know if Ron heard her, but she knew her voice had carried. Gently, she touched her hands to Harry, checking for whatever else that might be broken, determining if he had any life threatening injuries.

He stirred, his eyes opening a crack. “Hermio…”

“Harry!” she hissed, scooping him in her arms. “Where does it hur—“

“I killed him,” he whispered. “He’s dead.”

She nodded, smiling amidst her worry. “He’s gone. He’s finally gone.”

He smiled back, raising his good arm to touch her face. “I love you…”

Alarm bells rang in her head, and her stomach gave a turn. “I love you, too, Harry, but we’ll talk about that later—“

“I love you,” he insisted. “Did it for you… Hermione…”

“Harry,” she said in a warning tone, tears squeezing out of her eyes. “Stop it. Stop talking like that! You’re not going to die. You’ll be fine! Do you hear me? RON! CALL FOR HELP—“

“I am! I’m trying, dammit!” came Ron’s voice from the door as he awkwardly held up his communicator. “There aren’t any magical frequencies… Merlin damn it all, I’m sending a messenger spell! Wait here!” He deposited Viktor on the floor and rushed off.

Hermione frantically turned back to Harry. “Ron’s going to go for help. You’re fine, Harry. You’re alright—“

“Dying.”

“Oh, God,” she choked. She held him, her hands pushing his hair back from his forehead. She felt no scar, but instead of rejoicing, she began to cry. “Ron!”

“He tries!” Viktor hissed. “No one responds! No one…”

“Harry, no…” she wailed. “You can’t die on me now. Harry, please…”

He stared back at her with his watery gaze, his eyes filled with a wordless apology. He took her hand and put it on his heart.

She began to sob when she felt it beating slower than it should have been beating.

“I can’t watch you die,” she whispered. “I can’t. You have to hold on.”

“Soul won’t hold on,” he said softly.

Fury flared; at the fates, at Snape, at herself, and everyone who brought Harry to this point. The angry tears spilled, her fist curling on his chest.

“I’m sorry,” she said to him. “I’m so sorry…”

He smiled, eyes fluttering slowly at each dying breath he took. “Why?”

“Because”—she choked as his heartbeat slowed even further.

He wasn’t going to make it. Not if the Mediwizards came right that second. Not if Madame Pomfrey came to treat him herself.

The rest of her life; the eternity she would live without him, flashed in her mind, and she saw that it would be filled with empty, hollow days. She knew he’d want her to be happy, and she would be doing him a great injustice if she chose to live miserably in the grief of his loss over the possibility of finding something worth living for, worth continuing for, but she could not fathom anything beyond him at this point. She couldn’t see past his death, and all she knew was that it would be a hundred times more painful than leaving him all those years ago.

“Because I can’t let you die,” she continued. “I can’t. I’m sorry…”

She pulled him close into her arms, pressed her lips to his neck and bit him.

He let out a small moan and she drank just a tiny bit of his blood. She wasn’t going to take a lot. He was dying fast enough as it was.

When she drank enough, she pulled away, pushing back the overwhelming ecstasy of having his blood inside her.

Sobbing as she fought to keep her senses, she leaned him against her, and picking a random shard of something from the ground, she slashed her wrist and pressed the gash to his lips.

She heard him swallow, and she wept as she whispered, over and over again in his ear, “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” even as the sharing of her blood brought her to highs she was only now feeling.

It was amazing, to be sharing something so profound, yet so vampiric, with the man she loved. It was intimate, and sacrificial. It made her want to sink to the ground and stay that way forever.

She felt the gentle rasp of his tongue on her wound and heard the moan that left his throat, just before he pulled her arm away, leaning up against her with his breathing labored and his body limp against her.

His lips and teeth, red with blood, glistened in the moonlight, and as their eyes met and the blood of each other seeped into their bodies, Hermione felt a blast of magic slamming in through her eyes.

She fell back, panic suffusing her. There was no pain, but she hadn’t expected it; hadn’t been told to expect it. This wasn’t natural; this wasn’t something vampires experienced at the turning.

For a moment, she thought she had gone blind, and she gave a cry of alarm, but then colors began to swirl in her vision; lines of glowing rainbow colors interlaced with ribbons of ethereal silver and gold. She saw it all around her, wrapped around her body, and wrapped around his. She saw tendrils of orange phantasmal light connecting her and Harry.

Don’t be afraid… said Harry’s voice in her head.

It was unbelievable, that he should be the one to tell her this.

There was a sound at the door; like the flutter of wings, followed by the piercing quality of what sounded like a divine choir. It threw the entire landscape of magic into a radiant shade of red and gold, approaching them in a blinding glare.

Hermione shut her eyes, holding Harry close. She was frightened, and confused, and she couldn’t understand.

A heartbeat later, a drop of silver magic touched Harry and exploded in a brilliant light, colliding with his glow and hers.

She gasped at the flare of warmth and magic suffusing her. A blue glow settled on her body, pooling down to the pit of her stomach where she felt a dizzying yank.

She cried out as a dark, grimy mist seemed to leave her body, the ripping sensation inside her dull and without pain.

Staring wide-eyed at the play of magic, she saw that the entity was connected to a long, smoky chord, its origins unseen. It left her, speeding out of the room like it was being pulled away and summoned, like a living thing fleeing for its life. She looked at herself, and saw her body shimmering pure aquamarine, Harry a lovely film of purple in her arms.

Exhaustion slammed into her system and she heard a scream, maybe Ron’s, or Viktor’s. It was hard to tell, as everything inside her head was swimming, like she was submerged under water. She felt Harry’s body tensing and she struggled to hold him as his back bowed painfully from some silent agony, but unable to fight the heaviness in her limbs, eyes, and mind, she found herself succumbing to the darkness that had suddenly enveloped her consciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: And remember all those promises I made about the state of Hermione’s vampirism and Harry’s… humanity? Those promises still hold. Nothing has changed.

::sobs::

41. Chapter Forty: Turned

A/N: I hope you’re not ready to kill me for making you wait so long. ::blush:: But here it is, as promised! This chapter and the next. ^_^

I’ve been lamenting the impending end of this story, mostly to Tome Raider (who has consistently been brilliant and inspirational in guiding me in the writing of this. ::great big hugs for her:: ) and some to the folks at LJ. They’ve all been so supportive, and you readers have been awesome.

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Forty: Turned

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She’s afraid.

Harry felt it amidst the million other sensations he was experiencing.

Unable to move with the magic buffeting him from all sides; unable to reach out and hold her, he used the last vestiges of his strength to slip into her mind to soothe her.

Don’t be afraid…

Confusion replaced her fear just before an overwhelming burst of song, colors, and lights overtook the magical landscape, moving and approaching.

He couldn’t see past the magic anymore, but he felt her arms around him, holding him close and tight, her emotions a soupy mix of uncertainty trying to push past the thick veil of protectiveness.

The magical entity perched close, a thread of silver escaping it and touching the punctured skin at his neck.

It felt liquid against his skin, and from where it touched, soothing warmth, relieving cool, and all things wonderful flowed through him, spreading and washing over to Hermione and swirling through her body.

There was no pain, but the magic was too much, taking hold of him and filling him to bursting. He couldn’t contain it, and he didn’t know what his body was doing to cope. But he could see, and he watched, mesmerized, as the threads and ribbons of magic yanked something from within Hermione’s body, drawing it away from her until it disappeared from the dreamscape.

He gasped, his muscles stretched to the limit. Fear for Hermione, yet his unwavering faith in magic, throwing him in a storm of confusion.

Hermione’s hold on him loosened and the presence of her mind slipped from his grasp. Before he could panic and call to her, the magic exploded from inside him, knocking him into blissful unconsciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yasmin paused, feeling a thrum of alien power pass through her as she sat behind the bars of her cell. It moved outward, like waves rippling away from where the pebble dropped in a pond. It was strange, without explanation, and perhaps she should have been worried, especially knowing that things like that didn’t just happen. But other than that uncertainty, she didn’t feel particularly alarmed; in fact, for a moment she felt warm and comfortable, the hunger inside her easing to a sated calm.

She closed her eyes, forgetting she was in a cell; forgetting that she hadn’t fed in days; forgetting that her “brother” had abandoned his loyalties to her for promises of power from someone else.

It was a familiar sensation; something she had felt before but couldn’t quite remember when.

Several heartbeats later, the comfort was gone and she was back in her cage, bodies strewn all over the dungeon floor with their throats ripped open.

Her hunger overcame her and she turned her eyes away from the blood. She could smell death, and while esoteric death added delicious flavor to the blood, vampires still wanted their blood to actually come from the living.

Looking up, she saw that the three Most Ancient Ones stood perplexed beyond the barriers of her cage, arching their eyebrows at one another questioningly before transferring their gazes to her.

Whatever she felt, they’d felt it too, and by the expression on their faces, they seem to be seeking an explanation from her.

“Well, don’t go looking at me,” she hissed.

“What in hell just happened?” Dendera asked fiercely, kicking aside one of the many dead bodies at her feet to get closer to the cage. “What did you do?”

Yasmin sneered. “I did nothing! How the hell am I supposed to do anything sitting inside this bloody cell?”

“Don’t you be playing games with me, Yasmin. I taught you how to play them!”

Yasmin scowled. “And what game am I playing, mother dear? Tell me, because I’d like to know myself!”

“Something happened,” said Nekhbet in a grim tone. “It’s magic. The Old Magic. Older than us…”

Kalfani seemed ponderous. “As old as life itself.”

Yasmin rolled her eyes. “I hate it when you lot talk like that. Who the hell talks like that in this day and age?”

Dendera glared at her. “You have something to do with this, I just know it.”

Yasmin was getting annoyed. “Would you lay off on me? You’re the one who has been orchestrating this entire thing. Isn’t this part of your plan?”

Dendera’s eyes flashed. “It can’t—he can’t…” Her voice trailed, teeth grit. “Tell me what you did and I’ll let you live.”

Yasmin gaped at her for a few heartbeats.

Let me live? Let me LIVE?

WHAT THE FUCK!

It angered her that Dendera thought she could be threatened with death, as if her vampiric life had ever been in Dendera’s keeping. Dendera had never, ever had such a hold on Yasmin. Even when Yasmin was a young vamp, Dendera had known she could not frighten Yasmin into submission, not for anything, and certainly not for this.

“I’ll tell them what you did, Dendera,” she said, shifting her gaze to Nekhbet and Kalfani. “I’ll tell them how you let the Oracle manipulate you into doing what it wants. I’ll tell them how you got so greedy for power that you were willing to tear our society apart, and how you used Janus so he could bargain his soul to your grand nephew. I’ll tell them about how you took me so I can join your little play for power, because you know full well that you couldn’t steal leverage from Nekhbet and Kalfani by yourself. I’ll tell them that you’ve been plotting all this for more than twenty years!”

Dendera bared her teeth at Yasmin in fury. “How dare you? You owe me your vampire life! How dare you betray me—“

The other two ancients seemed surprised. Dendera had been keeping many, many things from them. And while at that moment, Nekhbet and Kalfani could decide to take it as Yasmin’s word against one of the most ancient vampires of their society, power, and someone accused of wanting more that her share of it, was not an allegation they took lightly.

“Is this true, Dendera?” Nekhbet asked quietly.

Dendera’s lips pursed, retracting from her own emotional outburst. “Lies.”

Yasmin snorted. “Harry Potter has the prophecy that motivated all this. Go have a look at it yourself, and then have the Watchers ask the Oracle when it first gave the prophecy away, and to whom.” Asking the Oracle wasn’t exactly something one did on a whim. The Oracle wasn’t a very generous entity, and if anyone dared to seek answers from it, one must know to ask the right questions—and must be prepared to suffer the consequences of obtained knowledge, which was why unsolicited prophecies from the Oracle were powerful as well as dangerous. Yasmin continued. “Then when you’ve confirmed the truth of that, go to the Hall of Records; have our connections in the Ministry look it up for you. Our connections are very good. How else do you think Dendera, and I, found out that Hermione was the Last Time Turner? If they can find that out, then they can trace the lineage of Tom Marvolo Riddle. You’ll find him related to Salazar Slytherin.”

“Salazar?” asked Kalfani, recognition in his gaze. “Dendera’s half-brother?”

“The thirst for power runs in the family,” Yasmin replied. She was definitely on a roll.

“None of that connects me to the vamp uprising. Janus has a mind of his own—“

“You can find out from many of these Death Eaters… the live ones—about how long their so-called Lord Voldemort has had Nagini,” Yasmin continued.

Kalfani’s frown deepened. “Nagini? Dendera’s familiar?”

“Yes. Dendera leant Nagini to Voldy-poo to watch over him; tell her all the latest developments of her ambitious grand nephew. Nagini’s been spying on Voldemort for eight years now. Dendera’s been keeping tabs on her interest—“

“Don’t you pretend that you didn’t have any interest in this!” Dendera cried. “You did your own share of manipulation! You conspired with that Bulgarian—“

“Oh, please… Viktor Krum acted under the advice of Severus Snape, and Snape was Dumbledore’s spy from the beginning. When you killed my Blood Kin, you gave him the opportunity to do what he had to do—conspire against Voldemort covertly. I only acted on instinct. I believed that Voldemort’s camp had killed my Blood Kin and I wanted revenge.”

“You are a liar, Yasmin ibna Omar,” hissed Dendera. “You knew about that prophecy better than anyone. You saw the intertwined destinies. You wanted to help it along just as much as I did!”

“I went with what fate dealt me. I moved the pawns, but only according to the lay of the chessboard. I didn’t cheat and move pieces around when no one was looking, which is what you did, and see what happened? You made the prophecy fulfill itself, and it went according to what the Oracle wanted; not what you wanted. I wasn’t the one who had Hermione turned; it was you. I wasn’t the one who controlled Janus. I wasn’t the one who supplied the Catalyst, nor did I hone the Wielder. It was all your doing.”

“You made Hermione go to Harry. You knew Harry and Voldemort would be the last two players in the prophecy!”

“Of course I knew that, and of course I wanted Harry to win, whatever his role in the prophecy was. I didn’t know if he would win, at any rate, but you had Voldemort, and you were determined to make full use of him. I wasn’t going to sit by and let you make a mess of vampire kind. Not without me having a say in it. I’m the master of the Coven of Isis, and the Coven of Isis has, for thousands of years, protected the balance between human and vamp. It was my duty. You? You just wanted the power.”

Dendera gave a soft growl, fingers curling into tight fists.

Yasmin kept her expression stoic, stifling the triumphant smile on her lips. “And for what, Dendera? Our society isn’t a democracy, but a vampire who orchestrates the breaking of vampire curse would gain influence, and power. To seal the power, you’ll need someone like me; someone with muscle. And after you’ve gathered enough power from your faithful vampire followers; after you’ve utterly destroyed the vamp-human balance the Coven has protected for thousands of years; you’ll get rid of Nekhbet and Kalfani. Wasn’t that your plan?”

Dendera whipped to the other two ancients. “I would never—“

“Oh, shut it, Dendera,” said Nekbet softly. “You’d cut off our heads the first chance you got.”

“Nekhbet and Kalfani can confirm the veracity of everything I’ve said, of course,” Yasmin continued smoothly. “God forbid I’d get caught lying. I have no inclination to stick my head on a chopping block. And I’d like to live another thousand years at least, thanks very much.

“Why did you not tell us about all this from the beginning?” Kalfani asked her, frowning.

Yasmin laughed, thinking that the answer should have been obvious. “I knew there was something going on, but I did not know for sure who it was. At first I thought it was just Janus, but I realized someone was telling him to do things and… well, it took a while for me to figure it out. I think maybe I wanted Janus’s master to be Voldemort, but it just didn’t fit. Janus would never take orders from a human. Someone else had to be telling him what to do… somebody vampire. I denied the possibility for a long time, but eventually I admitted it to myself… it had to be one of you. It had to be one of the most ancient. I didn’t know for sure who, and perhaps I should have known it was Dendera… but you can hardly blame me for trying to prove otherwise. Dendera has cared for me these past five hundred years… well, in her own fashion. At any rate, if I was going to accuse any of you, I needed quite a bit of proof, don’t you think?”

Dendera shook her head, turning to her colleagues. “Surely you can’t be buying into her half-truths!”

“Very disturbing half-truths,” said Nekhbet. “If you had succeeded, everything she said would have come true.”

Yasmin paused. “If you had succeeded…” Nekhbet had said.

Does that mean Dendera has failed? But how did they know that?

“There is no twisting of the Oracle’s words,” Nekhbet continued. “You should have known this, Dendera, being so old. Your roles had been established from the beginning, and while you’ve managed to convince yourself that Tom Riddle might have been what you wanted him to become, because perhaps his role could have been interchangeable with Harry Potter, that isn’t the Oracle’s way. Harry Potter still did what he was supposed to do, regardless of whether Tom did what you wanted him to do or not.”

Dendera looked like she was going to explode from anger and frustration.

“Hold on,” Yasmin said. “Forgive me for being the five hundred year old, but what do you mean by saying that Dendera has failed? Is Tom Riddle dead? Has Harry Potter killed him?”

Kalfani shrugged. “We do not know if Tom Riddle is dead, or if Harry Potter killed him, but that magic we felt earlier…”

“The Old Magic, you said?”

Kalfani nodded. “Tom Riddle could not have cast it. He hadn’t…. the heart for it.”

Yasmin stared at them and realized then what “Old Magic” meant.

As old as life itself…

“At any rate,” said Kalfani in a silky tone. “The last time we felt that same magic, Tom Riddle fell—for the first time. How long has it been? Twenty years ago? Maybe a bit more…”

Yasmin let out a breath of amazement, finally remembering. “Twenty-one years ago. The Oracle said the magic had come from Godric’s Hollow and cast by a woman…”

It was easy going into Ministry records and reports to find out who lived in the quaint house of that little Wizarding town. The death of the family that lived in it was the talk of the whole Wizarding world, after all.

Lily, James, and Harry Potter had lived in that home for a year before the mad man they called Voldemort killed them.

Or tried to.

“Old Magic…” said Yasmin, amazed. “Harry Potter did it, and you failed, Dendera. You will not get the power you wanted. What will happen to you now?”

Dendera was about to speak, but Nekhbet cut her off. “That is something for us to decide.”

Dendera’s lip twitched but that was all the emotion she showed.

Kalfani turned to Yasmin. “If what you’ve said is true, Dendera’s fate shall be yours to decide, as well.”

Yasmin wasn’t going to pretend she wasn’t shocked by this. From the look on Dendera’s face, she was as astonished about it as Yasmin was.

“That is absolutely unacceptable!” Dendera cried.

“Says who?” Kalfani asked, eyebrow arching.

It was then Dendera realized that she was at the mercy of Kalfani and Nekhbet; perhaps Yasmin, too.

Yasmin only then learned why her society’s Most Ancient Ones had never gotten away with abusing their power. There were checks and balances among the powerful, too. There were those, like her, who brought to light the tipping of the balance, and those like Dendera were made to explain. When the explanation was not satisfactory…

In the classic words of our forefathers: Heads will roll.

There was more to being among the Most Ancient Ones than just being a thousand years old, and there was more to being the master of the Coven than just being—well, the Coven’s master.

Or being the Brotherhood’s Master. Or…

Yasmin wondered if Basil Sigismund of the Blood-Kin of Ramses would be held accountable for his part in the war. She was displeased to realize that he might not. He picked a side, but he still did so under orders of Dendera. There was very little blame in following the wishes of one of the most ancient ones. Basil would be put on probation, probably for as long as two hundred years, but that was about it.

It’s just as well… at least I know now that he isn’t to be trusted.

Nekhbet eyed her carefully through the bars, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “You will need to be removed from this cage.”

No shit, Sherlock.“That would be preferred.”

She exchanged looks with Kalfani and he nodded.

“This is no place to settle… matters with Dendera. We will go to my mansion. It is comfortable there, don’t you think so, Dendera?”

Dendera didn’t reply.

“We will go back out of this dungeon, and we will have Yasmin removed from her cell. We will not harm these humans. There is no need to. Do you understand what I am saying?” He was addressing all of them, not just Dendera.

Yasmin figured she could endure. “I’ll need to feed when I get to your mansion, Kalfani. I haven’t been fed in days.”

Something like disapproval flickered in Kalfani’s eyes, and for a moment, Yasmin thought she had been too fresh, but Kalfani’s gaze shifted briefly to Dendera, and Yasmin realized that she already had Kalfani and Nekhbet on her side.

She stifled a smile of satisfaction.

Things were definitely looking up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her blood tasted like no other—good things brought after a long, tedious wait, like promises fulfilled after years of heartache, or a warm, dry hearth to come home to after walking through a bone-chilling blizzard. The taste was sweet—wine on a cold night, or Butterbeers to toast a victory. It was all he ever wanted and he hadn’t even known it.

It was a distinct memory, but he wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

He opened his eyes to a torch-lit dungeon and felt quite disoriented.

He realized at once that he was on an extremely comfortable bed, but he also noticed the manacles on his wrists and ankles. It was confusing to be relatively comfortable at the same time being shackled and chained.

There were too many things he knew he should be worried about, but his thoughts were swimming in a slow drift. He couldn’t quiet grasp what he should be thinking about first.

He stared at the rough-stone ceiling of his chamber, trying to blink himself back into cognitive thought.

He swallowed and realized that his throat was dry. He needed water.

A face came into his line of sight. It was a man, strangely familiar. It took a moment, but Harry remembered the man’s name.

“Ambrose.”

A tiny smile formed on Ambrose’s lips. “I’m glad you remember. How are you feeling, Harry?”

“Thirsty.”

There was a thoughtful look on Ambrose’s eyes, so distinct that he paused noticeably before he nodded and shifted to take something from the table nearby.

Moments later, Ambrose came back with a covered cup, a straw poking out of its top.

Harry tried to sit up but found that he was feeling a bit too weak for it. Ambrose helped him, putting pillows behind him so that Harry could lean back comfortably.

Ambrose placed the cup in his hand and Harry gladly drank from the cup. The water was cool and refreshing, and almost immediately, his mind began to clear.

“Do you remember what happened?” Ambrose asked.

Harry paused, trying to piece the memory together. “I killed Voldemort.”

Ambrose nodded. “That you did.”

“Is Hermione alright? Ron? Everyone?”

Ambrose hesitated and Harry’s heart did a flip-flop. If Ambrose didn’t talk soon, he was going to start hyperventilating.

“Hermione is healing. Ron is alright. Tonks and Remus are perfectly fine…”

Harry knew half-truths when he heard it. “What’s wrong with them? What’s—“

“They’re all alive, Harry,” Ambrose cut in gently. “They’ll be fine. Hermione was suffering from something when we found her, and her condition frightened all of us a bit, mostly because we weren’t quite sure what it was, but Elena had the brilliant idea of giving her Iron Disulfide, just to boost her strength. It worked. Hermione will be fine. She is on her way to a full recovery.”

Harry’s lips pursed, blinking back the wave of anxiety Ambrose’s news brought him. “You shot her up with Hemo Skag?”

Ambrose seemed thoroughly surprised.

“What, you think I don’t know what your vamp drugs are?” Harry asked, quiet in his anger. Who he was angry at, he wasn’t sure. For all he realized, he might have been angry with himself, that Hermione had been put in such a situation; that they had to give her narcotics just to keep her alive. “I know about your drug-culture, too,” he hissed. He felt like rambling, and Ambrose showed no signs of stopping him. “Hemo Skag—vamp heroin. Demon Dust—silver sulfide powder. X2—vamp ecstasy, liquid form. Red Ice—crystal-meth for vamps…”

He let his thoughts trail, hanging his head between his shoulders as he ran his shackled hands through his hair in weary frustration. He took deep, calming breaths. He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder.

“It’s going to be alright,” said Ambrose. “We gave her medicinal grade… well, as medicinal as could be, at least. It was all we could do, and it worked, thank goodness. Don’t worry about her getting addicted. It doesn’t work that way. And somehow, I can’t see Hermione snorting Demon Dust or freebasing Red Ice, can you?”

Harry looked up and smiled weakly. “No, I can’t. I just—I’m a bit out of it right now… and Ron’s alright? Tonks and Remus, too?”

“Tonks and Remus are good. Remus wered and suffered the usual injuries, but he’ll be fine. Tonks is still over at Azkaban, keeping things in order. Ron’s generally…” Ambrose sighed. “George Weasley’s in critical condition and Fred Weasley… finally passed away in his sleep.”

Harry found no words, closing his eyes to hold back the sting of tears. Fred hadn’t been living for a long time, and his passing was something everyone had been expecting for a while, but he was a casualty of war, nonetheless. Was George going to follow his twin? How many more had died? How many more had gotten seriously hurt? “And the fighting? Is it over yet?”

“For the most part, it is,” said Ambrose gravely. “The Death Eaters were unable to take the key locations, thanks to your Legilimens. We surprised them by being prepared for their attacks. There aren’t any organized attacks anymore. With Voldemort dead, most of the vamps and weres have been backing off from the fight, but some of them have taken up with the few Death Eaters still at large, and they’re making a mess of things here and there. It’s not completely over. They’re inciting sporadic rioting, but they’re finished. The Auror and Hit Wizard Departments have issued decrees that they could handle the situation, and they are indeed taking care of it. The Brotherhood and the Coven still have a few units out, just so we can round up the remaining vampire and were separatists. The general chaos should be all over in another day.”

Harry’s brows knotted. “How long have I been out?”

“Twenty-four hours. Not long.”

Harry nodded, ponderous. “Why am I shackled to the bed? Not that I couldn’t enjoy that sort of thing, but considering the circumstances…”

Ambrose cocked a tired smile. “Well, it’s standard procedure for situations like this. It’s nothing personal.”

“Situations like this… what does that mean?”

“Well, Harry, it means you were bitten, that you’re in the Special Cases ward of St. Mungo’s, and I’m your Initiator.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hermione woke up to the familiar silk lining of a coffin, and for a moment, she felt like it was any other evening in Grimmauld Place, but then her memories came rushing back like a cyclone and wide-eyed, she bolted out of her coffin.

She practically tore the lid off its hinges scrambling out of the casket, but she was caught completely off-guard when she felt two strong hands holding her by the shoulders.

Her first instinct was to lash out, hissing angrily with fangs drawn, but the soothing voice that slipped through her panic touched reason, and she realized she was being held by Elena, and the beautiful woman’s voice began to make sense.

“You must calm down, Chica. Easy now. Hush…”

Hermione steadied herself, taking in some air and then breathing it out in a soothing pattern. Little by little, she became more aware of her surroundings. She wasn’t in Grimmauld Place. She was in someone else’s home and Solomon lingered nearby, looking horribly anxious.

She didn’t dawdle. “Where’s Harry?”

Before Solomon could speak, Elena cut in. “How do you feel? Any pain? Weakness?”

Hermione frowned, annoyed. “No. I feel fine, now can you please tell me—“

“Good,” said Elena. “You might need a follow-up shot of the Iron Disulfide, but at least we know there aren’t any negative—“

Hermione processed the chemical name and her reasoning took on a decided edge. “Wait, did you just say Iron Disul—you shot me up with DRUGS? Solomon—“

Solomon looked like he was going to disappear into thin air, the way he shrunk back behind Elena.

“It is medicinal grade,” interrupted Elena, squeezing her shoulder a little harder. “You needed it. You weren’t waking up, and you wouldn’t stop bleeding. The Iron Disulfide worked for you the way Steroids work for humans—it boosted your strength, even unconscious.”

“I was afraid you would die,” Solomon piped in, sounding half-apologetic.

An irrational wave of anger came over her. “I’m a vampire, Sol. I wasn’t going to die—“

“You didn’t see what you looked like,” said Elena. “It wasn’t Solomon’s fault. I was the one who decided to give you the Skag. And nobody knows for sure what can and can’t kill a vampire, Chica. Forgive us if we did not want to risk it.”

Hermione gripped the edges of her coffin, her temper on the verge of exploding.

“The anger is from the drugs,” Elena continued. She didn’t bother to explain further.

Like I need an explanation for my aggression. “Tell. Me. Where. Harry. Is,” she said through her teeth. “Now.”

Elena sighed. “He’s in St. Mungo’s.”

Finally, an answer. “Special Cases ward?”

Elena nodded.

Hermione swallowed, her emotions warring between guilt and relief.

I’ve turned him… oh God, I’ve turned him!

He’s alive. That’s what’s important.

But I don’t know what I’ve turned him into… is he still the Harry I know? Or have I turned him into a raving, murderous vampire...?

Hermione buried her face in her hands. “Oh, God…” She hadn’t given it proper thought, turning him as she held him, dying in her arms. Now, in the calm of this unfamiliar room, she began to realize the true repercussions of what she’d done. Harry was going to be a vampire. He was going to want blood, and he could only walk in the dark. She couldn’t even fathom how the Wizarding World was going to treat him, even if he was still his relatively normal self. He killed Voldemort, but Harry Potter as a vampire? She wasn’t sure if his deeds could outshine the stigma of being a dark creature in the eyes of the judgmental Wizarding World.

He wanted a normal life, instead I’ve taken it away from him.

Hermione blinked back her tears. “Has he risen yet?”

Elena and Solomon exchanged looks.

It was Elena who replied. “Last we checked, he has not. We are due an update in a bit, but since the time he lost consciousness, it has been twenty-four hours.”

Hermione was startled quiet. She didn’t know what to make of that.

Twenty-four hours?

Humans turned within a few hours of the blood exchange. For twenty-four hours to lapse…

Her stomach dropped and the tears began to spill. “Are you—are you sure he’s ali… going to rise? I’ve never—I’ve never turned anyone before. I might have—perhaps I did it wrong…”

Elena looked helplessly at Solomon and finally, Solomon stepped forward.

“I’m not very sure about—“ He stopped and rephrased. “Ron tried to explain it, but he’s just as confused as everyone. He was here earlier. He’s alternating…”

“Solomon, please.” Hermione flashed him beseeching eyes. She didn’t think she could take any rambling right now. She needed answers.

Solomon understood. “Harry’s not dead. He—well, he was, for several hours he was dead, but they checked him for Veneficus and he had it, so they moved him to the Special Cases ward and… he just began to live again. He had a heartbeat, and he began to breathe, and he began… but he wouldn’t wake up, and he still has the Veneficus. Nobody can explain what’s happening. All we can figure is that you did turn him, but something must’ve happened when Fawkes—“

“Fawkes? What about Fawkes?”

Solomon peered at her anxiously. “Don’t you remember? Ron said Fawkes came, just after you turned Harry. He wept on Harry’s bite. I swear, Ron said you were watching it happen!”

Hermione’s head began to hurt when her mind went from zero to very, very fast in a vamp second. She didn’t remember Fawkes, but she did remember many things and it didn’t make the puzzle any easier to comprehend.

“I’d like to go to him,” she said, choosing her words well. If she demanded Solomon to take her to Harry, Elena might declare her a raving lunatic and prevent her from going. As it was, Elena did not look pleased by her little declaration. Perhaps she needed to sound more passive. “I’d like to be brought to St. Mungo’s, please, so I can talk to his doctors, and talk to his initiator… who did they get for him?”

“Ambrose took him, free of charge,” said Solomon.

Hermione couldn’t help but flash a sardonic smile. “Of course he would.”

Elena seemed confused.

“The Brotherhood of Osiris wants to pirate Hermione from the Coven,” Solomon explained.

“Ah,” said Elena with a knowing nod.

“It’s important to me to get to the bottom of this,” Hermione continued, finding that she could step out of her coffin without stumbling on her slightly wobbly legs. No one helped her. No one dared. “I want to know what’s going on and why Harry isn’t waking up. May I?” She tacked on the polite entreaty as an afterthought, and it worked.

Elena’s displeased features softened and she sighed. “I will find you both Wizards so you can Apparate.”

“By car is fine.”

Elena gave her a slightly bitter smile. “I will get you some Wizards.” She left the room and Solomon approached Hermione’s casket.

He took her hand, running his thumb over the back of it as he peered at her intently, as if checking to see if she was really alright.

Hermione couldn’t help but appreciate his concern. “I’m okay.”

His lips pursed and his grip on her hand tightened slightly. “I thought I was going to lose you, too.”

She remembered Lucien and her heart twisted with pain. “I am sorry,” she whispered, blinking back her tears. “I am so sorry I couldn’t protect him.”

“Hermione… it wasn’t your fault. If any, we share the blame, but… do we really want to go down that road? We have a whole eternity ahead of us. Do you want to live that long with guilt? Lucien would bugger us both for it.”

A tear fell, and she swiped it away with the back of her hand while forcing a small smile from her lips. “He would, wouldn’t he? He’d—“

It was too much. There were too many things to feel, strong emotions that she couldn’t hold back all at once. Lucien’s death, Harry’s turning, and all the other emotional burdens of everything that happened finally overwhelmed her. The tears broke through and she began to cry, burying her face in her hands as she hunched over and quietly sobbed. Solomon held her close in his arms, and there was comfort in shared grief, hearing him sniffle every so often.

Several minutes later, Hermione found that the worse of her grief was over for the meantime. She looked up, wiping away her tears with her fingers. “Lucien’s body…”

“It’s in the morgue at the Ministry. It was Harry… Harry brought him back.”

She nodded.

The door opened and Elena walked through, followed by Ron. He looked hurried and anxious, and it made Hermione very nervous.

“Ron!” she gasped as he approached her and gave her a tight embrace. The desperate way he held her for a few heartbeats longer and the trace of sadness she saw in his eyes when he pulled back was telling. She recognized what was behind the sadness: Loss. “Oh, Ron…”

His smile was tight-lipped, but she saw that he appreciated her concern, that he knew she understood. He shook his head, as if to tell her that there was time for that later. Right now, he had more pressing news. “Harry’s awake.”

That could mean one of many things. “Is he… is he lucid?”

Ron nodded.

She blurted out her next question before she lost the courage. “Is he angry with me?”

Ron looked at her with mild confusion.

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

He eyed her a moment before he told her he’d wait for her outside while she got ready. Solomon followed after him and Elena threw open a familiar looking overnight bag. Hermione could only suppose Solomon had brought some of her things over.

She was ready to Apparate with Ron in minutes. Tonks was there, too, to Apparate with Solomon.

Tonks gave her hand a kind squeeze.

Hermione smiled at her gratefully.

Elena led them up a flight of stairs and Hermione realized that they were at the top of a building, and that Elena’s London home was a three-story penthouse. It was windy, but calm above the city. It was difficult to imagine that the Wizarding world was in turmoil, even in the aftermath of a widespread battle.

Hermione could see several helicopters zipping by, a few of them marked with Muggle news stations and programs. She also spied groups of Wizards on brooms, but none of the Muggles seemed to pay them much mind.

“Obliviators have been working round the clock since yesterday,” said Ron mundanely. “And the Ministry has all their people on Misdirection charms.”

She watched the Wizards zipping by and felt a pang of urgency.

“Ready?” asked Ron, pulling her out of her thoughts.

She nodded, clutching Ron’s robe.

In the next moment, she felt the yank on her navel as Ron Apparated them to St. Mungo’s.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry thought about what Ambrose just told him, trying to remember what happened after he collapsed in the Riddle house. There was a lot of magic, and there was her. He had felt her holding him; saw her tears; heard the whispered apologies.

“Hermione turned me.”

Ambrose seemed to give what he said some thought. “That was the plan, I’d wager. She bit you and she gave you her blood.”

Harry let the news sink in. It was strange how it didn’t feel very different, being a vampire. For one, he didn’t think he’d want anything other than blood to drink, yet he held the cup of water in his hand, and he had drank from it earlier. Felt refreshed, even.

He popped the cap off, just to see if it was water indeed inside the cup.

The water was clear and cool.

His brows knotted as he shifted his tongue around his mouth, feeling for his fangs. He wasn’t sure if he felt them. His K-9s seemed to protrude a bit, and perhaps they were pointier than usual, though he never really paid attention before, so he couldn’t quite tell… they might have been fangs, but it was hard to figure just by feeling them.

“Well, I’m not a very good vampire, am I?” he said after a moment’s silence. “I don’t drink blood, my fangs are weak… what next? Can’t sleep during the day?”

Ambrose crossed his arms over his chest, drumming his fingers in ponderous silence. “How’s your arm, Harry?”

“It’s sore.”

“I’d imagine so. It was broken in three places twenty-four hours ago. You haven’t been given any Skele-gro, or anything else for that matter. Your wounds have healed. Not a scratch on you.” Ambrose paused. “Have you noticed that you’re not wearing your glasses?”

Harry actually brought up a hand to feel his face, as if he couldn’t tell without touching.

Ambrose went on. “You’ve got the Veneficus, yet you’re not undead. You’ve got a heartbeat, you’re breathing, and apparently, you have no bloodlust. First thing you asked for was water. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s a human sitting over there.”

Harry turned in the direction Ambrose indicated, mesmerized by Ambrose’s words. The “human” was a woman. Her brown hair was bushy, she was slim, dressed in a business suit, and was about average in height. She wasn’t strikingly gorgeous, but her gray eyes were filled with intelligence, and Harry found that rather attractive. He was a little too confused, though, to make much of these details.

He turned his gaze back at Ambrose. “I-I don’t—“

“Her name is Kathy. I brought her here in case you needed blood to drink. If you were a vampire, you would have heard her heartbeat. You would have smelled her blood.”

Harry looked over his shoulder again at Kathy. She smiled, non-threatening.

“Hullo,” he said rather absently.

She responded with the same greeting.

Convinced that Kathy was real, Harry looked back at Ambrose and whispered, “Do I know her?”

Ambrose shrugged. “Not likely. She was profiled after Hermione, just so you’d feel comfortable taking blood from her.”

Harry felt his face warm as he fidgeted.

Perhaps noticing his discomfort, Ambrose gave Kathy a nod and that seemed to be a sign for her to leave, because she stood and left the dungeon.

Ambrose sighed wearily. “Frankly Harry, I don’t know what the hell you are. You look like a vampire, but you’re not. I’m quite stumped.”

Harry didn’t know what to say.

Ambrose fished something from his back pocket. It was a key. He proceeded to undo Harry’s shackles.

Harry didn’t bother to ask why.

The pale skin of his wrists was rubbed slightly red from the manacles and they felt a bit raw. “Can I see her, then? Hermione, I mean.”

Ambrose nodded. “If she’s awake. Kathy would get the message to your friends that you’ve risen, and I expect one of them to be here in a bit. Would you—erm—like to comb your hair?”

Lovely. Even back from the dead, my hair’s still a mess. “There a loo down here?”

Harry could tell Ambrose was trying to look unbothered by Harry ignoring his grooming tips.

Ambrose gave him an overnight bag and pointed the way to the bathroom. Harry shuffled to it, feeling slightly weak at the knees but trying his best not to let it show.

Harry shut himself into a candle-lit loo and looked into the mirror.

It was surreal, to see his face so clearly without his glasses, even stranger for the face that was looking back.

His skin was paler than usual, gone of the healthy blush of life he had grown accustomed to having, living away from the Dursleys, but his complexion was oddly perfect; waxen, absolutely free of scars.

He touched his forehead, not a trace of his famous scar left behind. He had that scar all his life, and he knew it so well that he could trace the outline of it perfectly with his finger. If he looked hard enough, he thought maybe he was seeing it.

He swallowed. It’s over, Potter. Let it go…

He turned to the other changes on his face. His eyes were odd; green still, but rimmed. He remembered Lucien’s eyes, purple and beautiful, alight even in death. He recalled Hermione’s, grief stricken and liquid when Lucien’s name left Janus’s lips. Solomon’s eyes came to memory, awash with guilt and pained with loss. It didn’t matter what kind of eyes anyone had; so long as it was touched by emotion, they were human.

Harry blinked, his gaze traveling to his lips. They were redder, like they were newly kissed, and when he bared his teeth he saw that he did have fangs, though they weren’t nearly as pronounced as a real vampire’s fangs were.

So what am I, then, if I’m not a vamp?

He sighed, trying to remember what happened after he killed Voldemort.

His memories were very fuzzy, but if he could get hold of a Pensieve, he was sure he’d be able to sort things out.

Turning the knobs on the faucet, he washed his face with the cool water, running some of it through his hair in a poor attempt to tame it.

He looked at the mirror again.

Water dripped from his hair and fell on his shirt. He looked at himself and saw that the white undershirt they had put on him was stiff with starch. The pajamas he had on was possibly the silliest thing he’d ever seen.

Candy striped… did I buy this?

He remembered that he didn’t. It was something Cho gave as a gag-gift.

Of course Ron would pick the gag-gift pajamas amidst a drawer full of sensible ones.

He sighed and shook his head, grabbing the overnight bag he had set down on a nearby vanity table. He was glad to find a pair of jeans and essential toiletries. If he was going to be in a miserable mood, he might as well feel fresh as he wallowed in the angst.

He dug deeper into his bag and found a box that looked big enough to fit a wand.

He smiled, appreciating his best friend’s thoughtfulness.

Opening the box, he realized that Ron was even more thoughtful than Harry expected.

Ron had come a long way since his teaspoon days.

Harry set the box aside and sighed.

We do what we can to survive…

Well I’ve survived.

Time to live.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was pacing the floor when she found him. He was in a fresh pair of jeans, though they looked old and worn in parts. His starchy white shirt was rumpled and his hair was in hopeless disarray. He was barefoot.

He did not look his best, but seeing him alive, normal, and unbroken, Hermione thought he’d never been more beautiful.

She stood at the door and absorbed it all, half-frightened that he would be furious with her for what she’d done.

He turned, saw her, and smiled adoringly.

Her emotions running high—the remnants of the drugs making her slightly unbalanced—the stillness she had been struggling to hold on to broke. She ran and jumped into his arms, legs wrapping around him as she cried into his shoulder, whispering his name and peppering kisses all over his face in great relief.

“Whoa, hey…” His voice was soft and devoid of reproach, as if he sensed that she needed this. “It’s alright… there now.”

His strong grip of her was reassuring and she spoke through her kisses. “I was so afraid… you would hate me… I couldn’t… couldn’t let you die…”

He hushed her, setting her on the bed, and without need of ceremony, he kissed her.

His kiss made her toes curl and sigh happily against his mouth.

When they pulled apart, she stared into his strange new eyes, ringed like a vampire’s and even more strikingly green. His lips seemed redder against his waxen skin, and she could see that he had something resembling fangs in his mouth. He did seem to be a vampire, but when she touched his aura, it was neither vampire nor human.

She placed her palm against his cheek and felt warmth. “Do you feel the bloodlust at all?” she asked softly.

He gave her a tightlipped smile before he shook his head.

“What happened in that ballroom, Harry?”

He sighed and pulled her close in an embrace. “I don’t know. I’m only just beginning to remember. I saw the magic working, but I couldn’t explain what it was doing. It was all just lights and sounds, like a mesh of threads the color of silver and—“

“Gold,” she finished. “With shades of red and blankets of blue and purple…”

He pulled back to look at her. “You saw it.”

She wasn’t sure. “Maybe,” she replied with a soft sigh. “Perhaps we weren’t seeing the same thing, but… it hit me after we exchanged blood. It’s entirely probable that you lent me your sight. It’s normal for a vamp and a human to form a temporary bond during and a bit after the turning. The stories seem to imply that it’s the vamp who experiences it in stronger doses. The turned feels a bit of it, but on a very subtle level …”

“I knew you were afraid,” he said after a moment. “Is that what you mean?”

She gave it a brief thought, disturbed because she didn’t have all the answers this time. “Not—not really. When Janus turned me, it was nothing very specific. I just felt him… being there, and I knew I’d know it if he was dead, but there was nothing in my bond with Janus that really told me things. I certainly didn’t feel the bond during the turning… of course, that might have been because I was too busy dying…”

She was trying to be funny, but it fell a little flat. She saw the ghost of pain in Harry’s eyes, and instantly she realized that his wounds from that night in her parents’ attic would never really heal. She should have known. Watching him die hadn’t been easy for her, either.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to bring that up.”

A tiny smile played on his lips as he rubbed a thumb on the apple of her cheek. “What was running through your mind? When you turned me.”

She tensed, wondering if he had suddenly realized he was angry with her for doing it, and that now he was asking for some sort of explanation, but she saw only deep understanding in his eyes, as if the answer was more for her than it was for him.

“That I just wanted you to live,” she replied softly. She didn’t explain because she knew he understood what she meant perfectly.

He reached over her for something under his pillow. He pulled it out and recognized it as a wand box. She smiled when he opened it, revealing both of their wands.

She took hers, glad that it hadn’t been destroyed, which made him wonder about his. “You’d think Voldy would’ve snapped yours.”

Harry smirked. “He wouldn’t. It would’ve been his trophy. Better if it wasn’t broken, because it would’ve meant that he didn’t have to break my wand to beat me. Get it?”

She nodded, pocketing her wand in her coat. When she looked up, Harry took her hand. She could tell by the look on his face that he was going to do something, but trusting him, she wasn’t afraid, and she let him.

She was mildly surprised when he slipped her ring—her half of their rings—on her finger.

“No guilt. No regrets,” he said.

She knew he meant her turning of him, and it astounded her still that he understood fully what she had been feeling. She smiled gratefully, loving him for knowing. He showed her that he had his ring, and she took it, slipping it on his finger in turn.

“No regrets,” she said, just before they shared a temperature-inducing kiss to mark the promise.

“Besides,” he continued as he pulled away, gasping. “I need for you to find out what I am. It’ll bog down your research if you’re all angsty and depressed.”

She asked herself if he was feeling as cavalier about it as he sounded. She eyed him intently, wondering if it bothered him at all that nobody could explain what had happened to him.

Hermione had no answers now, but she replied, nonetheless. “You’re Harry. That’s—that’s really all that matters to me.”

He stared at her a moment before he smiled again. He looked tired—exhausted, really, but grateful, and he pulled her into his arms.

She sank into his embrace, closing her eyes, feeling the firm planes of his chest and the steady grasp of his arms. She inhaled his scent, the soap and water faint against his bed-slept skin. She listened and heard his heart beating, and it was comforting to know that the very important things about him were human, if he wasn’t anymore. She felt his warmth, and it was reassuring.

She didn’t know if her blood had saved Harry Potter’s life, but from now until the eternity ahead of her, she would never hate what she’d become, ever again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Snape eyed Peter Pettigrew across the booth in one of the seedy taverns of Scotland. Through the window of their booth, Snape saw sheep walking by, the herder plodding lazily behind it. One of the sheep gave a bleat.

In one hand, Snape held a wand; in the other, a cup of tea.

Peter, his legs magically bound beneath the table, had his hands stickied on the tabletop. He looked extremely uncomfortable, and very grungy, in spite of his alleged shower that morning.

“Quiet,” Snape mouthed to Peter as the tavern waiter, dirty apron and all, came over to plop a classic shepherd’s pie in front of him.

The food looked good, and Snape managed a grimace that tried to pass for a smile.

“Thank you.”

The waiter’s grimace was even worse, leaving them without a backward glance.

My kind of place.

“Would you like some, Peter?” Snape asked, delicately putting his cup of tea down and pushing back the sleeves of his ill-fitting Muggle-clothing as if it was the finest of fabrics and most elegant of cuts. “It’s greasy and tasty. Just say you do and I will let you have some.”

Peter scowled but said nothing.

“Very well,” said Snape, eyebrow raised haughtily. “You will regret it. I doubt they’d be very accommodating to your request of shepherd’s pie in Azkaban.”

At that, Peter hissed. “You’ll be sent there, too! And you’d be given the Kiss just like any of us! You murdered Albus Dumbledore with an Avada Kedavra!”

Snape made no sign that this fact affected him. “There is no Kiss anymore, you fool. That’s been over and done with since the Dark Lord took the Dementors under his employl. There’s just the veil now. You’re very lucky, though, if it were possible to make you walk the veil more than once, you’d be made to. Your list of atrocities rivals the Dark Lord’s.”

“You’ll be made to walk that veil, too! Don’t think you won’t.”

“Yes. This I know. For the meantime, we’ll see how things are settled in the Ministry. If it is anything like the last time, perhaps I won’t have much to worry about.”

Peter eyed him suspiciously. “What are you on about…?”

Snape sniffed and ate some of his shepherd’s pie, ignoring his question.

The Shepherd’s Pie was eaten, and occasionally, Snape would say something nonsensical, which Peter would sneer at.

When Snape was done with his dinner and wiped the corners of his mouth clean with a primly held paper napkin, he suddenly said, “I hold grudges, Peter. It is my nature to do so, and when I pay back, I do so with a vengeance. The last time I served my revenge, James Potter died in the hands of a mad man and Sirius Black was incarcerated in Azkaban for twelve years. Unfortunately, it also took Lily Evans. For that, I blame you.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “L-Lily… well, that was as much your doing as it was mine!”

Snape inclined his head in acceptance. “It was not something I wanted to happen, unlike you, who really did not give a shit. I am still paying for that in my own way, anyway. I did my penance with Albus Dumbledore. I still am doing so. I did my penance with Harry Potter, which you cannot conceive of how damning it was for me to do so. I will pay for the mistake of destroying Lily Evans for the rest of my natural life, but you won’t be willing to pay for it, so I will just have to make you.”

Peter glared at him. “So, are you going to keep me in your cellar and torture me? Make me suffer until you feel you’ve exacted vengeance?”

Snape waved away his words. “Such drama. I suppose I can appreciate that sort of thing. I’m in the business of revenge after all, but one thing people always seem to forget is that I am also a practical man. I know my situation. I live for the myriad little details of potion and intrigue. I will exact vengeance on you, Peter, but I will also use you. It is just a matter of how. We shall see in the next couple of weeks. Do not get your hopes up about living through this, though. However way I decide to do this, you will die. Count the hours, Wormtail. You haven’t long to live.”

At that, Peter paled, his eyes lowering to the table in front of him, as if pondering his short life.

Snape brought the remainder of his cold tea to his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: So Harry’s not a vamp. So what is he? Go to the next chapter and find out. ^_^

42. Chapter Forty-first: Aftermath

A/N: WARNING!!! Have you read Chapter 40: Turned yet? If not, click back. If yes, proceed!

More thanks to Tome Raider, especially for the Funeral Scene, which would not have been written if she were not around to inspire me.

Standard disclaimers apply

Chapter rating: NC-17

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Forty-first: Aftermath

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, elbows to knees as he sat in his study at Grimmauld Place, his heart filled with grief. He felt the soothing touch of Hermione’s hand on his back, stroking him gently, probably hoping to ease the deep sadness he was feeling.

On a nearby sofa chair, Ron was stooped over, elbows to knees as well.

They’d brought him back from St. Mungo’s together, but it was only when they got home that Ron sat him down and told him the grim news. Who died and who had gotten hurt.

Mad Eye was gone. So was Amos Diggory. Professor Sprout didn’t make it. Professor Flitwick was in serious condition. Ron mentioned names of classmates of old; students from Hogwarts and Beauxbaton. Ministry employees and shop-owners they knew. And when Ron listed all he could remember, he told Harry about Seamus Finnigan.

Harry willed his tears to stay unshed. He couldn’t be weak; he didn’t want to be.

Seamus had been his partner. Wayward as Seamus had been with his women, he had been a dependable and loyal Auror. Harry had saved his life many times, but Seamus had backed him up when nobody wanted to, when everyone else called him “mad,” Seamus laughed all of them off and did what he had to do to help Harry accomplish impossible tasks. Seamus had also covered for him all too often, whether it was to makes excuses for his inebriated over-sleeping, post-Hermione-search-failure or getting Harry across a field of hexes in one piece.

“He’ll be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, posthumously,” Ron said quietly. “Seamus and Dean got left behind enemy lines, and they found out there aerial vampire attack would be coming from the Easternmost side of the castle. Dean said someone spotted them and Seamus told Dean to go and warn the rest of the Hogwarts unit, that he’d cover for Dean and made sure Dean made it across the field alive… Seamus didn’t make it, but Dean did, and… well, the Coven vamps called over their morphers to meet the Death Eaters’ aerial attack.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. It was something he and Ron could’ve done, too. He could’ve been Dean in that situation, and Ron could’ve been Seamus…

Harry felt Hermione’s arm around him tighten.

He took a moment to control his emotions before looking up wearily. “I heard about Fred. I’m sorry, mate.”

Ron gave him a tight-lipped smile, filled with quiet grief. “All of us… well, most of us, at least, had lost hope for him for quite some time. It’s—I feel guilty about that, especially since George always believed he’d wake up one day, but when Fred died, I thought he’d only been waiting for the war to end before he finally let go and… left. I’m okay. Most of us have come to terms with it a long time ago, but George… he’ll take it hard when… if he wakes up. Luna’s with him…”

Harry saw something in Ron’s eyes that went beyond grief. It was heavy and miserable, but Harry wasn’t sure what it was. Ron blinked it away before Harry could examine it more closely.

Ron continued to speak. “Right now, the rest of us are just thinking of George… no one’s saying it, but we all feel rotten that Fred’s death… it occupies our thoughts less than George’s condition. But what are we supposed to do, Harry? Fred’s gone. I feel—very, very sad about that, but George… he can still make it. I just want him to make it.”

Harry had heard about George’s condition from Hermione. It was bad. He needed magic to make him breathe, and even if he woke up, the doctors said he might not walk again.

He wasn’t going to offer Ron empty promises, simply because he didn’t know if George would make it or not.

They sat for a long time, talking in quiet grief.

Harry realized that all his funeral clothes—he had quite a few of them—would be worn and washed that week alone. He set his gaze on Hermione beside him and she brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead tenderly. He smiled a bit, and she smiled back. He couldn’t help but think that he’d miss her comforting presence during the many morning and afternoon burials. She’d be able to make it to a few evening memorials, but many of the services would be held during the light of day.

She’d be asleep…

He wasn’t sure why he expected—somehow, that she wouldn’t be. He supposed seeing all that magic in the Riddle ballroom; how something dark and ominous had seemed to be removed from her made him expect some sort of change from her, and since the prophecy spoke of a broken vampire curse, he had assumed she could—

I don’t know… walk in the day, maybe?

She couldn’t. The morning following his rising, he had remained awake, while she drifted off into her vampiric sleep.

Their shared experience in the Riddle ballroom remained a mystery. Other than his changed appearance, there were no other signs that something inside him had changed. Hermione hadn’t begun any research, but already they could tell she was going to have a hard time of it.

He had a nagging suspicion—remembered words from Voldemort’s lips; magical phenomena that Harry saw with his own eyes—that Snape would be able to explain some of what happened, but the man was nowhere to be found.

It wasn’t surprising, really. Even with the role Snape took, spying for the Order, he had to be held accountable for Dumbledore’s murder, and Harry figured Snape didn’t want to be sentenced to Azkaban for anything. Not for one day, much less for twenty years—if he was lucky, “considering the mitigating circumstances,” Hermione had explained.

Their discussion went from funerals to memories, and soon they were remembering things that they could laugh at—quietly. The dead were yet to be buried.

The door to his study opened. No knock; no nothing, and Draco walked in.

And just when I thought I’ve had enough grief for one day…

Harry had forgotten about Draco, and perhaps some primal mistrust in the recesses of Harry’s mind had expected that Draco wouldn’t be there when he got back, yet that part in him that Hermione said wanted to believe in Dumbledore hoped that Draco would make the right decision. To see Draco standing by the couch, staring at him through a gaze conveying casual nonchalance, was jarring.

“What do you want?” Harry spat. Just because Draco exceeded Harry’s expectations, it didn’t mean Harry had to like him all of a sudden.

Draco sniffed after giving him a momentary look. “What the hell happened to you? Granger turned you, or something? You look like a fucking half-arsed vampire.”

Harry glared at him.

Draco paled a bit even while he stared right back.

“Back off, Malfoy,” Hermione hissed. “None of us are in the mood.”

“I’d like to talk to Potter alone,” said Draco. “So you could take your PMS—oh, that’s right, you don’t PMS, because you’ve lost the use of your equip—“

Harry was not going to let Draco speak to Hermione like that, ever again. He rose from his seat even before he realized he had gotten to his feet, and then Draco was up against the wall, Harry’s hand to his throat while Harry stared him down with his vampiric eyes and elongating fangs.

The surge of power in him was exhilarating, but his focus was sharp, and he remained intent on what he wanted Draco to understand.

Draco looked like he wanted to piss his pants, but Harry didn’t feel like laughing. In fact, he scowled, annoyed that he had to go through such lengths to make Draco pay attention.

The gagging noises Draco made finally prompted Harry to loosen his hold, then Hermione and Ron’s cries of, “Harry, let him go!” made him release Draco completely.

Harry stepped away from Draco while Draco recovered on the floor.

“Harry!” Ron gasped, then perhaps seeing Harry’s fangs and eyes, Ron blinked in shock. “Oh, shite.”

Hermione was less astonished. She touched his shoulder, squeezing firmly. “Harry? Harry, say something.”

Harry could feel his fangs retracting and his eyes easing from its blazing glare. He swallowed and stared at Draco. He looked at his hand, wondering how such a light touch could have had Draco gasping for breath on the floor.

“Don’t do that, Draco,” was all he could say, and three pairs of eyes turned to him disbelievingly. He kept his gaze on the man on the floor. “Just don’t. You can disrespect me all you want, but you keep your slurs and your bigotry away from Hermione. That’s the last time. Do you hear me? Are you finally listening to me?”

He wasn’t sorry for what he did to Draco, which was a bit of a surprise to himself, but he knew he hadn’t wanted to kill; he only wanted to frighten. And while the power was a rush, he hadn’t lost control. He knew exactly what he was doing.

And then the reality of the situation crashed upon him.

Holy shit… I vamped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Madame Pomphrey was done applying bruising salve on Draco’s neck, she gave Harry a thorough but quick examination. She asked brisk, medical questions and his answers had her brows knotting at least three times.

Standing around them were the anxious gazes of Ron, Hermione, Solomon, Remus, and Tonks. Draco merely sulked in the corner, mostly because his earlier threats of filing charges had, first, been mocked—“Oh, Harry made me piss my pants. Send him to Azkaban!” Ron had said in a high-pitched voice—, dismissed—“Oh, stick it up your arse, Malfoy,” from Hermione—, and then ignored.

Harry answered Madame Pomphrey’s questions mechanically. He’d gone through this routine hundreds of times in the past. He could quote Madame Pomphrey’s questions chapter and verse.

Finally, Madame Pomphrey asked a question that got his full attention. “Did you want to suck his blood?”

Harry looked up from his dazed expression and stifled a laugh. “Did I… vant to suck his blood, you mean?”

That seemed to have broken the tension in the room, because he thought maybe he heard a collective sigh of relief.

Hermione and Solomon actually laughed, and she sat beside Harry, wrapping her arms around his middle and leaning her chin on his shoulder. “I don’t care what Malfoy says. You make a very sexy vampire,” she whispered, breathing in his ear.

He wondered if it was even appropriate to get all hot and bothered by that in a room full of people. He wanted to press his own lips to her ear and whisper something sexier, which he just knew would take them in that direction, but there were other things to consider now, more important, if not better, things.

“I don’t understand what happened, Mr. Potter,” said Madame Pomphrey, professional even in the face of Hermione’s cuddling. “I noted an increase in your Veneficus levels, and I can only assume you had a lot more when you… vamped, but the fact that you’re not actually—well, it just defies all rules of magic, Muggle science, and simple logic. As you are, you’re fine; healthy, really. I heard your stomach growl a bit. Are you hungry? Eat something. A sandwich, maybe. Perhaps your vamping hyper-activates your metabolism. Saps your strength.”

Harry stared up at her, brows furrowed and wondering whether Madame Pomphrey wasn’t desperately trying to prescribe him something—anything that would make it seem like she helped him in some manner. She had always patched him up. Now she had no answers. He could tell it was bothering her.

“Erm, there’s some Shepherd’s Pie in the pantry, I think. I’ll have that, maybe…”

“Good! Nice and rich. You need to beef up, anyway. You’re looking a bit too skinny. All bones and sinew.”

Harry scowled; more so when he saw Ron, Solomon, Tonks stifling a laugh.

“Hush,” said Hermione softly, a ghost of a smile on her face.

“I am not skinny,” Harry muttered as Madame Pomphrey said her goodbyes and proceeded to leave the room.

Remus threw them exasperated glances as he escorted Madame Pomphrey out.

“Oh, stop it, all of you,” Hermione cried quite seriously when they all simultaneously burst out in giggles.

Harry shot them all a glare, putting his arm over Hermione’s shoulders, appreciative of her support. “I’m glad I can entertain you all.”

“Well, I’m not entertained,” said Draco sourly. “And before you so judiciously had me by the neck, Potter, I was going to tell you something important.”

“What could you possibly say that would interest me, Malfoy?”

Draco’s eyebrow arched haughtily. “My father. I have him in my custody. Would you like to know where I’ve kept him?”

He had finally shut all of them up.

Their attention captured, Draco went on. “He’s in my mother’s vault in Gringott’s. The Goblins ‘accidentally’ shut him in and they couldn’t seem to undo the lock. He hasn’t been given anything to eat, I think, but I suppose he’d have liquid in there. From what I remember, there are a selection or pretty rare wines in some of the crates. He could have it. I’ll be making my own wine in my vineyard in Tuscany.”

Harry didn’t know what to say.

“Your vineyard in Tuscany?” Solomon asked. It wasn’t the smartest thing to say, but it was better than nothing.

“Yes,” said Draco. “I haven’t bought it yet, but it will be mine, just as soon as I bargain my way out of my prison sentence.”

That snapped Harry out of his daze. “Tonks—“

“I’m on it.” Tonks said, beginning to head out of the room to contact the Auror department about Lucius Malfoy.

Harry stood but Tonks ordered him to sit back down with a potent glare.

“Talk to him,” she said, meaning Draco. She left.

“And how did you manage that?” Hermione asked. “Getting your father into your mother’s bank vault?”

“A most serendipitous event, I assure you,” said Draco. “I went to the bank. I needed advice on my finances… for the vineyard, you understand. While I was there, I was informed by one Mr. Proudlip that my father was at the front desk, demanding to be let into my mother’s vault. As the rightful inheritor of the vault, I was asked what I wanted done. I told Mr. Proudlip to accommodate my father’s request. The vault locks are ancient. I’m sure it was some sort of malfunction.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “So you use your new-found freedom to go to Grigotts… in the middle of a full-blown war… to get financial advice?”

“Yes,” said Draco silkily. “Do you have a problem with that, Granger?”

“I have a question for you, Malfoy,” she said. “Do I look like an idiot?” She was snarling by the time she was done and Draco took a step back but didn’t retreat, which was saying something for the oft-cowardly man.

“Is it so hard for you to believe that I’d like to live the rest of my life free of the threat of incarceration?” said Draco, showing true emotion. “I’ve served my time in this horrid house; put up with the lot of you; worked in a goddamn tomb; I’ve been relatively well-behaved; and dammit, I even helped you in the fucking war effort! I’ve earned my freedom, and I’m not going to throw it away trying to escape when Potter gave me the chance!”

Everyone listened to him with rapt attention. Harry had never seen Draco like this, not even when Draco threw him a sucker punch after Harry said something disrespectful about Narcissa. He eyed Draco suspiciously even as he listened. Harry knew, by default, that Draco had lied about something, maybe earlier on in the discussion, but the man wasn’t lying now.

Draco rounded on Harry angrily. “Because that’s what you were hoping for, weren’t you? You wanted me to do something so you can haul my arse to Azkaban once and for all! Well, it didn’t work. I’m still here, and I’ve caught you a major Death Eater. I demand my freedom. I earned it. I EARNED IT.”

Harry was never one to give Draco any kind of consideration. He felt sympathy for Draco when news of his mother’s death came, but Draco didn’t want his compassion. Draco didn’t want anyone thinking he was more than… well, Draco. But right now, Harry actually saw the merits of Draco’s words. Was it even possible in this universe for Harry to think that Draco deserved to be let go?

Thinking about it, it occurred to Harry that Draco had nothing but his dreams left. His mother was dead, his father was going to be executed, his aunt already dead by Veil, nobody loved him, and there was really nothing for him to look forward to except freedom and starting over.

He has no one…

Draco, perhaps seeing the look in Harry’s eyes, or maybe even hearing Harry’s thoughts, glared at him so fiercely that Harry thought Draco could vamp quite well, too.

“Don’t you fucking dare feel sorry for me, you useless excuse for a Gryffindor!” Draco hissed. “You better goddamn NOT give me your sympathy. I want nothing to do with it! Just give me my due. Give it to me or I’ll haul your arse into court and sue you for anything and everything. I don’t care if I can’t prove anything. I’ll harass you every second of your bloodsucking life, you son of a—“

“Alright!” Harry cried. He didn’t want to hear anymore. “Alright already! I get it! Submit your petition for release, or whatever it is you do with barristers, and when the time comes for testimony, I’ll be fair. I’ll stand witness to your good and bad behavior. I won’t keep you here if a judge rules that you’re free to go. Is that what you want?”

Draco paused, expelling a breath as he straightened his rumpled hair and clothes. He seemed to have regrouped and gotten his haughty expression back. “Yes. And that’s all I ask, really. Now if you don’t mind, I have to contact myself a barrister. Excuse me.”

He left and no one stopped him; not even Hermione, who always seemed to have something nasty to say to him.

The door slammed shut and all four of them stared at one another.

“Son of a bitch,” gasped Ron.

That seemed to break the tension.

Hermione scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. “Bullocks! He’s still a world class arsehole! He’s—He’s—a racist, selfish, murderous little ferret faced gint! I still want to—I still want to wring his neck!”

“Oh believe me,” Harry said wearily. “Nobody in this room hates him any less, but the man has a right to his freedom. You know this, don’t you, Hermione?”

For a moment, Harry thought she was going to be stubborn, but she was Hermione, after all; agent of Justice and all that.

Hermione growled. “Oh, bugger me! Of course I know.”

“Well, since when was this a bloody democracy?” Ron asked.

“Ron!” hissed Hermione in disapproval. “You don’t mean that!”

Ron sighed in exasperation. “Fine, I don’t! Doesn’t mean I’ll like it, though!”

“Bloody Gryffindors,” Solomon muttered.

Ron sneered at him. “Oh, and I suppose Hufflepuffs are so much more interesting, seeing as your house-animal is the oh-so-fascinating Badger.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean!” Solomon cried.

“Oh, don’t take it out on him, Ron,” Hermione said. “Sol, my dear, he didn’t mean that. Badgers are very dependable animals and—well, you know what? That’s really not important right now, is it? Harry, can I talk to you in private?”

Harry would like that, though he didn’t know what for. He nodded and opened the drawing room door for her to walk through. They made their way back to Harry’s study.

When they were shut in, Hermione rounded on him.

“Do you really think Malfoy deserves to be set free?”

Harry swallowed. “What do you think?”

“I asked first.”

He paused, giving it some thought. “Would you—would you think me a fool if I said yes?”

For a heartbeat, her face was a mask of stone, and then her expression softened. “No, Harry, of course not. You’re not a fool.”

“He’s right, you know. I removed the restrictions on him—gave him the perfect opportunity to escape. And I expected him to, Hermione. I was so sure Malfoy was going to up and leave. It would have been so easy for him. I think Draco hit the nail right on the head when he said I just wanted him to do something so I could haul him off to Azkaban…”

Hermione shook her head, holding him by the shoulders. “Draco’s not right. He did that thing again—planting doubt in your heart, but he doesn’t know you. I know you, and I’ll tell you why you did what you did; why you removed his brace. You were testing him. You were giving him the chance to prove himself because you needed Dumbledore to be right again.”

Harry sighed. “You’re giving him too much credit, thinking that he passed the test because he worked hard for it. I’m pretty sure he cheated somewhere. If not, I think Draco found a loophole and used it to his advantage.”

“He’s a Slytherin. He couldn’t help it, but think of his motivations for staying.”

“Revenge on his father?”

“There’s that, but he already believed he was serving revenge through you. He just wants to be free, body and mind. He wants to live in a vineyard in Tuscany without wondering how many years of Azkaban he’ll get if he was caught by Aurors in his Italian hideaway. I think that’s saying something. Pain in the ass, he will always be, but I think his motivations have changed since leaving the service of Death Eaters.” She smirked. “You already know this. You just needed to hear it from me.”

He never really thought of it with that much detail, but he always did things on instinct, and his instincts were always right. It was Hermione, as always, who broke it down for him.

He sighed, sitting on the backrest of the couch and pulling her to him. “How do I know he isn’t going to be like his father?”

She smiled wanly. “You don’t.”

He expelled a breath and nodded, burying his face on the crook of her neck and shoulder. “I’m supposed to be happy that Voldemort is gone, you and Ron are alive, and that the war is quickly coming to an end. Why do I feel so weighed down by everything else?”

“Because you’re a human being and you have a soul.” She idly played with the strands of his hair as she let him take solace in her gentle embrace.

He nodded and pulled away, cupping her face so he could kiss her several times before leaving her arms completely. “I have to go to the Ministry. Get the business with Lucius Malfoy over with. Red tape, you know.”

She sighed a bit. “You just defeated the greatest threat known to the Wizarding world forty-eight hours ago, Potter. You deserve a break, don’t you think?”

“Time enough for that when I retire from the Auror department and teach in Hogwarts.”

He was serious and he could tell she knew it. Her momentary look of surprise faded with the smile on her lips.

“See you later, then?” she asked.

He nodded, stealing one last kiss before he headed out the door.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry asked Ron about their unnamed Death Eater spy that morning, before sunup, while they sat drinking tea at the kitchen in Grimmauld Place. Hermione’s small cup of hot chocolate piped steam until it went cold and untouched.

Ron finally told him who the Death Eater had been. Harry didn’t know if he was shocked to hear that it had been Viktor Krum. He was shocked to hear that Viktor had chosen Ron as his Secret Keeper.

Ron told him that Viktor’s new identity was still a secret—hopefully not for long, but that Viktor would still prefer to keep things quiet while he healed in Bulgaria. The only reason Viktor let Ron tell Harry, in any case, was because Ron requested it, because he was sure Harry was going to ask.

“Has he turned yet?” Harry asked quietly.

Ron nodded. “He has, but he’ll be alright, I reckon. He’s got his Initiator and he’s on a full regimen of Wolfsbane potion. He didn’t think it was so bad, anyway. If he goes back to play for the Vrasta Vultures, he wouldn’t be able to play on a full-moon night, but he didn’t think that was a big problem.”

“We should drop by to see him some time,” Hermione had suggested meekly. “After he’s done with his two-week initiation… but only if you want to. I won’t go by myself if you’re… uncomfortable with it, Harry.”

Harry hadn’t missed the cautious look she dealt him upon saying that. It warmed his heart to see her over-considerate of his feelings, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable having her that way. The real Hermione would go to Viktor whether or not Harry said he’d go with her, because it was only right to pay Viktor a visit, but he supposed having him dying in her arms still had its effect on her.

He told her that they would go to Viktor as soon as Viktor’s initiation was completed, and that Harry would like to thank the man that put so much on the line for him, and for her.

Her relief was very touching and strangely enough, it gave him joy.

He put his arm around her, squeezing her shoulders reassuringly as he pressed a kiss to her temple. Her smile brightened and she began to ask Ron about Viktor’s children.

Ron was only too glad to tell her about them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lucius Malfoy was just one of many Death Eaters Harry had to file reports for.

Many of the major players in Voldemort’s camp were under Harry’s roster of cases, mainly because he had asked for them.

By far, Bellatrix Lestrange was a most satisfying capture. She was removed from Hermione’s body-bind at the station. She had screamed and raved ever since, even in her weakened state.

Antonin Dolohov would have been satisfying, too, but the man was dead. After he was dispatched to join the Hogwarts raiding party from the Riddle house, he was caught by a Reducto and was stamped underfoot by their own giants.

Over the next few days, a few other Death Eaters were rounded up and detained in Azkaban, but for major players like Lucius, Bellatrix, and Macnair, who had decrees of Immediate Execution on their heads even before they were brought before the Wizengamot, there was no reprieve. They were made to walk through the Veil barely a day after they were hauled in. He didn’t even get to see Bellatrix walk, because he was still unconscious at the time of her execution.

Harry still felt ambivalence in the matter of such decrees. After all, Sirius Black had once been framed for his parents’ murder. If a proper trial had been conducted, it might have proven Sirius’s innocence, but it was hard to make such an argument with his conscience where Lucius, Bellatrix, and Macnair were concerned, harder still when a decree for Immediate Execution was issued for Peter Pettigrew—still at large—, who was the one really responsible for his parents’ deaths. Really, there was hardly any point for him to crow about the ideologies of “proper” justice when he did want nothing more than to see Lucius, Bellatrix, Macnair and Peter pay for their sins.

“You’re right about Bellatrix, though,” Hermione told him when he voiced his concerns about the entire thing. “I wouldn’t want the Veil for her. That would be too kind. First I’d nail her to a coffin, and then I’d push her through the Veil.”

Harry didn’t feel he had a right to tell Hermione she was being too bloodthirsty. He wasn’t the one Bellatrix nailed into a coffin. But afterwards, when Hermione had finished her full Anti-Bellatrix rant, she turned to Harry with utmost understanding and said, “You’re thinking about Snape, aren’t you? You don’t think he should be made to walk through the Veil.”

She was right, of course. As always. The decree for Snape’s Immediate Execution was brought to him by Remus, himself. Remus swore Tonks had tried to reason with the tribunal; plea bargain, even: “Put him in Azkaban. Make him serve time, but not the Veil. Not a decree for Immediate Execution.” But of course, no one listened. Snape had killed Albus Dumbledore—with an Avada Kedavra no less. Snape had to pay, therefore Snape had to die.

Harry never thought he’d ever feel he had to save Snape’s life, but at that moment, he hoped Snape could successfully escape and avoid execution. It was horrible to think that Snape would have such a decree on his head for the rest of his life, but Harry could only conclude that being alive and in-hiding was a better alternative than being found and executed.

He put in a well-conceived Request for Pardon for Severus Snape, hoping that maybe his status as Harry Defeater of Voldemort Potter would get Snape out of the fix. The request was denied on the same day. He submitted a Petition for Reprieve. The petition was denied within the hour.

Snape was going to die and there was nothing Harry could do about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Burying Seamus had been a very solemn affair. While the posthumously awarded Order of Merlin was a balm to the grief, the grief was there, nonetheless. Harry felt extremely relieved that Dean was made to give the eulogy, but he told no one that this is what he felt; not even Ron.

Harry, Dean, Ron, and Neville were among those who carried his casket, while his family walked behind. Harry took his place at the very front of the coffin, probably to place a distance between him and Seamus’s mum. He didn’t think he could bear the sight of Seamus’s weeping mother for longer than he had to give his condolences and apologies to her.

Harry was deeply appreciative of Ron standing steadily beside him as Seamus was lowered to the ground. Harry took his place behind Dean, who was behind Seamus’s family at the front.

Ginny, in the midst of consoling Dean with her presence, looked over her shoulder a few times to ask him with her eyes how he was doing.

He could only nod in response. No words had been necessary. In the last week, everyone seemed to have a deep understanding of each other’s loss.

Seamus’s casket wasn’t the first one Harry had to carry. Fred’s funeral was held only a few days before. His remains were put on a pyre to be burned, and the ceremonies were held at night. Hermione and Solomon were able to attend. While Harry carried Fred’s coffin, the Weasleys walked behind it, and Harry was glad to see Hermione walking by Ron.

As the casket was burned, Ron leaned over his elbows and wept, silent and still. Hermione let him lean on her, and Ron took the offered comfort. The running of her pale fingers in Ron’s flaming red hair brought Harry back to Dumbledore’s funeral, how that day, in spite of his grief, he thought Hermione and Ron were together.

He had been young, and impressionable. He knew what friendship was, but he couldn’t have known yet how deeply it could go without romantic feelings jumbling it up. Yet, he knew romantic love when he saw it and thought it could make everything right at the snap of a finger.

How experience changes our perceptions…

Lucien’s funeral had taken place in the dead of midnight. There was a plot of land in the Sussex countryside where very few Vampires were buried, but it was an official memorial park for vamps, nonetheless. The place was guarded by wards and an official slew of horror stories, just so Muggles would stay away from it.

Most of the attendees were vamps, many of whom seemed to be acquaintances of Hermione and Solomon. It was very disconcerting when Harry realized that all of Hermione’s vampire ex-boyfriends showed up to give their condolences.

Adrian, Mr. Tantric himself, was absolutely the most good-looking bloke Harry had ever seen. The man looked like a Muggle movie star, and he was genteel and intelligent. No wonder Hermione dated him!

Harry didn’t really have any self-esteem issues when it came to his looks, mostly because he had bigger issues to deal with for most of his young life, but seeing Adrian seemed to have brought to the surface all those self-esteem issues he had never delved on in his teens.

Harry figured, however, that he would rather die than admit anything so superfluous during Lucien’s funeral, even if he knew Lucien would’ve loved it all; his feelings of insecurity and inadequacy. Lucien would’ve laughed in his face and had a grand time of his misery.

But Hermione—and he loved her so dearly for it—erased all his insecurities with one look; one touch.

She hooked her hand on his arm, cast him a loving stare, and said, “Adrian, I’d like you to meet Harry Potter.” She didn’t say anything complicated, but the tender stroking of her fingers gently eased his inadequacies away.

When he looked up to shake Adrian’s hand, there was an expression of resignation in Adrian’s eyes that was cushioned by Adrian’s amused chuckle.

“Ah,” was what Adrian said. “Good to finally meet you.”

Harry didn’t even ask what that meant. All he knew was that it made him feel oddly good about himself.

Ron was introduced as well, and they ended up talking for quite a bit, having a similar interest in dragons.

Yasmin did not make an appearance, which was just as well. Earlier that week, Hermione had received a card. Yasmin conveyed her condolences in her beautiful script, telling Hermione that all the arrangements for Lucien’s funeral had been made, but that regrettably, Yasmin would be unable to attend the services because of pressing matters related to the war. Hermione had called Henry to confirm the veracity of the card, and Henry had told her that indeed, Yasmin was back, that Lucien’s funeral arrangements were indeed settled. There was nothing for Hermione to do but let it be.

So the arrangements were beautifully organized. Henry came to represent Yasmin, and both Ambrose and Gabriel arrived to pay their respects.

The dark woods upon which the burial would be held was lit with enchanted torches. The trees that surrounded the vast burial grounds were thick; silent and lifeless. Tombstones sprung from the earth all around; elaborate displays of strange things—statues of fairies and gargoyles; odd sculptures and three-dimensional insignias; even a demon or two. No crosses. It was only right.

Lucien’s burial plot was made distinct by the dug earth, carved just right to fit his obsidian coffin, perched for the meantime on a covered platform. The casket was open, and Harry saw that there was something about death—real death, that made vampires seem more human than ever.

Lucien’s body was prepared well. There was no sign whatsoever of his cause of death. Harry supposed that it really wasn’t important to know how. Why was perhaps more important where vampires were concerned.

Surrounding their section were standing flowers, bouquets, and baskets. But most striking of all was that most of the flowers were a startling blood red, accented here and there by other colors that were just as deep. A lot of the flowers were roses, but there were many other blooms that Harry couldn’t identify. The smell of exotic incense was thick, but Harry didn’t think it pungent. It was strangely pleasing. Relaxing to the senses.

He looked at Hermione, watching her stoic face as she walked, her hand through his arm. Since leaving the house, she’d held a parcel to herself which was wrapped in a beautifully patterned fabric of black velvet and purple silk: The color of Lucien’s eyes. When Harry had offered to carry the parcel for her, she had merely shook her head.

There were rows of somber black seats perfectly arranged in a semi-circle around the coffin. Guests were expected to be seated as they held the pre-burial memorial.

The usher showed Hermione to the seat, front and center. Harry sat to one side of her while Solomon took the other. Ron sat directly behind them, a reassuring presence.

Harry spotted Tonks and Remus seated amongst the small crowd.

The rows easily filled up, and there were many left standing to the sides and back.

There seemed to be a host of sorts who presided over, but there was no elaborate ceremony. There were certainly no prayers. The genteel, mild-mannered vampire host simply asked those with something to say about the departed to come forward.

He didn’t need to speak loud in spite of the relatively open air. The cold, crisp night was still and frigid, and perhaps their lone voices bounded off the many six-foot tombstones.

One by one, vampires came forward to say something about Lucien. Many of the things they remembered him by were incidents of fun and frolic. To these vamps, he was a funny bloke; a lover; a fashion aficionado; the life of a party. There was quiet laughter and amused, yet melancholic smiles all around.

It was hard to tell how Hermione felt about it all. Harry held her hand as she sat almost stoically stiff on her seat, her black veil hiding the agonizing pain in her eyes, unable to laugh with everyone else. Her hand twitched in his whenever a tear attempted to roll its way down her cheek, but she was always quick to dab the tears away before they fell.

Finally, the host looked to her. She sat still for several seconds, and Harry had to lean over, asking her softly if there was something she wanted to say before they lowered Lucien’s casket to the ground.

She nodded and stood, her hand lingering in Harry’s until she was too far for him to hold.

Her dark robes were still in the windless air and Harry noticed that she held her parcel tighter across her chest.

“I haven’t known him for very long compared to many of you,” she said, her voice soft, but steady. “Five years seem so little to one hundred fifty. But that hardly matters to me, or perhaps even to him, because I was there during his best years. I didn’t meet him in a club. I didn’t meet him in bed, or in a fashion show or a party. He stumbled on to my doorstep, at his very worse, when no one else wanted him, begging for my help. He wasn’t laughing, or amorous, and he was in torn, muddied clothing. You wouldn’t have known him as the Lucien you might have known before. But I’ll always be glad that I met him that way. Because when you meet a man gone of his trappings—without his frivolities and masks, you see who he really is, and he knows you see him too. His ‘disguises’ weren’t going to work on me anymore, so to me everything about him was real. When he laughed, he was happy. When he cried he was sad. When he said he loved me, I knew he did. His true loyalty has no boundaries and he would take—took a sword for the ones he loved…” Her voice trailed for a moment and she swallowed. When she spoke again, it was as steady as it was when she started, and something that appeared to be a smile spread on her lips. “But don’t any of you be calling him a saint. Try it and he’d turn over in his grave.”

Soft laughter rippled through the crowd. At that same moment, Hermione turned, hiding the trembling of her lips. Harry almost didn’t catch it.

She took her parcel and unwrapped it, revealing a sheathed sword—Lucien’s sword. She pulled the sword free of its scabbard, partway, and Harry saw the glitter of blood just where her thumb touched against the blade.

She snapped the sheathed back on and placed the sword parallel to Lucien’s body, delicately maneuvering so that the hilt would rest under his hands that were folded one atop the other just beneath his chest.

Her part done, she went back to her seat and watched as the casket was lowered to the ground and covered with earth.

Hermione held her own the entire time. She spoke in an even tone when attendees approached her to give their last minute condolences, and in the car, she held herself steady enough to seem emotionless. She remained strong even when they arrived at Grimmauld Place.

She pulled him into his room, possibly hoping to ease the grief away with mind-numbing sex, but when he gave gentle resistance to her heated kiss—instead taking her tightly in his arms—, she finally broke down and cried. The rest of the darkness was spent lying in bed, mostly in comforting silence when they weren’t talking about Lucien’s merits and hilariously bad deeds.

It was, as Harry expected, a week full of funerals and memorials, and he felt obligated to go to every one of them. It would continue on to the next two weeks ahead amidst the bustle of practical, day to day red tape that the events had seemed to incite.

The Ministry was busier than ever.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry hadn’t had time to give his present state of half-vampirism much thought. He had put his memory, Hermione’s, and Ron’s in a Pensieve, and he and Hermione had examined the memories together, several times, but there was nothing to be gotten from it, really.

Hermione had done research every night since Draco came to them with news of his father, but she hadn’t been successful.

She seemed to spend a lot of time with Remus, too, who had seemed so eager to talk to her about something he didn’t seem to want to divulge to just anyone. Harry got the impression that it had something to do with Remus’s research at the M.R.I. It was about as much as Hermione was willing to tell him, at any rate.

She also admitted that Remus volunteered his resources to search for answers about Harry’s condition. That they still didn’t have any answers was making Harry a bit uncomfortable.

He was beginning to think he was some sort of new species; that he was a freak, and he told her so one evening amidst the bookshelves on the second floor of the Black Library.

He had, quiet simply said while paging through on irrelevant book, “I’m a freak. Always have been, anyway…”

Hermione hadn’t liked hearing that in the least. The book she held was unceremoniously slammed shut and she scowled, almost angrily. She had no affection for the term “freak.”

“Freak is a term born of ignorance and fear,” she said, a slight squeak in her voice. “We are Gryffindors. There will be no more ignorance and fear in this house. I will get to the bottom of this if it kills me, but in the meantime, we will not call your condition anything. And what’s so bad about what you are, anyway? Personally, I find nothing freakish about it. I happen to think that half of you makes you dead sexy, no pun intended. Your new eyes give me the chills, in a good way, and…”

Needless to say, her scolding from that point on suddenly made him terribly randy.

She kept scolding, but all he could think about was that he hadn’t made love to her in more than a week. She was so intent on her lecture that she hadn’t noticed that he was taking her in with his eyes.

Her white button-up blouse fit well to her form, the fabric sticking close around her breasts. And even without peeking above the unbuttoned opening at the forefront, he could see some of the bumps of her lacey bra through the surface of it. Even in the dim lighting, he could tell that the color of it was purple. Definitely something he could appreciate.

Her gray-plaid pleated miniskirt was one he’d seen before. It was flirty, and perhaps too short for the prudish. She had gotten his attention enough times already throughout the night, usually when she had to bend over, but right now, the skirt was some kind of “Welcome” sign that he wasn’t willing to refuse.

She had on the most amusing black boots. Clunky footwear. She had worn it because she said it was comfortable, and because it didn’t go badly with the skirt, either.

Her whole outfit, he realized, was screaming something he had missed through the veil of her “important research.”

She was in the midst of telling him that he was so much stronger now than he ever was before when he practically stopped her blithering with a full-body brace against the book shelves.

Hermione’s words were completely cut off by his tongue swirling in her mouth, catching her gasp in a deep, consuming kiss.

That seemed to do the trick quite nicely and she melted into his arms, wrapping her legs around him as she kissed him back, her tongue responding enthusiastically and her hips rolling slowly against his straining erection.

When they separated, she said, “Oh, finally! I thought you’d never come ‘round!”

“Microscopic skirts and see-through blouses,” he gasped, feverishly placing kisses on her jaw and that sweet spot beneath her ear. “You could have just told me…”

“Dressing like a tramp was so much more fun and randy,” she breathed. “I wanted you to want me bad…”

He chuckled, shifting to suck on her tongue and whisper “Tramp,” against her mouth.

She shuddered and smiled, hastily instructing him to undress her. He began to undo the buttons of her blouse, pressing his lips and laving her skin at her throat as he did so.

She made a most maddening sound from her throat, and he didn’t bother to fumble with the rest of the buttons. He tore her blouse open, the clinking sound of scattering buttons pleasantly pitter-pattering around them.

Cupping her breasts, he kissed and tongued the wonderful swell of them, his cock twitching at the mere thought that she was indeed wearing his favorite bra. Not only was it purple, lacey and flirty, but it was the mother of all bras: front clasp.

It took but a tweak to undo her trappings and he was quick to take full advantage of her unfettered breasts, sucking on each hardening peak while she made encouraging sounds and pressed harder on his crotch.

His sigh was of frustration, but he liked the sweet torture, anyway, raising his head to kiss her lips, tongues twirling satisfyingly against one another while his hands traveled up her thighs to push back her little skirt so he could grab her ass.

The firm bump of her behind was pleasing against his palms, and he squeezed with one hand while tracing the edges of her knickers with the other. He could feel the lace on the pads of his fingers and he pulled away to look down and see just what he would be taking off her.

Her tongue was suddenly grazing the shell of his ear before it made tender passes on his neck. He closed his eyes, savoring the velvety feel of her tongue while he groaned and rocked against her.

“Like what you see, Potter?”

Of course his favorite bra would be matched with his favorite knickers.

He could only give an answering groan, bracing her against the shelves as he slipped her panties off and deposited it on the floor.

She was wet against his fingers, the gentle circling of his thumb on her clit while he slipped his fore and middle finger inside her had her squirming and throwing her head back as she moaned.

He pressed his lips to her inviting throat, working firm circles and thrusts with his hand while rasping his teeth gently against her skin. His astonishment at feeling his fangs extending slightly was marginal, and he continued on with his ministrations, but Hermione gasped loudly.

“O-Oh, mercy! Oh, yes!” she cried as she arched stiffly into the press of his hand. He smiled as he felt and heard her orgasm. It was the most satisfying sound in the world.

In his smugness, he was unprepared for the burst of pheromones that followed, hers reacting with his own. It flowed thick in the air and Harry thought he was going to pass out from it, his hold on her weakening slightly.

He wasn’t even aware that she had alighted herself on her feet and began to fumble with the buttons of his trousers. He only realized it when she had his trousers and pants down to his knees. She knelt and proceeded to give him the most mind-blowing fellatio with her lips, tongue, and skillful hands.

He fell back against the opposite shelves, bracing the frames for support as he groaned helplessly and watched her with his lust-drunken gaze.

Harry began to feel himself lose control, and it took the most unsavory thoughts for him to keep his orgasm at bay. It was almost impossible. Hermione took on the task with the same brilliance she had in all things academic.

“Stop,” he finally said, his voice hoarse from the rasping of his breath. “Enough…”

She pulled away, a wicked gleam in her eyes and smile. She was ravishing. Her blouse and bra undone, her hair a succulent pile of curls around her and her skirt riding up her thighs, she knew full well that she was a sight to see.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked in maddeningly affected innocence.

He coaxed her back to her feet, hitching her by her thigh against his waist and pressed her back against the opposite shelves in revenge.

She gave a exquisite, “Ooh!” and giggled.

“You know full well that I liked it very much, witch,” he whispered. He tasted the hollow of her throat and guided his cock to her center.

“How much?” she asked softly, tilting her hips.

It was easier to show her the answer with the thrust of his hips.

Being inside her was a whole new explosion of sensations, and when she thrust back, the shelves really rattled.

Their combined moans were thick against the hot, sweaty cadence of their joining.

He was enthralled by all of her, but the feeling her around his cock and the promises of orgasmic relief was intensifying his need. He slowed, only to have her pleading to go on.

Desperation rushed adrenaline through him, and his fangs extended even more.

Her eyes widened at the sight of it, just before she sighed and pressed her mouth to his. The sensual kiss was followed by pheromones so potent that he hardly noticed when Hermione pierced his tongue, and then pierced hers.

The coppery taste of her blood grew sweet and intoxicating, and the thought of having all of her was intensely mind-blowing. Her blood slid down his throat in liquid heat, flavoring his arousal. He didn’t know if he could take much more.

When she stiffened in his arms and made that sound of desperate surrender, he came, moaning as he pressed hard into her, riding the waves of his orgasm while she rode hers.

It was over in a bit, and only then did Harry feel an overwhelming weakness.

He pulled away gingerly, her body still wrapped around him, and he carefully stepped backwards until he met shelf. He slid down to the floor, panting for breath.

She leaned against him as she sat comfortably on his lap. “Oh, Harry… love, that was wonderful…”

It was dreadfully ego-inflating, but he didn’t think he was in any condition to act big and manly, considering all he wanted to do right now was drift right off to sleep. It was while he was trying to fight off the drowsiness when she began to ramble.

“Oh, Harry… so sexy and hot… I was coming so hard… we have to do that again soon… oh, but wasn’t he so strong, the way he held me like that? I have never felt like that with another man. Harry is the BEST. Absolutely no one compares!”

He jerked awake and he looked at her, astonished that she would even bring up other men, even if he was very pleased to have her say he was “the BEST” and that “absolutely no one” compared. It was strange, however, that she was talking to him in the third person.

Staring at her, he realized that she wasn’t talking at all. She was thinking.

“Sorry, I forgot to remind you,” she said, speaking all of a sudden. “The mind link… after the blood exchange…”

He stared at her, fascinated as her unfettered, uninhibited thoughts poured gently into his mind. At first it was all just thoughts of him, and then the rest of her began to filter through. It was like an operatic song, the way her mind worked, and it was only then he fully realized how beautiful her mind was.

It wasn’t like Legilimency at all. Legilimency was an effort, sometimes an invasion, something like looking through the windows of a house, or forcing one’s way through the door. This… this was welcoming, and intimate, requiring no effort or implying no secrets. It was total surrender, and it felt like the warmest and most comforting embrace.

The link only lasted a few blessed minutes, and soon enough, he could hear nothing. It made him feel dismally empty, and he realized that he wanted that again. He would live for it.

“Your mind is lovely, Harry,” she said, touching his face lightly with the pads of her fingers. She was smiling and contented. “It’s filled with good and marvelous things.”

He pulled her into his arms, whispering what he thought of her mind as he held her close.

They stayed that way, reveling quietly in the intimacy. It was while he had her in his arms that he realized how earlier, both their thoughts had been worry-free. It could have been the post-sex high, but it brought to mind the fact that this would be one of the many days they could actually live their lives without wondering if some mad man was going to kill them come the morrow.

It was exhilarating to realize that they truly had their lives back.

He couldn’t be more grateful, and things, he believed, could only get better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hedwig held out an envelope from her perch on the window, cooing as she wiggled her neck to get Harry’s attention.

After Fawkes began establishing himself as a pet and not a messenger, Hedwig had been diligently bringing Harry mail, her enthusiasm rejuvenated by her renewed security of tenure.

Harry was actually getting weary of Hedwig zipping in and out of his room, especially when he was trying to make love to Hermione, but he hadn’t the heart to shut the window on the owl.

Sighing as he gingerly slipped from Hermione’s embrace, he padded to the window and took his letter. Harry fed her some grub and Hedwig happily flapped away. He pulled the shutters closed, but not tight. It was unlikely that Hedwig would be back with more mail, but he didn’t want her to think she was being a bother, even if she was.

Hermione stirred, blinking drowsily. “Did I fall asleep again?”

He smiled, sitting beside her on the bed. “Yes.”

Her brows knotted, pushing herself up on bed. “I asked Elena about it, by the way. She said it happened occasionally when you mix sex and blood. Nothing to worry about… happens to me a lot, though. You’ve made a weakling of me, Harry.”

“I can do no such thing even if I tried,” he muttered, slapping her tush playfully as he kissed her.

She tried to pout, but failed miserably when she laughed softly into his kiss.

He sat back on the pillows, taking his letter and ripping it open. It had been two weeks since Voldemort’s defeat, and as the general chaotic aftermath died down and people began to try rebuilding their lives, more than a few letters have poured in for Harry, thanking him for what he’d done. A few perhaps weren’t so thankful, howling profanities of his folly and unholy habits. One or two had threatened death. Most of these letters were deposited in a mail bin on the roof of the house, but the many that did reach him directly were from people he personally knew.

The envelope in his hand was unmarked and as he opened the letter inside it, he saw that there was nothing written on it.

“What the…”

Hermione snorted softly. “I don’t believe it.” She touched the letter and the words bled onto the parchment.

Harry didn’t even have to check the name at the bottom to know whom it was from. “Snape. I swear Hermione—“

“If you tell me he has my knickers one more time, I’m sending him a pair just to punish you.”

“Ugh. Please don’t ever do that, for the sake of my sanity.” He read the letter. It said for him to meet Snape at Spinner’s End at 7 in the morning the following day.

Hermione turned up her nose haughtily. “Humph. Way to make sure you don’t have me tagging along. The coward.”

Harry smirked, pinching her turned up nose affectionately. “I love you, but I can totally understand why he’s afraid to have you there.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Whatever. I’m not that terrible. I can hold my temper if necessary.”

He laughed, caressing her arm.

She looked at him suspiciously. “You don’t seem the least bit worried about meeting up with Snape.”

“Why should I be worried?”

“Because he’s an oily, sneaky gint, and therefore you must never trust him.”

He waved off her concern.

“Harry!”

He sighed. “He came through for us, Hermione, at a most crucial time. He made that potion that was instrumental in saving my life and defeating Voldemort, not to mention the fact that he managed to get me the last remaining Revivisco potion through you. What’s there to mistrust?”

She frowned. “The fact that he could play both sides so easily. He’s a dangerous man, Harry, and what with the decree on his head… he might be desperate.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him to be desperate, but you needn’t worry about him hurting me. He could have let me die in the Riddle house if he wanted to, but he didn’t.”

“Indeed,” she said softly. “Just be careful, love. I’ve done all I can to keep you alive… I can’t lose you now, you know?”

He knew. Only all too well, he knew.

He kissed her, igniting their passions once more and letting himself get lost in the blissful comfort of their joining.

He would worry about Snape later. These days, matters such as those could wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harry knocked on the door of Snape’s squalid home in Spinner’s End. The tepid, sewer smell of the nearby river made Harry wince, and the chimneys belching black smoke in the horizon was not what Harry would call a “view,” but if it wasn’t for the unpleasant surroundings, Harry was surprised to discover that he was rather looking forward to seeing his oily professor again, not that Harry had grown any kind of true affection for him.

It occurred to Harry that he wanted answers. He wanted to know what he’d become, and he felt Snape would have those answers.

The air was cold being so late in the year, and patches of dirty snow were evident here and there. Harry tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat. It was surreal to be wanting to go into Snape’s home rather than suffer the cold outside. Never, until now, could Harry conceived that Snape, or anything to do with him, could ever offer comfort; even the simple ones, yet there he was, impatient for Snape to let him in.

It didn’t take long for Snape to answer the door.

When Snape saw him, a flicker of surprise registered in the Potion Master’s eyes. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I was hoping you can tell me.”

Snape’s lips pursed but he stepped back to hold the door open wider.

Harry wasn’t asked to come inside. Snape merely held his eyebrows askance, as if to say, “Well, surely even you know what to do in this instance without being told.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry stepped in.

The door closed behind Harry and the warmth was immediate, but when Harry turned, he was faced with not one, but two Severus Snapes.

The one who answered the door stood stoically stiff in his long black robes, while the other lay slumped against the wall—stunned, likely, in clothes more befitting of Mundungus Fletcher.

Harry’s wand was out in an instant, Hermione’s “I told you so!” ringing in his mind.

Snape—the one who was awake—scowled. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing? Put that wand away!”

Harry was having none of it. “Turn around, put your hands to the wall, and shut-up.”

“Potter, you are an idiot and a half—“

Harry was upon him in a blink of an eye, vamping as he slammed Snape face first against the door while pressing Snape’s arm behind him.

Snape cried out in shock, and then pain, petrified by Harry’s inhuman speed.

Harry quickly patted him down. He found Snape’s wand and took it. Fangs halfway extended, Harry spoke over Snape’s shoulder with a dangerous growl. “You will tell me who you are, and then you will tell me who that man is.”

“You. Are. A. Fool!” gasped Snape. “Always will be.”

Harry twisted Snape’s arm harder and the man gave a wail. “Just answer the fucking question!”

Snape hastened to reply. “I am Severus Snape! And that over there is Peter Pettigrew!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took a bit more roughhousing before Harry was totally convinced of Snape’s identity, and when he was, he kept his wand out, just to make sure.

“After everything I’ve done,” Snape muttered, sipping his tea. “You’re still a bloody ingrate.”

Harry glared at him. “Very few people know exactly what you did, Snape, the majority of which are gone in various ways, none of which like you very much. Considering your civil status at this time, which is D-E-A-D Wizard walking, you might want to consider kissing my A-S-S.”

Snape showed very little in the matter of emotion.

“And how the hell do I know you’re telling the truth about Peter Pettigrew?” Harry’s eyes shifted to the unconscious man dumped in the corner. “It could be anyone! For all I know, you just picked a bloke off the streets and Polyjuiced him into you.”

“I had to test the potion,” said Snape irritably. “It is not everyday you have a Polyjuice potion that lasts for days and is able to withstand Polyjuice testing, you know. He should’ve turned back to himself twelve hours ago. It seemed to work better than I thought.”

Harry eyed Snape suspiciously. “And what are you going to use it for, that you’re so eager to make it work properly?”

Snape scoffed. “I should think that’s obvious.”

“Unlike some people, I don’t have a criminal mind.”

Snape shook his head, expelling a martyr-like breath of exasperation. “You’re going to take him and turn him over as me—possible because I am a brilliant Potions Master. Given the decree of Immediate Execution issued in my name, there shall be no trial and he’d be sent walking into the Veil straightaway, thus precipitating the commencement of my worry-free life, which shall indeed be lived somewhere else.”

Harry stared at him for several moments before he finally spoke. “Are—Are you mad?”

“Very. At a lot of people, most of all him,” said Snape, tilting his head in Peter’s direction. “But I like to be productive even when I am.”

“B-But he’s not—“ Harry was getting very flustered. “He’ll talk when he wakes up! And if he has to go down, he’s going to try to take everyone down with him! You’ll be the first—“

“He’s not going to say anything. He remembers very little. He might think he’s me, though.”

Harry rose from his seat, eyes widening for a moment before he began to glare again. “You Obliviated him, didn’t you? And you implanted new memories! You’ve done this before with Roberts—“

Snape set his cup of tea down noisily as he turned blue in the face. He looked quite angry. “Do not give me your over-tired, idealistic, Gryffindor bullshit, Potter. I’ve no time for it. Sit your ass down and listen to me! I earned that much helping you and the Know-It-All in your time of great need.”

Harry stood above him, breathing from his own outrage, but he did sit, and he did acknowledge what Snape did for him and Hermione, but his wand remained clasped in his hand.

Snape leaned over, a look of resolve on his face. “You know as well as I that Peter very much deserves that decree. It makes no difference if he walks that Veil as me or himself. He will get his due. At any rate, Peter has it easier. He doesn’t have to hear his name besmirched for very long. I have to live with it, legally dead though I may be. They’ll write about me as the murderer of Albus Dumbledore and traitor of the Order of Phoenix. Contrary to popular belief, it is not a reputation I take particular pride in.”

Harry took a moment to absorb this. Of course he knew why Snape did what he did to Dumbledore; he just wasn’t sure if Snape knew that he knew. “Why are you telling me all this, then? You could have pulled this off by yourself with no one being the wiser.”

Snape’s face reddened this time, and he went rigid from what he was about to say. “Because you need to know that Peter got his due. Because I owe your mother that much, at least.”

Harry didn’t know what to say. It was disconcerting to think that the man he hated so much would have any kind of honor, however embedded it was in twisted scheming.

“Anyway,” Snape continued hastily. “The plan would go smoother if I had… someone to help me from the inside. And don’t think I don’t know about those requests and petitions you’ve put in for me. You don’t think I should be executed anymore than I do.”

Harry felt his face grow hot. “Well, you can thank my over-tired, idealistic, Gryffindor bullshit for that one.”

Snape snorted. “I will do no such thing. Didn’t do me much good, did it?”

Harry narrowed his gaze at the Potions Master, shaking his head in abject disapproval.

“Once again, I had to do the thinking,” said Snape, nose raised so high up in the air that Harry could have poked his wand through Snape’s nostrils. “And of course, my plan is much better.”

Harry wasn’t quite through with him yet. “So you want me to lie for you, too.”

“Essentially, but it isn’t as if you’ve never lied before. Everyone does it. Even the great Albus Dumbledore had it in him.”

Harry wanted to hit him for even saying Dumbledore’s name, but Snape continued.

“In any case, you will be free to tell people you trust about what happened, provided you agree to a Fidelius charm.”

“Hold on… you want me to be your secret keeper?”

“My life in your hands, Potter. Don’t you just love that?”

Harry didn’t love it in the least, but it did mean he could tell Remus about it. It meant Remus could know, too, and Remus wouldn’t be burdened to tell the tale to others because of the Fidelius charm.

He stared at the man who was Peter Pettigrew in Snape’s visage. Peter was set to be executed; that was fact. Everyone knew his sins. That was all that really mattered to Harry. The execution was something born from politics; something Harry never aspired to understand.

“I’ll do it,” said Harry tiredly. “I’ll do it because you don’t deserve to die. I’ll do it because living in hiding, even when—especially because—everyone else thinks you’re dead, is punishment enough for Dumbledore’s life. After this, you’re on your own. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Snape inclined his head in agreement.

There was a shimmer of magic in the air and Snape turned to the body in the corner.

“Ah,” said Snape. “He’s changing back. See?”

Indeed, it took but a few seconds. The body became Peter Pettigrew, rat-faced and all.

Harry snorted wearily. “Indeed.”

After staring at Peter a while, he walked over to the body, lifting Peter’s face to the light with the tip of his wand.

“Satisfied it’s him?” asked Snape after a bit.

Harry nodded.

“We’ll give him a new dose of the same potion before you bring him back to the Ministry,” Snape said. “Don’t worry about what he’ll say when you Enervate him. He’ll be half-lucid and convinced that he’s me. You can stand him up to any judge and I’ll stake my life that they’ll have him walking the Veil in no time.”

Harry had very little doubts about it. He turned to sit back on down with Snape. “And now it’s my turn.”

Snape’s eyebrow arched.

“What am I?” Harry asked.

Snape sniffed. “You ought to ask your vampire friends, Potter. I’m sure they’ll know.”

Harry shook his head. “None of them do.”

“Perhaps you’re not asking the right friends.”

Harry looked up at him questioningly.

Snape looked smug. “Where do you think I got the foundation for immortality spells, Potter? I am not a God. I cannot make people immortal out of nothing. It had to come from somewhere. I had a source—an immortal source—who had access to books even the Know-It-All couldn’t shake a Gold-Plated library card at.”

Harry scowled. “Janus is dead.”

“Are you really this stupid or are you just pretending? Did you seriously believe that Janus did all of it alone? Did you think that vampires would flock to Janus, second to Yasmin ibna Omar? Of course not. Janus had to have a backer, a very ancient backer that all his vampire minions could respect. It was through him I was lent ancient text from what I would call a very exclusive library, and I used those texts to build on my potion. The theories in the book were lacking, which is why none of them worked, but yours and the Dark Lord’s circumstances were different. It was workable solely on that premise, and I did say it wasn’t supposed to work for you at all. That was true, but apparently you did something to it. Maybe you added some kind of missing ingredient. It doesn’t matter what it is, because here you are; alive and… shall I say, better than ever?” He rubbed his elbow at this, and Harry knew he was remembering their little scuffle when he first got there.

He was stronger, and faster; like a vamp, and he healed like a vamp, too, aches, wounds and pains disappearing with the drinking of blood. His humanity made him different. He had no bloodlust, he ate regular food, and the sunlight didn’t hurt him in the least.

“What am I?” Harry asked again.

Snape smirked. “You are what the vampires used to be, Potter, before the curse of sunlight and blood befell them those thousands of forgotten years ago.”

Harry paused. “Is there a name for it?”

“There is. They call you Dhampir.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Yes, of course there’s another one before the Epilogue, because I suck at chapter estimates. ‘-_- It ain’t completely over yet, folks.

I don’t mind telling you that there’s shit load more of stuff I have to tie up, all of which SHOULD be done by the next chapter. I am no longer making any promises, as I’ve learned that I could never keep them.

So until the next post!!!

43. Chapter Forty-secondth: Beginning

A/N: This certainly took a while to write. I had to deal with quite a bit while I was writing this, but I pulled through thanks to my friends in LJ. Thank you, dears, for the comfort.

Hooray, dad!!!!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Forty-second: Beginning

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Harry went back to the Ministry dragging a stunned Severus Snape—a.k.a. (to Harry, at least) as Peter Pettigrew—he made the front page of the Daily Prophet and the Quibbler, yet again. Really, the question was, when did Harry not make the front page of the daily papers.

Peter was left unconscious the entire time he was in the Auror Department’s custody and Harry refused to answer reporter questions. The subsequent physical examination of the detainee followed, and Harry was quite amazed that the disguise passed all magical tests, especially since the tests were designed specifically to check for Polyjuiced substitutes. Snape had told him it would hold in the testing, but Harry still thought it was amazing.

Harry’s official statement was that he had received a tip that Snape was back in his home at Spinner’s End, and because Harry was Harry, he went by himself. A struggle ensued, Snape was stunned, and Harry brought him back to the Ministry.

Shacklebolt chewed him out for going alone, of course, and the Daily Prophet’s Rita Skeeter was more than happy to say that, “Not content at being proclaimed the savior of the Wizarding World for defeating the Dark Lord, Harry Potter plays the hero once again by apprehending Albus Dumbledore’s murderer and Death Eater Lieutenant, Severus Snape, without calling for standard regulation back-up from his colleagues at the Auror department.”

Peter was brought before the Wizengamot that same afternoon after all of Snape’s papers were processed. He was enervated just before the proceedings, and just as Snape said, Peter acted befuddled, and then amazed.

When asked if he was Severus Snape, Peter took a moment to think about it and nodded quietly, his silent confusion making him seem more Snape-like than anything, which Harry thought was overly convenient, but nobody seemed to care. It was confirmation enough for everyone, and Harry had to wonder just how many Ministry detainees, innocent or otherwise, got their due.

At the trial, Peter was issued questions about his guilt, to which he gave vaguely confusing replies. The Interrogator assigned to Peter’s case adamantly claimed that Severus Snape was a master of intrigue and deceit, as was expected of traitors.

That was good enough for the Wizengamot, which Harry found baffling. A part of him was glad that the Wizengamot wasn’t more discerning in this case, but a huge part of him was afraid that for anybody who had to face their future in Azkaban or with Death, that lack of discernment could lead to a life they didn’t deserve to live, one way or the other. Until now, Harry believed that he’d gotten out of his sticky legal situation in fifth year only because Dumbledore was there to bail him out. What if—

Stop it. Peter’s going to die. Snape is free. Everything’s been put to rights… well, almost right…

Remus fidgeted in his seat behind Harry. “Why isn’t he defending himself?”

Harry was startled out of his thoughts and he stared at Remus, almost forgetting that Remus would want to know what was really going on. He shot Remus a meaningful stare. “Because it’s what he has to do.”

Remus looked at him uncertainly, perhaps knowing Harry was trying to say something but Remus couldn’t quite get it.

At least Remus didn’t ask any more questions

So Remus—with thirty chosen witnesses ranging from Ministry officials, to newspaper reporters, to Aurors and Hitwizards—watched as Peter, in the guise of Severus Snape, was escorted to the Veil.

Harry had put in a request that he be one of the two to escort the accused. Shacklebolt was only surprised for a second, after which a knowing look of sympathy gleamed in his gaze. Harry couldn’t look him in the eye. Shacklebolt had probably assumed that Harry was doing it for some sort of closure. He didn’t know that Harry was doing it to make sure everything, up to the last minute, would go smoothly, because Harry, being himself, hardly ever had things go his way without a hitch.

And so Harry took the dazed Peter Pettigrew by the arm and walked him to the Veil.

Harry couldn’t help but remember a time when he had come so close to the Veil, only to see Sirius fall right through. He wondered if he might catch a glimpse of his Godfather on this day, and unlike the mortals, Sirius wouldn’t be fooled. He’d see Peter Pettigrew even through the Polyjuice, and he’d be glad to see that Harry had, yet again, accounted for him.

Seconds before Peter crossed the Veil, he froze, as if suddenly waking up from a dream, and looked around. When he realized where he was, he looked at his dark robes, and then at his hands. He touched his face and gasped.

Peter looked up and his eyes widened when he met Harry’s penetrating gaze.

“You,” Peter whispered.

Harry felt strangely calm, and stone-faced, he replied. “Yes, me.”

Peter winced, his face blanching, first at him, then at the Veil. “S-Severus… he…”

Whatever he was going to say faded on his lips.

“It’s over,” Harry whispered in a resolute tone. He felt his eyes ring with ferocity; felt his fangs pushing through his gums.

Peter’s gaze filled with fear and he began to move away.

Harry reached into Peter’s mind and spoke. It’s me or the Veil, Wormtail. The choice is yours. The choice is always yours…

The images leapt from Harry’s thoughts as he remembered all of what Peter had done to his parents, to Sirius, to Hermione, and to him. The rage that rose in him coagulated in his brain.

Fangs bared and eyes ablaze, Harry leapt, ripping into Peter’s throat as Harry snapped his back in two, drowning Peter’s scream of agonizing pain and terror into a bloody, gurgling, moan…

Peter’s wail shot through the silent room as he collapsed to the ground, arms over his head.

The rippling murmur of the audience followed it, and Peter, gasping and grabbing desperately at his unharmed throat, looked up and met Harry’s angry gaze.

“Me or the veil,” Harry said, voice hoarse.

Peter trembled, and the other escort looked slightly uneasy, seeing Harry in his strange state but unable to comprehend it.

Completely at a loss, Peter turned his gaze to the Veil desperately.

Harry was suddenly glad that Peter had come back to himself; glad that Peter knew he was paying for the things he’d done; glad that Peter understood that Harry was there to watch him executed.

There was absolutely nothing Peter could do about it all, and he knew it. If he cried out that he was Peter Pettigrew, no one would believe him. And in the off chance that someone did believe—the chance being very minute, he would be executed anyway.

And then there was Harry to deal with.

Peter swallowed, hands shaking as the other guard heaved him back to his feet. There was no apology in Peter’s eyes; only hate, but he had never been brave enough on his best day, and he was nothing in the face of a dragon. Harry tried to take his arm and he yelped in terror, flinching away from Harry’s touch. He scampered through the Veil.

And then there was utter silence.

When Snape was proclaimed dead, the congregation broke apart, and Harry, making a hasty retreat with Remus, brought him back to Grimmauld Place, and explained to him everything that transpired.

Remus was in shock, but only for a while. When it completely sunk in, Remus looked up with a sad smile and nodded. “Justice served, Harry. Did Snape tell you where he was going?”

Harry shook his head.

“Of course not. It’s just as well that you didn’t know. At any rate, I’ll tell no one about this.”

Harry cocked him a sheepish smile. “You can’t, anyway. Even if you wanted to.”

“Ah, Fidelius.”

“Yes.”

Remus patted his shoulder and turned to go. “Well then, I’d best get back to work. I’ve taken enough leaves from the MRI and I really don’t want to be fired.”

That reminded Harry of something. “Listen, Remus… any chance I’ll find out what you and Hermione are researching? I know it isn’t just about me…”

Remus gave him a tight-lipped smile. “She’ll tell you when she’s ready, Harry.”

Harry nodded and took note.

He went back to the Ministry for a bit, just because he wanted to keep his job just for a little while longer. He did avoid all attempts Shacklebolt made to talk to him about getting a new partner. Harry wasn’t ready to look for one just yet, in any case, but that was assuming he was going to keep being an Auror.

Harry was already counting the days to when he could submit his application for retirement. It wasn’t long, but there were things to tie up; things to talk about with Hermione.

They were going to stay together, of that he was sure, but they had yet to really talk about their living arrangements, whether she was going to stay in London, or whether she would be going back to Albania for a bit; whether she would stay with the Coven or whether she was going to move to the Brotherhood; and whether vampires believed in marriage or didn’t.

So maybe I won’t be putting that last question so casually, but it’ll have to be brought up sooner or later…

It made him a little giddy. All of it made him giddy. These things that needed settling were normal things; things that people without the cares of war and Dark Lords went through.

Things were coming together quite nicely. All he had to do was take it one day at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, Hermione came to him in the library about an hour after dark, carrying in her hand a vampire newspaper. He’d never seen her buy the paper before.

The questioning look in his eyes was met with a reply.

“Henry told me to buy the paper. Said there was an interesting article on page sixteen,” she explained softly.

The paper was already opened and folded to the right page when Hermione put it before him. She pointed to the corner where a tiny article about Severus Snape’s execution was printed. There was a brief statement about Harry’s part in it, and it took all but ten seconds for Harry to finish reading the entire clip.

He looked up at Hermione, and he saw that she seemed mildly confused.

“You turned him in,” she said. There was no judgment in her voice; only a question.

He took her hand, holding it casually over his heart. “Do you really believe I’d do such a thing?”

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t, normally. But if you did, I’d trust your reasons, anyway.”

He smiled, pushing the chair beside him away from the table so she could sit. Quietly, he explained to her what happened.

She didn’t sound shocked at all. “Well,” she said as a matter-of-factly. “It’s all coming to a close, isn’t it?”

“Little by little.” He paused. “I asked him. Snape, I mean. I asked him if he knew what I was.”

Her eyebrows perked in surprise, immediately alert. “Did he know? Did he tell you?”

Harry nodded. “He called me a Dhampir.”

Her eyes widened. “Harry! That’s a—“

“Vampire hunter, I know,” he muttered. “Born with a consuming, instinctual lust to slay vampires, and a few demons on the side.”

Hermione nodded. “And you don’t have that urge. Besides that, Dhampirs are a myth!”

“They’re not,” Harry said quietly. “But Snape says there are misconceptions about them.”

She frowned. “How could he possibly know that?” She looked affronted, that Snape would know when she didn’t.

Harry almost smirked. “Snape said that the vampires—the really ancient ones, keep a secret library of vampire history which he’d been given access to. It’s secret because—well, it can be very powerful knowledge.”

Hermione’s eyebrow arched. She took a few seconds to seethe, perhaps furious that she’d never been told of this library before, but after a few moments, she seemed to come to terms with it. “I can respect that, I suppose. Vampires like to hoard power when they can. Understandable,” she said in a clipped tone, which of course meant she was still angry about the library. “Go on.”

Tickled though he was with Hermione’s prickliness on the matter, he continued. “While Janus worked for Voldemort, he passed ancient text on to Snape to aid Snape in his research, and the subsequent creation of, Voldemort’s immortality potion. Snape made the Soul Harvest potion, and then the Revivisco. It was while he was doing his research for this that he discovered how, long ago, vampires weren’t vampires. Vampires were Dhampir.”

Hermione frowned. “Well, that doesn’t sound like it makes much sense. If Dhampirs are vampires and vampires used to be REAL Dhampirs, why would Dhampirs slay vampires?”

“Think about it, Hermione. If I’m a Dhampir, that means Dhampirs have all the vampire strengths…”

Realization dawned on her. “None of our weaknesses…” she finished in a whisper.

Harry nodded, glad that she was catching on. “Vampires spawned from Dhampirs, and in the eyes of Dhampirs, vampires were imperfect. Cursed. Vampires were consumed by the need for human blood. Vamps couldn’t walk under the sun. Maybe it was a disease; perhaps it was a curse. In any case, the Dhampirs likely didn’t want them to keep living.”

“So Dhampirs did begin to hunt them,” said Hermione, getting into it. “They couldn’t let the disease—the curse spread. But—But why didn’t they succeed, Harry? Dhampirs would be powerful then, wouldn’t they? Where did they fail?”

“In sheer number. Dhampirs procreated like humans, and perhaps it’s natural that a species that lived such long lives wouldn’t be pressed to make children. Or maybe they just knew that they shouldn’t overrun the world with their species…”

“The balance.”

“Likely. I wouldn’t put it past them. According to what Snape read, they weren’t beastly. They were intelligent beings. Human… but better.”

She nodded. “And so they tried to hunt the vampires into extinction, but vampires are easier to create than Dhampirs.”

“Correct. The vampires overrun them until they became ‘extinct.’ Perhaps one or two of them survived through the ages, but that’s wishful thinking. The only ‘Dhampir’ we’ve heard of are just humans who are really good at hunting vampires.” A mischievous glint sparkled in Harry’s eyes. “Very few of us are true Dhampir.”

Hermione shrugged, seeming absolutely unbothered. “It makes sense. The genetic imprint is still in vampire blood. I’m assuming Snape’s potion was supposed to turn Voldemort into a Dhampir, and when he failed, the potion turned you instead.”

Harry shook his head. “No. Voldemort would have been immortal and human. The potion was keyed to Voldemort, our link, and how we got it. It was specific, and it was the only reason Snape got it to work. It wouldn’t have worked for anyone else, or in any other circumstance, and it shouldn’t have worked for me, either, but my magic did something, then you tried to turn me, and then Fawkes… his tears might have done something, too. Snape said it was like hitting the magical lottery. He didn’t know anymore than I did how it happened, exactly, but he seemed to think that whatever I did lead to this ‘logical’ outcome.”

She took his hand, her eyes becoming a little liquid. “So Harry… does that make you immortal, then?”

He smiled a melancholic smile. “Dhampirs aren’t immortal, love. Legend says they seem to be, but it’s only because they live a very, very long time. Long enough to make it feel like they’ve live an eternity…”

She nodded. If a tear fell, he didn’t see it. “And so here you are… Dhampir. You broke the curse of the vampire and are now wielding an ancient skill...” She looked up, and if she had felt any sort of melancholy just a few seconds ago, it was gone, replaced by a sultry smile. “Are you going to hunt me now?”

The quality of her voice, and the smoky gaze of her eyes, made him smile into instant readiness. He leaned over and bit her earlobe. “Only if you want me to,” he breathed.

She shuddered as she sank into his kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Of late, making love to her had been intensely emotional experiences. It was not surprising, having been so close to losing one another only two weeks ago, but it still left him at awe each time.

They lay staring at one another after their lovemaking. He was panting for breath; she wasn’t. Understandable, but she was also covered in sweat.

He ran his finger down her moist back, amazed.

“It only happens with you,” she whispered, smiling.

He smirked. “I hope so. Just don’t tell your other boyfriends that. It might, you know, hurt their feelings and they’ll lose their mojo.”

She pinched him to punish him for his cheek.

He laughed softly then paused, ponderous. “These last couple of weeks… you’ve been doing research on what I’ve become… and now we know, but something happened to you, too, didn’t it? The magic did something to you, as well. That’s what you’ve been doing with Remus these past two weeks, isn’t it?”

She sniffed and smiled again. “It’s a bit complicated. Might be boring for you.”

“Try me.”

She grinned. “Remus came to me with something completely unrelated to the war, actually. A few weeks ago, he and his team at the MRI stumbled on a groundbreaking discovery: That werewolves may have children with non-werewolf partners. It will require many potions and treatments, and apart from that, there are equations to be considered: It will be three-times as difficult for a she-were to conceive and gestate than a human woman partnered with a he-were would; a human woman would be ten times more likely to birth… normal children; and lastly, the cost of having and keeping a pregnancy would be enormous… but the foundation of the discovery is sound, and can be improved upon. I’ve been helping him in the research.”

Harry stared at her, his emotions warring between mild disappointment and great gladness for his friend. Until then, he never realized that weres couldn’t procreate, but it made sense, he supposed. Lycanthropy was a disease of sorts, after all. The natural way of things was for the human body to keep a disease like that from being inherited.

“That’s wonderful news,” Harry said, meaning it, but still unable to get past the fact that he was disappointed that Hermione and Remus weren’t doing research for her.

She chuckled, perhaps seeing right through him. She was gracious enough not to mention it. “It is. Remus and his team are very optimistic that they could come out with a proven and tested fertility regimen in—oh, half a decade. On yet another hand… Remus wasn’t going to settle for weres. He wanted to do research on vampire procreation, as well.”

Harry’s eyebrows perked. “Oh?”

“Yes. It’s against the laws of evolution, you understand, to have a species that feeds off humans procreating like humans. It’s exactly the kind of thing that tips the balance of life between humans and vampires, so it wasn’t an idea I was very glad to entertain, even if… even if I want my own children.”

He gave her an empathic smile, running his fingers soothingly through her hair.

She continued. “Remus has been doing experiments to determine vampire fertility, anyway. He couldn’t conceive of the fact that we—erm, have the equipment yet it couldn’t be used.”

“Oh, you certainly know how to use your equipment. Believe me.”

Hermione slapped his arm. “For its primary purpose, you pervy bastard. Procreation!”

He laughed quietly and urged her to go on with sweet kisses of apology.

She did after a bit. “Now where was I? Oh, yes. Vamp fertility. The test showed zero fertility from the vamp volunteers. It wasn’t going to happen… that way. Yet, recently, Remus performed an experiment that monitored female vamp sleeping patterns. Basically, he discovered that we weren’t totally… dead. There have been studies of this done before, usually by vamps who refused to be labeled as undead and wanted to prove that we were alive; just differently. Remus’s experiments coincided with the vamp studies, wherein it showed that vamps, in the day, aren’t exactly dead. We’re more of in stasis, we’re… hibernating. Things inside us still function during the day mostly to preserve what we have left from the night and build on it, like our strength, the blood we took to feed, the life-essence that needs replenishing. So…”

Harry was captivated. “So?”

“Remus’s research concentrated on—ahem, the equipment. He discovered that the hibernation extended to it as well.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning if a she-vamp were to ever get knocked up, she’d be able to sustain gestation. The ways and means to complete gestation are still unknown, like for example, how is the child going to get sustenance? Will it live on blood, or will it, like any child, have to have normal food? How is it going to get oxygen to live? Will the gestation period take eighteen months instead of nine? And most of all, will the mother survive giving birth to a true vamp? Or a half-human one? There are no answers to these questions unless there is a she-vamp that actually becomes fertile enough to be impregnated. Remus has tried to combine vampire reproductive spells with humans, but the vamp cells never hold. Vamp cells are just generally incapable of reproduction.”

“Generally?”

Uncertainty befell her gaze, yet it was mixed with shining hope. “I volunteered to give a sample of my cells and, well, something was different about mine.”

Harry’s eyes widened, his pulse racing. “You’re fertile. You can have children. You can—“

She hushed him, smiling gently. “It’s nothing definite like that, Harry. There were things to indicate that my body wasn’t completely incapable of… creating life. Remus thinks certain… conditions and my compatibility with my ‘partner’ might come into play, and then there are hundreds of unknown factors… the odds of me having children are very low, but it’s not zero anymore, is it?”

“No, not anymore,” he whispered back. This was an extremely fine line of hope. It could be everything and nothing at the same time, and it was so fragile that it could snap at any given moment, but it was hope, and it was a possibility.

He traced the contours of her face with his finger and a smile blossomed from her lips.

“Was it you, Harry?” she asked. “Was it your magic that did this? Did you want me to have your children so badly that you tried to do something about it?”

He stared at her a moment, finding a trace of uncertainty, and he realized what her unspoken words were: Would you love me any less if I couldn’t give you any children?

“I don’t know if I did it,” he replied, lacing his hand through hers. “Maybe I did, but I wasn’t exactly thinking of you all knocked-up with Harry junior.”

She smirked.

“But I wanted you to be happy,” he continued. “That was all that was important to me. I knew we could be happy together, but I wanted more for you. Perhaps the magic knew what I knew, that nothing would make you happier than to have your own children… ”

She blinked several times, stifling the liquid quality her eyes had taken. “It would make me so happy… I want to—“ She sighed, as if she didn’t dare speak it lest she blow the dream away.

“And now you tell me it’s possible,” he said softly. “But even if doesn’t happen, there are quite a bit of children out there who need parents. Adopting isn’t a bad idea, is it? It’s something that I’d love to do with you, anyway.”

Her gaze glistened as she shook her head. “Not a bad idea, at all. Not in the least.”

He smiled. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

She was silent, pondering, until she broke out in a smile of her own. “And really, it would be fun to try having children the usual way, yes?”

Leaning over, he pressed his lips to her ear amorously. “Loads of fun.”

She shuddered.

He kissed her, and kissed her, until he was smiling, and she was smiling.

He rolled them over the bed, kissing her beneath him, and she giggled when it became clear how ready he was becoming for another go. She wiggled under the blankets as their legs tangled a bit in the sheets.

Her shifting beneath him only aroused him more. She was beautiful. The center of his life. His purpose for living. And he wanted to make mad love to her until she was hoarse from screaming his name.

“Perhaps,” she breathed, “We can try different things every time we—oh! Oh, Harry!”

He smirked at that. She always loved the teeth and tongue combo.

She was gasping, already wet from what he’d been doing, but she still insisted on talking.

My little, sexy, Know-It-All… he thought fondly.

“R-Remus will have to get a sample of your—erm, stuff. You know… to test if it would work with my stuff—“

“I’ll test it with you for as long as you like,” he murmured in a smoky tone, settling between her legs. “As many times as you like. And I’d rather not have Remus around for it, too.”

She finally shut up, letting him kiss her while he thrust into her body. He moved instantly. They were both so ready, and their moans mingled in the darkened room.

They were so absorbed in their lovemaking that they hardly noticed the frantic knocking on the door.

Harry, for one, had no inclination to stop what he was doing.

“Someone’s at the door,” Hermione moaned.

“Who cares? Oh… love, that feels so—“

“Harry? Hermione?” came Ron’s voice from beyond the door. “I know you’re shagging in there, but you have to come quick—erm, I mean, this is urgent!”

At the word “urgent,” Harry did stop, casting the door an irritated look.

Hermione sighed, annoyed.

Harry reached for his wand and undid the insulation charms. “How urgent?”

“Vampire urgent. Yasmin’s out there. And Solomon said so are Nekhbet and Kalfani, whoever they are.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They dressed in record time, and even if nobody noticed, Harry saw the glimmer of panic in Hermione’s gaze.

He couldn’t blame her in the least. Yasmin was one thing, but to have not one, but two of the Most Ancient waiting for her outside was beyond unnerving.

If it was just Yasmin, Hermione would’ve bothered to make some sort of show. Hermione would’ve summoned Remus, and perhaps Draco again, so that she’d look like she had a proper entourage. But there were the Most Ancient Ones out there, too, and she’d rather look unescorted than make them wait an unreasonable amount of time.

“Besides,” Hermione said as she hurriedly buttoned up Harry’s shirt on their way out the door. “Nekhbet and Kalfani are old enough to know when it’s just for show and when it’s real. I’d rather not look silly. Ron? Solomon? Are you ready?”

Ron and Solomon nodded.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Hermione looked quite fashionable in her two-piece dress, but Harry could tell that underneath the designer clothing and expensive footwear, she was anxious to get the entire thing over with.

They walked out of the house, Hermione leading all of them, her nearest and dearest, to meet Yasmin who looked even more stunning than when Harry last saw her.

He couldn’t tell exactly what was different about Yasmin now, but she seemed to glow from within, and the lilt of her cinched hip gave her a whole lot more attitude, if that was even possible.

“About fucking time,” said Yasmin smugly. “Just because we’re immortal, doesn’t mean you can take forever to get ready, you know.”

“Well, Your Majesty, I’ll remember that next time you drop in without prior notice,” Hermione said through clenched teeth. “Where are Nekhbet and Kalfani?”

Yasmin jerked her head in the direction of the black stretch Hummer taking up most of the curb. “In there. They want to see you.”

“Oh, well then that’s no problem. It’s fairly usual for the most ancient vampires of Europe to drop in and pay me a visit. I can totally go in there without being forewarned of anything. I have absolutely nothing to fear.” Hermione said this with exaggerated wide-eyed naiveté.

A smirk tilted Yasmin’s lips. “The only reason I ever let you get away with your cheek is because it amuses me. You might catch me in a bad mood one day.”

“Yes. One day. Am I expected to go in there alone?”

Yasmin’s gaze drifted to Harry. “They want to see Potter, too.”

Harry wondered what for, but didn’t ask out loud. “Ron, you and Solomon ought to head back inside the house.”

Ron frowned. “Like hell.”

“They’ll be safe out here,” said Yasmin. “I promise you that.”

Harry looked to Hermione and she nodded.

With that settled, Yasmin led the way to the parked vehicles. Harry and Hermione following close behind. They were flanked by a few more vampires, one of which hastened to open the car door for Yasmin, Hermione, and Harry to pass through.

They stepped into the car and Harry saw that it was magically enlarged inside. The Egyptian influence to the modern design of what looked like a lounge room was overwhelming. The marble-white walls were accented with hieroglyphics in bronze, the décor varied from Egyptian Gods to sacred Canopic jars, the chair in the corner looked like the throne of a Pharaoh, and the interesting table between the two sofa chairs was a sculpture of Anubis, bent on all fours so that his back served as a tabletop. There was a terribly interesting divan, with two lion tails on one end, two lion heads on the other, and lion paws for feet. Everything else seemed quite modern and serviceable.

The room smelled of rose incense, and the candles burned bright on pedestals, tables and floor lamps.

The woman lounging on the divan, however, was overwhelmingly attractive. The man seated on the couch, though relaxed, looked quite regal, too.

Yasmin took a seat in one of the large carved chairs, crossing her fabulous legs and grinning as she set her sword, point down on her seat and held it leaning against her.

The man waved for Harry and Hermione to take the two sofa chairs across from him. “Please sit.”

He didn’t sound demanding. His voice was soft, almost beguiling, but Harry felt ancient power emanate from him, stronger than the one he felt from the woman.

Hermione sat first and Harry followed.

“I am Kalfani,” said the man. “That is Nekhbet.” He waved to the woman on the divan. “We make up two of the three Most Ancient Ones.”

Harry couldn’t help but wonder about the third one. Why wasn’t she here?

He saw Hermione’s lip pursing. She might have been wondering about the same thing.

Perhaps it was what Kalfani wanted them to think, because he said, “Dendera is currently being detained for all possible reasons a most ancient vampire could incur. In that respect, you need not feel any sort of cocern.”

Harry didn’t realize until then that they had to concern themselves with any of the most ancient ones. The only ancient vampires Harry had the displeasure of worrying about was Yasmin and Janus. Thankfully, one of them was dead, and the other appeared to be on their side.

Partially, at least. Or until it serves her interests…

“I find Mr. Potter’s current state of existence interesting.” Kalfani looked to Harry. “You are alive, but you are not human. You exhibit vampire traits; even look like us. You suffer none of our weaknesses—have all of our strengths.”

Harry thought about his mortality. Not all of your strengths.

Kalfani continued. “You are what we once were, Mr. Potter.”

“Dhampir,” Harry said.

Kalfani stopped, his face a stoic mask. If he was surprised Harry knew, he didn’t show it. “Alchemists and scholars have tried for two millennia to remove the curses that come with vampirism, with no success. And yet here you are. You broke the curse, and if indeed it was a true curse-break, your children and children’s children will bear the genetic imprint of your kind, even breeding with humans.”

Harry’s eyebrow arched. “There’s that possibility, yes.”

Kalfani nodded. “By yourself, you are not a threat. Somewhere down the line, perhaps given a few more centuries and those of your kind have… propagated, that might not be the case.”

Harry blinked, surprised. “Well… Hermione and I aren’t planning to have that many kids, if you know what I mean.”

Kalfani’s eyebrow arched and he exchanged looks, first with Nekhbet who had her eyebrow arched just as high, then at Yasmin, who shrugged and grinned, as if to say, “I told you so.”

He frowned at what it all implied. They didn’t know about that slight possibility that Hermione could have children. This did not fall into any of the equations they had in mind. They were thinking he would breed with other women—many of them.

Perhaps it was the sort of thing they’d seen done too many times. Hermione, after all, confessed to have no problem with it when it came to her and Viktor Krum. It was a vamp thing.

“I’m not planning to sleep with other women, either,” he added.

Kalfani and Nekhbet made a sound. And if Harry wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like snorts of disbelief.

He supposed he could understand that they’d lived more than a thousand years. They’ve watched truths turn to lies, saw the invincible fall, and they had felt what it was like to be so sure of something and having it all slip away from the edge of one’s fingertips.

“Well, in case you do decide to propagate your species, Mr. Potter,” Nekhbet said. “It would be wise for you to understand that there are certain ideologies that need maintaining. For creatures like us that feed on life, it is imperative to have a… way of doing things. Something that keeps the balance. Our society has organizations like the Coven, and the Brotherhood. The Blood-Kin used to do their share, but apparently, they have grown weary of things as they are. We have ways of dealing with such issues as well. Where you are concerned… a system would have to be put in place eventually.”

“A system?”

“Yes, a system.”

“Eventually?”

“Right now there’s only you, but in the distant future, your number will grow. Whether your heirs will be a problem that needs to be taken cared of, or whether they will help the balance from tilting is completely up to you. Do you understand?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

“We’ve lived long enough to know what to watch out for in the future,” explained Kalfani. “You have to understand, Mr. Potter, that being what you are, you now have a share of the responsibility of keeping the balance. We don’t know what you’re capable of. We don’t know what you will do about this power you have. What we do know is that you’ve become part of our history. How you will affect our future is a different matter. Bear in mind that the only reason we haven’t killed you right now is because the Oracle spoke of your creation as if it would do us good. We do not know yet how you will benefit us, but we are willing to wait and see. We—as you mortals say—have all the time in the world, and yes, we shall be watching.”

Harry didn’t quite know what to say. He wasn’t sure what Kalfani expected of him, but he had a feeling that once upon a time, a young woman, declared as the heir of Isis, was asked, “What are you going to do with the Oracle? Are you going to keep it sacred? Are you going to help maintain the balance?” And she probably didn’t know what to make of it, either. And now here was Yasmin, maintaining the balance of the Vampire World one beheading at a time.

Kalfani then looked to Hermione. “And you, child. You have done your duty admirably. You were given a task and you accomplished it. Your mission, I dare say, was completed with great success.”

Hermione was still for what felt like a long time before she finally spoke. “I don’t know if I had much to do with it, Ancient One. I did what I was told, yes, but much if it was… improvised. Many of the things I did to complete this task wasn’t taught in training.”

Yasmin laughed at her own private joke. Even if Hermione hadn’t expected it, Yasmin—in her strange way—had. She couldn’t see into the future; she wasn’t a seer, but she could definitely tell the boundaries of what could be, much like the Oracle, so she wasn’t surprised by the results in the least.

Harry wanted to wipe that smug look off Yasmin’s face.

“You defeated Janus,” Nekhbet said, a slight smile pulling at the corners of her lips. “That in itself is commendable. He was almost five hundred years old.”

“I surprised him,” said Hermione in a clipped tone.

“Oh? How?”

Hermione didn’t look as if she wanted to reply.

“She morphed,” said Yasmin with a grin.

Harry tried not to look too surprised. It was embarrassing to be caught not knowing something about Hermione. He tried not to feel too hurt. They’d only been together for a few weeks, and in the chaos of war, it was only natural that she would still have things she’d need to tell him.

Still…

“I had no choice,” Hermione said with a decided edge, her eyes flashing in Yasmin’s direction. “If I didn’t, I’d have gotten broken and he would’ve taken my head.”

“Oh, you never ever have to explain the merits of morphing to me, dear,” Yasmin said with a poisonous grin in Harry’s direction.

“You did your part well in this conflict,” Kalfani interjected, addressing Hermione. “You will receive your due, as Yasmin has received hers. We have given her Dendera’s duties, because Dendera shall be indisposed to attend to them very soon.”

Harry was mostly certain that involved this Dendera’s head getting removed. He didn’t know exactly what Dendera did, but it must have been something very naughty to garner Kalfani’s and Nekhbet’s ire.

Hermione, however, did not take it quite for granted. “You’re not going to kill her?”

On hindsight, Harry supposed Vampires didn’t do euphemisms. If they were going to chop someone’s head off, they would say so. He shouldn’t have been surprised when Hermione immediately came to this conclusion.

Kalfani shook his head. “No, we will not.”

He could see Hermione warring with the need to ask why. She couldn’t, because as a vampire, she was expected to take her betters’ word for it, and to go against that expectation could get her in trouble. It became increasingly evident, however, that she was willing to risk it, so before she could say anything, Harry blurted the question out.

“Why? If she’s as dangerous as you say she is, why won’t you just—kill her?”

“There are ancient laws to follow, young one,” Nekhbet said gently. “And besides that, the political implications of destroying her are tremendous. Dendera did not get this far through the centuries without friends and followers. Every vamp nation needs at least three Most Ancient Ones watching over the flock. There are others in Europe just as old as us, of course, but they lack the political strength to hold the position capably. Yasmin cannot begin to replace Dendera officially until she is a thousand years old.”

“But that’s five hundred years away!”

“Yes. And Yasmin is willing to wait.”

This was, at present, inconceivable to Harry, so he just let it pass.

Nekhbet continued. “Right now, Dendera may not be killed. Yasmin has five-hundred years to further strengthen her position as Dendera’s replacement. In the meantime, Dendera’s imprisonment is a reasonable compromise to everyone. Order is maintained, and quite frankly, we can’t make it very easy for just anyone to replace us, now can we? That would be just silly.”

Harry began to get the picture. Even Hermione seemed appeased, though he was betting she still preferred Dendera dead.

“And what of the Coven?” Hermione asked. “Who will lead it?”

“Yasmin will still be Coven master until the Oracle reveals the next heir, but in the meantime, she would need a Coven deputy.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

Yasmin snorted. “Before your pee in your knickers from excitement, let it be said that it isn’t going to be you, Hermione.”

Hermione’s cheeks reddened as her eyes lost their glitter. “Oh.”

“I’ve selected Keiko for the task,” Yasmin continued. “She is dependable, vicious, beautiful, and she has a heart of ice. She’s perfect for the job.”

“I can be vicious,” Hermione muttered, pouting slightly. “And I can be a coldhearted bitch if I choose.”

Harry tried not to smirk. It would be just like Hermione to want to be in a position where she could effect certain changes. But the truth was he didn’t think Master of the Coven of Isis would be the sort of thing for Hermione. She was a brilliant woman who could be anything she wanted, but contrary to what Hermione claimed, viciousness and ruthlessness were not traits that were natural to her.

Something akin to a real smile played on Yasmin’s lips. “Yes, well, I did endeavor to find something more suitable for you, anyhow. I’ll need an assistant of sorts. A shadow. The nature of Dendera’s duties as liaison to international relations necessitates it. I was hoping you’d be my Shadow, Hermione. You will have access to everything I do, so long as I don’t specifically forbid it. Secret libraries and museums; underground haunts and the very important people who wander them; and access to every human-vampire resource imaginable. You will sit at council and you will indeed have a staff of assistants at your beck and call. How does that sound?”

Harry swallowed. Yasmin had Hermione at “secret libraries and museums.” He looked apprehensively at Hermione and saw that the stoic mask on her face looked even more impenetrable than ever.

He felt a pang of anxiety. He could tell, without even asking, that it sounded like the kind of opportunity Hermione wouldn’t miss for anything. It was the sort of thing that would make him a prick if he asked her to refuse it, and there was really nothing he could do except tell her he was happy for her and that he’d be at home, waiting, because really, it was the kind of job that would take her away—for weeks at a time, even. And for how long was this going to last? Five hundred years at least.

Yasmin was taking on the duties of Dendera as one of the three Most Ancient Ones. She was basically replacing Dendera. In five hundred years, Yasmin’s position would be official. But even right now, with the power Yasmin already possessed as master of the Coven, she basically had Europe’s vampire world in the palm of her hand. With this new position, she reigned even more supreme. Harry had to wonder if Kalfani and Nekhbet weren’t all too aware of this.

Keep your friends close, your enemies closer…

They knew what she was capable of. That was for certain, but they understood that she earned her due. She was a brilliant Coven master; she was just, yet ruthless. Yasmin believed in what she did. She was perfect. To destroy her would be a loss to them as well. They needed her, so they appointed her to a position that would cast her within their reach. If she was going to be Queen, they were going to let her remember who put her there.

And now Yasmin was asking Hermione to be the Queen’s agent. Harry didn’t know what Hermione would do in that respect.

He sat still, betraying nothing in his expression. If she agreed to do this, they would have to talk later, and he would have to know where he fit, if he even fit at all. If she didn’t agree… well, they would have to talk anyway. This was a great opportunity she was letting go of…

Hermione’s impenetrable eyes softened, and she gave a tightlipped smile. “I am sorry, Yasmin, but I can’t. It’s a great opportunity, but I’d have to decline.”

Harry didn’t know what to think. On the one hand he knew he should be happy, yet that nagging sensation of “I kept her back,” persisted on muting that joy.

Yasmin looked horribly surprised, and then disappointed. “Is that what you really want? I’ll give you plenty of time off if that’s what concerns you. Emergency leave of absences, and a shit-load of other perks.”

“Tempting, but I can’t. This position offers a lot of power. Basically, if I take it, there’s practically nothing that I couldn’t do if you let me, but power was never my drug.” She reddened a bit, but continued. “Helping people and setting things right was always my cause. It was never about the power or the money. What you’re offering me right now is a magnificent opportunity, but when it comes down to it, it’s politics. It won’t make me happy.”

“I’ll teach you everything I know,” said Yasmin.

While it probably wasn’t completely true, the fact that it was partly so would have been valuable enough.

Hermione laughed. “I know. That’s… the problem. I—I don’t want to be like you, Yasmin.”

There was a profound silence in the room, and Harry couldn’t believe Hermione just said that, even if he could tell Hermione meant every word of it. It was, in fact the entire reason Hermione had refused the appointment.

After an extended silence, Yasmin finally spoke. “Well, fair enough. On the other hand, having another ambitious, power-hoarding bitch would be such a bother, don’t you think?”

Nekhbet smiled slightly. “Yes, it would be.”

Kalfani nodded.

Harry didn’t know how in hell Hermione got away with that in one piece.

“The Brotherhood of Osiris offered me a job,” Hermione continued.

Oh, hell. Why did you have to push your luck like that, baby?

“And I’m going to take it.”

Harry was sure Yasmin would have Hermione’s neck now. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Yasmin seemed mildly irritated. “You’re leaving the Coven?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied. “The Coven is based in Eastern Europe, and I’d eventually have to go back to Albania months at a time. And knowing you, you’d probably assign me to missions in Eastern Europe just to spite me.”

“It’s fun to do. Can you blame me?”

Hermione had to smile at that. “I couldn’t put up with that anymore. The Brotherhood of Osiris’s goals and principles are parallel to mine, they’re less petty and vindictive, and it’s a plus that they are based in England. I’m not going to pretend that this doesn’t have anything to do with my personal life, because it does; a lot of it does. Since I’ve gotten back to my real family, I realized that they’re too important for me to give up to the Coven. So it’s not you…” She paused and thought better of it. “Well, it is you, come to think of it.”

Yasmin took it in stride. She’d heard worse things said about her, Harry wagered.

“That’s that, I suppose,” Yasmin said. “You were never one to gloss things over. I ought to put you on my shit list.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and made a gesture of resignation.

After a few more barbed remarks from Yasmin, Hermione and Harry were dismissed by Kalfani and Nekhbet. Yasmin volunteered to see them out.

Ron and Solomon were waiting, and they seemed relieved to see that nothing terrible had happened to Harry and Hermione.

Hermione looked to her former boss. “I should have my resignation in by tomorrow.”

“Email it.”

Hermione normally kicked up a fuss about email, but this time, she didn’t. “Sure. I don’t hate you, you know. I just think you could be so horrible at times… a great and terrible beauty, as they say.”

“Flattery. I like it. You always knew just how, Hermione,” said Yasmin, eyebrow arching.

Harry cleared his throat. “Congratulations on your appointment. It’s really something.”

Yasmin gave him a prim nod. “Thank you. At least someone appreciates it.”

Hermione’s lips opened, then closed, pursing as she bit back whatever comment she was going to make.

Yasmin turned and went back to the Hummer, after which the vampires scampered back into their respective vehicles before rolling out of Grimmauld Place one and all.

“What did they want?” Solomon immediately asked.

“Oh,” said Harry. “Nothing very important. Vamp niceties and all that.”

Ron looked perplexed.

“I quit the Coven,” said Hermione, perhaps to distract them. “I’m going to take the Brotherhood’s offer.”

Solomon looked surprised, then delighted. “Oh, brilliant! I’m so glad, Hermione! I didn’t want to say anything, but the Brotherhood is so much better suited to you. And I personally prefer to have Ambrose and Gabriel as bosses… you are taking me with you, aren’t you?”

“Of course, silly. You’re my Shadow Kin.”

“Fantastic!”

“Yes,” Harry said, smiling gently. “Fantastic.”

She met eyes with him, and he knew she understood what he meant.

Slipping her arms around his waist, they walked back to the house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“George is awake,” Solomon said as soon as she awoke the following night.

Hermione blinked at the news for a few seconds before it sunk in. She rose from her coffin and got ready to go to St. Mungo’s with Solomon.

They still had the replacement Jaguar and they would use that to get to the hospital. She didn’t know how long before Yasmin took the car back. It would be just like Yasmin to take the car before the usual two-week transition period ended.

It wasn’t a big problem. She’d already sent notice to the Brotherhood that she was now ready to seriously consider their offer. Ambrose had replied immediately, setting a meeting for the end of the week.

Now George was awake. Life indeed happened when one was making plans.

Harry was waiting for them at the St. Mungo’s lobby when they arrived.

“Is George lucid?” Hermione asked.

Harry nodded. “He is. Getting better, in fact. He can’t—he can’t feel his legs, but didn’t think that was a big problem.” He said this gravely. It was not something to be completely happy about.

“It hasn’t sunk in yet,” she concluded.

Harry shrugged. “Maybe. Perhaps he really is optimistic that he’d get his legs back. Time will tell.”

“Have they told him about Fred?”

Harry sighed. “They were telling him when I left to meet you here.”

She nodded, her heart going out to Fred. “How’s Ron? How are the rest of the Weasleys?”

“They’re just glad he’s awake. They’ll puzzle the details out later.”

She finally stopped to look at him and she could see the anxiety in his eyes. She reached out to rub his arm. “How are you?”

He seemed surprised for a moment then he smiled wanly. “I’m alright. I’m glad he’s awake, too. Come on. I’ll show you two to the waiting room.”

The waiting room was awash in light, and it was still filled with people. Most of St. Mungo’s was still filled with patients, many from the Great Battle, as the papers had dramatically began to call it.

It was difficult to find some privacy for the first few minutes because many of the visitors recognized Harry, even without the scar, and personally offered him their thanks. He was, and forever will be, the Boy Who Lived. Hermione and Solomon tried to slink behind him, hoping to disappear in his shadow.

After a bit, he was finally left alone, and Hermione gathered her bearings. She spotted Dean and Luna seated at the far corner of the waiting room, watching them bemusedly from where they were.

“Still the center of distraction, Potter?” Dean asked, rising to meet them.

Harry and Dean clasped hands and fell to talking.

Luna inched closer to Hermione and Hermione stepped on Solomon’s foot when he tried to get away.

Luna’s loopy eyes, wide and weird, were made stranger by the eerie smile on her lips. Her bottle-cap necklace hung loose around her neck.

Hermione smiled back awkwardly, reminding herself that it was Luna who made Ron laugh; it was Luna who was there for Ron when Harry couldn’t be these past five years. Weirdness wasn’t necessarily a bad trait, anyway. Hermione thought herself quite weird, in her own way—apart from the fact that she sucked blood to live, of course.

“So Luna,” Hermione asked, straining to start conversation. “You’ve been keeping George company while he was unconscious.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Erm… sweet of you. Must have been difficult, just waiting for him to wake up.”

“It wasn’t difficult at all. I read to him, and he seemed interested.”

Hermione didn’t bother to mention the fact that George didn’t really have a choice about whether he was interested or not, being in a coma and all, but she was so relieved Luna had made mention of a book that Hermione let it pass without comment. A book was something they could talk about. “What’s the book about?”

“It’s called ‘A Day in the Life of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.’”

Hermione stifled a sigh. “Yes. Of course it would be.”

It was Solomon’s turn to step on Hermione’s foot.

“Interesting, those Snorkacks,” said Solomon. “Where did this book say they could be found?”

“The author found them high up in the Swedish mountains,” Luna said dreamily. “He observed them for weeks in the cold temperatures until his fingers and… other appendages fell off from the cold.”

“That’s… not nice.”

“They made excellent souvenirs, I’m sure.”

“I…” Solomon grasped for words before giving up. “Think Harry’s calling me.”

He made his escape and avoided Hermione’s glare of fury.

“Squeamish,” breathed Luna. “For a vampire.”

“Yes, well…” Hermione replied, quite at a loss. “So George was glad to see you there when he woke up?”

“Oh, yes. Very glad. He’s in love with me, you know.”

Hermione stared at her. She knew the twins were strange, but not that strange. On the other hand, Ron fancied Luna, too.

What’s wrong with these Weasleys? Is it the water in Ottery St. Catchpole?

Then she remembered that once upon a time, Ron fancied her.

“George is in love with you,” Hermione repeated, as if to try it on for size.

“Yes.”

“Are you in love with him?”

Her loopy smile shrunk a bit. “No.”

“That’s—that’s regrettable.”

“It is, to an extent.”

Hermione stared at her a moment. There was an answer—a complete answer—somewhere in Luna’s batty silver-blue eyes.

“Ron!” Dean said as the tall redhead entered the waiting room.

All of them gathered around him as he ran his fingers agitatedly through his hair.

“How is he?” Harry asked.

“Coping,” Ron said with a tired smile. “We told him about Fred and… well, he took it better than we expected. There are other things about his condition, as you know, but I think maybe he’s taking it one step at a time… he’ll be ready to see everyone else in a bit. He—um, asked for you, Luna.” Red splotches blossomed in Ron’s cheeks worse than ever, and the more Luna stared, the redder he got.

Luna seemed to be taking her time, anyway, possibly waiting for Ron to explode.

Hermione began exchanging wondering looks with everyone else and Harry actually gave a subtle shrug.

Finally, Luna spoke. “Did he? Well, that’s to be expected. Will you escort me back to his room, Ronald?”

“Well, it’s not really that far—“

Harry kicked Ron’s ankle with the reinforced toe of his boot.

Ron gave a semi-cry but kept speaking through his teeth. “—but I’ll be glad to walk you there… ” He shot Harry a murderous look before offering Luna his arm.

She took it and smiled up at him as they walked off.

“Daft, I tell you,” Harry muttered. “What’s he going to do without me?”

“Date barely legal teenagers, that’s what,” Dean said. “Now that ought to sort itself out, don’t you think? Ron’s not that stupid, eh?”

“Can someone answer that?” Hermione asked. “Too easy for me. Waste of good snark.”

Harry flashed her a mildly scolding, somewhat amused, look.

Solomon draped an arm each over Harry’s and Hermione’s shoulders. “As if you two didn’t do your share of angst. The drama these two cooked up was amazing. Forget soaps. This was a full-blown, extra-bubbly, industrial detergent on spin cycle. You cannot believe—“

“That’s quite enough, dear,” Hermione said testily. “I think he gets it.”

“Ginny fills me in, of course,” said Dean as-a-matter-of-factly. “I agree that it’s interesting. Too bad Harry and Ron decided to duke it out for Granger after school. Would’ve been terribly entertained by that one.”

Hermione shot Harry a glare.

Harry reddened. “I never told!”

“Ron wouldn’t have!” Hermione cried. “Only the three of us knew!”

“Remus knew!”

“Harry Potter! Remus is not a gossip!”

“I—“ Something stopped Harry short and he began to redden. Whether it was from embarrassment or anger, Hermione couldn’t exactly tell. “I told Malfoy.”

Hermione looked immensely irritated. “Great. It’s not enough he could’ve gotten that info himself. You had to go and tell him.”

“We were drinking!”

“Oh, well, that makes it all better, doesn’t it?”

Harry made a face and looked sardonically at Dean. “And Ginny’s been talking to Malfoy too much.”

Dean put his hands up. “You try telling her who she should or shouldn’t talk to. Last time I did, she threw me out of my flat… in my boxers. Didn’t let me in for three hours. Just long enough for me to miss my football game on the telly.”

“Whatever,” Harry and Hermione muttered.

“Speaking of Malfoy,” continued Dean. “What’s this I hear about him petitioning for release?”

“He turned in his father,” Solomon said. “And he might get out early for good behavior. Justice prevails, etcetera, etcetera.”

“But he’s a ghoul!”

“A well-behaved ghoul, apparently.”

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. “He’ll behave when he’s out. If he makes one wrong move, he knows I’ll find out where he lives and I’ll make him suffer.”

Dean shook his head, sighing. “Potter, it’s official: You are a thrill junkie. Danger turns you on.” He turns to head for the rooms.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Harry said, taking Hermione by the hand as he followed after Dean.

Solomon’s eyes lit. “Ever tried snowboarding, Harry? Oh, Merlin, you have to. If we ever head back to Viktor’s crib in Bulgaria, we’ll definitely—“

Hermione shot Solomon a glare. “And have Harry break his neck? Absolutely not!” she was squeaking again. Never a good sign.

Harry grinned. “Just tell me when.”

“Harry!”

Harry pulled her in a closer embrace, grinning that Cheshire grin that had her knickers twisting in and of itself. His eyes twinkled and she could see his mischief coming a mile away. “You promised not to stop me.”

She blinked. She didn’t quite get it. “What?”

“You made me promise to tell you if I decide to do something that you probably wouldn’t want me to do, and for that promise, you swore you weren’t going to stop me. Remember?”

Son of a— “But that’s for—only if you—” She glared at him. “You limey bastard, you’re teasing!”

He laughed, kissing her cheek. “Of course I am. Come on. We have to go see George, eh?”

Sighing, she nodded and chuckled in spite of herself, stepping up her pace so that they walked side by side.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was glorious.

Flying side by side with her, him on his Firebolt and she with her magnificent raven wings, he almost didn’t want to reach the isolated highlands of Scotland. He could just watch her fly all night.

But she couldn’t fly long, she said. It would weaken her, but unlike before, she wasn’t going to collapse from exhaustion.

She’d been in Albania the last two and a half weeks to fix her resignation papers with the Coven. He’d missed her terribly. The press and publicity were small annoyances compared to the emptiness he’d felt with her gone. But she owled almost everyday, which was a great comfort. Ron had teased him about it incessantly.

She’d told him about her morphing abilities before she left for Albania, and she explained why she didn’t want anyone to know about it, especially not him. Soothing her fears with respect to how he perceived her wasn’t an easy thing, and while she couldn’t morph for him then, she promised that when she got back from Albania, she’d show him.

Her idle hours in Albania were apparently spent on practicing her morphing abilities. When Hermione Granger promised to do something, she was going to do it brilliantly.

So he brought her to Hogwarts, and from the lake that was so much a part of their fondest and dreariest memories, he watched her morph and take off in the air for the first time. It was a sight he was never ever going to forget. She was a dark angel, lovely against the moonlight.

They reached the landing point and set themselves down, him with the graceful tilt of his broom and she with a magnificent bow of her wings.

The view from their perch was eerily breathtaking. Hogwarts looked to be so far away, and the night was cloudless. Highlands all around them lay dim, but the moonlight showed them the horizon. There were patches of snow here and there still, but Hermione never felt cold, and Harry didn’t feel overly bothered by it, either. He supposed that for a vampire and a Dhampir, it was the perfect night for a romantic, moonlight flight.

He watched her wings flutter lazily as she gathered her bearings and it made him smile. “They’re lovely.”

She blushed. “Are they? You don’t think they’re frightening?”

“Never.”

She smiled shyly before closing her eyes. The wings folded and began to retract back into her, a gasp escaping her as the last feather disappeared. She wavered on her feet and he caught her before she could fall.

He was a bit alarmed, but her smile eased some of his worry.

“I’m alright,” she breathed. “The trainer said the pain recedes in time. Like muscles that haven’t been exercised in a long time then suddenly put to weights…”

He smiled at her apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I have to get used to them some time, right? Come on. Let’s sit and talk. I’ve missed you horribly, love.”

He kissed her, tender but brief, before diving into his rucksack and producing a blanket and a picnic basket shrunken to fit.

She placed her hands on her hips, but she was smirking. “Did the elves put that together for you?”

He had the grace to look sheepish. “They offered. If I refused, I’d have broken their little hearts.”

“There better be chocolate in there, Potter.”

“I swear there is. Now stop playing coy. Come here… I want to snog you senseless.” He pulled her to sit with him on the blanket.

“But I want to talk,” she teased softly.

“Make-out now, talk later.”

She appeared to seem less resistant than she first let on as she engaged him in a most sensual touching of lips and tangling of tongues.

It was immediately intoxicating and everything he dreamed of in the last two and half weeks of her absence. He longed to touch more of her, but if he did, the talking part would be foregone and that just wouldn’t do. Not this time, at least.

When she pulled away, he couldn’t resist nipping at her earlobe, and she giggled, resisting ever so slightly. “Oh, I did miss that.”

He made a sound of agreement. “That and the sex.”

“Goodness, there’s no glossing over that one, is there?”

“Sorry.”

“No you’re not.”

He smiled lazily. “No, I’m not. But we’re here to talk, aren’t we? Shag later?”

“Yes and yes. Now… what happened over the last two weeks I’ve been gone?”

He leaned back, enlarging their picnic basket and pulling chocolates and sandwiches out. “Oh, the usual. Arrests, executions, bad press, good press, big bloody circus…” He brought out a canister and he opened it for her to sniff. The hot, chocolaty vapors floated up into the cold.

She approved and fished out two mugs into which he began to pour the chocolate.

He continued. “Rita Skeeter was in fine form, but so was Luna. A regular cat-fight on print. In the mean time, Ron managed to find the bullocks to ask her out to dinner at Il Encuentro. She said no.”

She looked up, surprised. “No?”

“She didn’t like the restaurant thing. Too normal for her, so Ron invited her to look for Nargles, and along the way, they’ll stumble into a quaint little restaurant somewhere or other that serves Pasta and Chinese food. Perfectly unusual.”

“Ah. That ought to suit them both.”

“Naturally.”

“And your work? Is it going well?”

“As well as could be expected. I haven’t quit the force.”

“And I’m telling you, take your time. You don’t have to make any hurried decisions. I’m not going anywhere.” She grinned, cupping her hands around her mug and taking a tiny sip of the chocolate. “Mmm, strong.”

He cocked a grin. “Thought you’d like that. And yes, I am taking my time. Perhaps I’ll surprise you one day and hand in my resignation.”

“Shacklebolt will be far more surprised than I ever will be, love.”

“Likely. But I’ve been wondering… truffles?”

“Just one.” She selected one from the box and popped it in her mouth. “And what have you been wondering about?”

“Us. Being together.”

She paused warily. “We are together.”

“Officially.”

“We’re wearing matching rings, Harry. How much more official is it going to get?”

His eyebrow arched, wondering if he really had to spell it out. If Hermione was any other kind of woman, he would’ve gone the entire down-on-his-knees, ring-in-a-box route, but if he did that, being who she was now, he was half-certain she would laugh and say something like, “Get up, silly! What the hell are you doing?”

This way, he thought, would be more to her liking, and frankly, it made him less nervous, as well.

She stared a moment before his wordless answer dawned on her, and her eyes widened while her lips formed that adorably surprised “O.”

“Y-You mean… marriage?” she asked, whispering, as if anyone would hear. Never mind that there wasn’t a soul for miles around.

He fished a box out of his robe and held it up—like he would a candy bar. “Yes. Do you want to see the ring?”

“Oh, yes please!” She held her hands out.

“Yes to the ring or the marriage?” he teased.

“The ring. Gimme!”

He grinned. “Saucy wench.”

He handed her the box and she opened it. It was a princess cut diamond and quite big.

“Oh, it’s perfect! You wonderful man!” She kissed his cheek. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”

He laughed. “You did that on purpose! You were going to say yes, even if the ring looked like rubbish! Admit it!”

“Alright, I admit it, but you were so smug. I had to punish you. Now I get to wear it. It’s mine!”

“It was on sale.”

“Shut it, you. Betsy and I are perfectly happy with each other.”

“Betsy?”

“Rock this size needs a name, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Right, as usual.” He inched closer and kissed her throat. “Marry me?”

She leaned into his kiss and whispered her reply. “I will. I love you.”

He smiled, pulling her into his arms for an even more engaging kiss. She tasted like sweet chocolate, her mouth a well of warmth against the biting cold.

When they parted, Harry pulled an envelope out of his pocket.

She looked up at him questioningly and he showed it to her. The back of the envelope said, “To Harry.”

Recognition was quick to come.

“The letter,” she said. “You still haven’t opened it.”

“I haven’t. I’m going to ask you… do I need to? Is there anything in it that could shape our lives in any way? Good or bad?”

She stared at it a moment before she smiled wanly. “No. It makes no difference. It tells you to move on, because I was never coming back; because I couldn’t be with you, and that my leaving was for your own good…”

“All what really matters is now, isn’t it? We got to this point. We’re better people for it. I don’t know how differently it would’ve turned out if you hadn’t left, but there’s no point in dwelling on that.”

“No point.”

“And you’re right… about knowing the future, or thinking you know it. Futures aren’t meant to be told. But I guess at some point in our lives, we always try to be Oracles of ourselves and those around us.”

She nodded.

A gust of wind blew.

He let the letter go, and along the way, it burst into magical flame, its ashes scattering over the Scottish horizon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Just one more to go…

44. Epilogue: Forever

A/N: Yes, here we are! Sob!

Standard disclaimers apply.

Chapter rating: R

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue: Forever

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Twenty-five years going on twenty-six…

Harry looked up at the dark English sky, west of Amesbury in Wiltshire.

Earth, timber and stone.

He touched his hand to the wards and it held. All around him, it was silent.

If you listen hard enough you can hear her screams.

He smiled.

Hermione loved his sporadic flares of drama.

“Alright there, Harry?”

Harry turned and regarded his best friend of almost forty years, Ron Weasley. He stared at Ron a moment, pondering his reply. Was he all right?

There were some aspects of his life that he wouldn’t exchange for the world, and yet there was that other side that brought him such deep pain that he sometimes understood why Hermione didn’t think immortality was such a blessing.

For now, Harry nodded.

Ron’s shoulder’s sagged with relief. “Then let’s go. This place still gives me the creeps.”

From a forty-seven year old man who rounded up the fiercest dragons for a living, that was saying something awful.

Harry smirked. “It’s the safest place on earth. Safer than Hogwarts.”

“Hogwarts doesn’t have an angry, thousand-year-old vampire imprisoned in a coffin buried underneath fifty feet of earth and twenty feet of concrete.”

“The wards are unbreakable. So long as me or my bloodline survives, those wards aren’t going down, and that’s if I don’t physically pass on guardianship of this seal.”

Ron sighed as they walked farther from Stonehenge. “I still don’t get why they didn’t just kill her.”

“They can’t. Not until Yasmin’s at least a thousand years old and officially among the Most Ancient. And then when that time comes, Yasmin has to be the one to kill Dendera so that she could ‘properly’ take Dendera’s place.”

“And there can only be three?”

“In Europe, in an official capacity. There might be a few millennium-old vamps hidden here and there, but they haven’t been groomed to the position. No one’s come forward to contest Nekhbet and Kalfani’s place, anyway. Until then, it’s status quo.”

Ron sighed. “That’s frightening.”

“Vampire laws, and they seem to work. If they weren’t in place, there’ll be vampire anarchy, and trust me… you don’t want to know how vampire anarchists get their kicks.”

“In the meantime, you and your future biological children are stuck guarding Dendera. Why did you get this job again?”

Harry chuckled. “Because vampires generally aren’t afraid of vampires, but vampires seem to be afraid of Dhampirs. So here I am… perfect for the job.”

Ron nodded. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

“We had this same talk twenty-five years ago, I think.”

Ron was silent. “Merlin, has it been that long?”

Harry didn’t even reply. It was slightly painful to talk about the years gone by. When he looked at Ron and saw silver peppering the ginger-red hair, noticed the subtle limp in Ron’s aching leg from the dragon-herding accident he suffered fifteen years ago, Harry felt momentary grief.

There was no silver in his dark hair; not a limp marred his gait; no lines showed evidence of aging. He was strong and agile. He was a freelance agent of the Brotherhood of Osiris. He was an instructor for the Dark Creatures Defense class in the Auror Academy. He was the N.E.W.T.s-level D.A.D.A. professor in Hogwarts. He was going on fifty.

I look young enough to be Ron’s kid.

“Jules is starting Hogwarts,” Ron said, laughing softly. “Only two more to go and they’re all out of my house. Thank Merlin.”

Harry chuckled. “That’s if you don’t knock Luna up again.”

“Oh, God, please no.”

Jules was the fourth of the six children Ron and Luna have had since they married twenty-three years ago. All of them were boys; none of them twins (much to Ron’s relief).

It was Ginny who seemed to be popping twins out. After Ginny’s second pregnancy and the second set of twins, she refused to have anymore children, in pairs or otherwise. Dean was only too happy to agree.

Harry had seen many Weasley children come and go through his classroom. He’d seen many of his other former classmates’ children come and go, as well.

Except Malfoy’s. The git had the bad sense to send his kids to Durmstrang.

Draco didn’t want to send his children to “pansy-arsed Hogwarts,” especially not if the D.A.D.A. teacher was Harry.

Harry thought it was just as well. The litter of Malfoys probably would’ve been insufferable, anyway.

“The youngest. Andrew, they call him. Weird as hell. SCARY… and coming from a someone whose father is a werewolf and whose aunts and uncles are vampires, that’s saying something.” Words from Amelia, Tonks’s and Remus’s nineteen-year-old morphmagus and cousin to the Malfoy brood on her mother’s side. She was especially good at taking wolfy-shapes.

“How’s Hermione doing these days?” Ron asked somewhat awkwardly.

Harry stifled the laugh that threatened to bubble from his throat. “These days” was the two weeks Hermione and Ron hadn’t spoken (for the nth time) because they had another one of their arguments. Harry had given up trying to temper their fighting ten years ago and realized since that they could be terribly entertaining.

“Why don’t you ask her? She should be back from Scotland about now.”

Ron scowled. “Why do I have to be the one to speak first all the time? It was her fault we got into this bloody argument.”

Harry shook his head in mock disapproval. “I told you, didn’t I? You can’t be having a say in Natalya’s birthday party. This is Hermione’s gig and she takes it pretty seriously.”

“I was just making a suggestion!”

“Bollocks. You were trying to be difficult. Even John and Hans know enough to keep out of it, and they’re barely in their teens!”

“That’s because John and Hans are their father’s sons.”

“Yes, well, I like to keep peace in my household, if it’s all the same to you. The Shadow Kin bicker enough. I swear, it’s like living with a football team… and there are only three of them!”

“Well, I still think I’m entitled to give input for this birthday party. I’m Natalya’s Godfather for Merlin’s sake!”

“You dubbed yourself her godfather, Ron. Just like you dubbed yourself Hans’s godfather. You’re godfather to John. It doesn’t mean you’re godfather to all our kids.”

“Well, I should’ve been Natalya’s, at least! I rescued her from abandonment.”

“Yes, yes. And you never let us forget it.”

Ron gave up the discussion and grumbled to himself as he stomped off, irritated.

Harry laughed softly, checking his pocket watch.

Yes, Hermione would be home about now, and John, Hans, and Natalya weren’t due to be picked up from Ron’s for another three hours. The Shadow Kin… well, Hermione could always tell them to shove off.

He’d had a long day doing little odds and ends before the school year started, and he wanted to go home to his wife.

He always did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their home in the heights of Hamstead was fairly large and looked only slightly more modern (but infinitely newer) than Grimmauld Place. Its eclectic design had Hermione falling in love with it the moment they saw its picture on the advert, and the house was located in a neighborhood where its residents’ bohemian roots won Hermione over completely.

The sprawling meadows and grasslands surrounding the area remained unchanged in the twenty-three years they’ve lived there. The children loved it for the expansive grounds. It was a place they could roam free and play a million games, keep their pets and grow their little gardens.

Grimmauld Place was now owned by Remus Lupin. Harry had given it to Remus, as soon as he purchased the Hamstead home in fulfillment of the promise Harry had made to himself all those years ago. Harry could have given the home sooner, but Remus wouldn’t have accepted it if Harry didn’t already have another home to replace it.

With the Hamstead house bought, Remus and Tonks resisted Grimmauld Place only for a bit. It was easy to convince them to take it. After all, Remus could appreciate the fact that Sirius wouldn’t have had any objections and Tonks could appreciate the fact that her name was already written on its walls via the Black family tree.

To Harry’s mind, the house belonged to them. He always thought so, anyway.

Harry found Hermione in the library of their home, her Shadow Kin lounging around her in various states of relaxation.

Solomon was playing poker for chocolates with Kian, a vampire who liked to make one too many bets with the wrong people. His gambling problem wasn’t so much expensive as it was inconvenient. He didn’t usually gamble with money. It was always something along the lines of mowing someone’s lawn, or cleaning out the stables, or—on one occasion—running kilt-less through Herald Square during tourist season, but he happened to make this one wager involving the removal of his head should he lose the bet, and naturally, he did lose—the bet, but not his head. Hermione bailed him out of it by winning the bet for him in a double or nothing deal, and Kian had followed her like a puppy since. Kian had been her Shadow Kin for fifteen years. He’d declared himself her Shadow Kin for eighteen. Solomon was yet to make him understand that the alpha chose the Shadow Kin, not the other way around.

Giselle, the girl on the couch with her head on Hermione’s lap, had been abandoned and frightened when she was turned at thirteen three years ago by a rogue vamp. She was such a helpless slip of a girl when Hermione first took her in. That changed quickly enough. As Giselle began to adjust to her vampirism, she found out that she could be powerful and fierce. Loyal and affectionate to friends and “family,” she was ruthless to those who threatened to harm them. It was a tiny bit alarming to others, but Hermione trusted Giselle with their kids, so Harry had absolutely no reason to think Giselle was capable of hurting anyone she shouldn’t.

John, Hans, and Natalya were their adopted children.

Hermione had once said she would die if anything happened to them. Not that the children were in any immediate danger, but there was always that underlying threat, their adoptive parents being Harry and Hermione Potter.

John and Hans had known no other mum and dad since they were adopted as babies, and they were still relatively oblivious to how dysfunctional their family was, but they thrived in this eccentric environment where their mum was a vampire (among many), their dad a Dhampir, and their Uncles Sol (vamp), Kian (vamp), and Ron (human, like them) weren’t actually related to them or to each other. Giselle was still an interesting new addition to their family, but since she hid chocolates under their pillows whenever they managed to prank Uncle Kian successfully, she was shaping out to be “a-OK.”

Natalya was a bit different. They’d adopted her when she was five, and before that, she suffered various forms of abuse and neglect from her Muggle parents who thought she was unnatural and the spawn of the devil. It didn’t take long for Muggle social services to take her away from that environment, but of course, being a Muggle-born witch, her magic began to go haywire and the orphanage feared she was going to be a danger to her peers. Calls were made, and soon enough, Wizarding Child Welfare got wind of it. Ron just happened to get flooed first, and then Ron passed the case on to Harry, hence Ron’s assertion that he was the one who rescued Natalya.

When Harry and Hermione heard of her plight, there was no question about it. Natalya was welcomed into the Potter family, and Hermione had been doting on her ever since.

She was turning nine for her upcoming birthday, and of course, Hermione was going to make sure that the affair would be soothing, as well as enjoyable, to their fragile little girl.

Natalya had of course shown on several occasions that she wasn’t as fragile as she used to be, but all the same, Harry didn’t want to disrupt her steady progress with some wild, overwhelming birthday party. She’d have enough to cope with when she got sent to Hogwarts, a prospect that was already turning on Hermione’s ocular waterworks every time it was mentioned.

“I’m quite sure John will take very good care of her,” Hermione had said, mostly to comfort herself. “Hans is a dear, but he’s… fun-loving. John is steady and responsible. Oh, Harry! My baby’s going to be eleven in two years and…” She ranted and raved, and there was really nothing Harry could do except listen to her motherly woes. She went through exactly the same thing, first with John, and then Hans. He always had to remind her (always) that he was a professor at Hogwarts, and that he’d at least be intelligent enough to keep an eye on his own children.

She claimed that it was different; that it was an entirely new, vicious ballgame when it came time to retire to the house dorms, and the adults weren’t there to watch over them.

Harry had resigned himself to the fact that Hermione bordered on being neurotically protective of their kids. It was endearing (sometimes) anyway.

Harry loved it that these were their cares.

Oh, their life was by no means ideal and picket-fencey. With Hermione working for the Brotherhood of Osiris, and Harry unable to kick his habit of saving people every now and then, usually when the Auror Department called him in for “consultation,” they weren’t exactly active members of the PTA.

Hermione did try. She baked cookies and everything, but she wagered her velvet and leather business suit, even paired with her frilly-collared blouse, didn’t win her any PTA-points when the fathers began to check out her fish-net clad legs and their wives caught them at it. Needless to say, Harry got a call from John and Hans’s grammar-school teacher the following day, asking him how he and “Mrs. Potter” got along. Harry could have slug-hexed her through the phone, but he forbore and explained in a very polite tone that he and Mrs. Potter shagged at least twice a day on every surface of the house imaginable whenever the kids were out at school or at their Aunt Luna’s.

“So yeah,” Harry had said. “I think we get along just fine.”

Hermione was scandalized, or maybe pretended to be, when he told her about it.

He swears to this day that he saw something twinkle delightedly in her lovely eyes.

And so now everything seemed quite perfect. Hermione reading as she stroked her fingers through Giselle’s blonde hair, Solomon winning his chocolates, Kian losing by the kilt of his arse, the kids over at Ron’s playing Quidditch with Daniel, Jules, and Stephen, possibly with the older Weasley boys as well, since Tristan, Fred, and Mark liked a pick-up game every now and then.

His brows crinkled a bit with concern.

I hope John remembers not to let Natalya on his Firebolt… he thought as he walked into the library.

“John will remember,” Hermione said lazily from the couch. “I think he was more frightened by her Firebolt joyride than she was.”

She looked over her shoulder at him and grinned, their mind link from their years of blood-sharing gentle, but reassuring.

He smiled and kissed her hello. Her tongue brushed briefly against his. A sure sign that she was going to drive her Shadow Kin away in the next few seconds.

Stifling a laugh, he plopped beside her on the couch and stretched his arm out along the backrest.

“Alright, ladies, time for you to go,” she said on cue. “I need to speak with my husband in private.”

Giselle pouted, but got up, pulling Kian by the hair to make him follow.

Kian, his soft, honeyed tone and oft-dignified appearance bespeaking nothing of his roguish, irresponsible, cigarette-smoking, gun-toting, and card-sharking nature, frowned and stumbled along with her, saying, “I urge you to let go of my hair before I endeavor to chop that hand of yours off.”

Solomon herded them out of the library, and when Harry heard the doors to the library bang shut, he looked at her, trying to gauge her mood.

“Harry?” she began, moving a bit closer.

“Hermione?” he answered in the same tone, grinning.

“We have to talk.”

“Uh-oh.”

She laughed, rubbing his chest with the gentle stroking of her hand. “You’re not in trouble.”

“Good!”

“Hush, stop teasing. This is serious.”

He stared at her and saw that she was being serious. In fact, he’d seen that look in her eyes before, and he remembered it like it was yesterday, even if it had actually been ten years since. He knew what was coming before she spoke it.

“I want to try again,” she said.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but he did smile gently, and he did play idly with the curly strands of her hair. He gave her time to absorb the enormity of what she’d asked of him, and in turn he gave himself time to choose his words well.

His reply was simple. “Are you sure?”

She nodded eagerly. “I am. I’m sure. I’m all better now. This time I’ll be careful. I’ll be so careful, Harry. And I promise I won’t botch it up this time.”

He felt his heart twisting every time she spoke like that. He sighed and cupped her face. “Love, you have to stop thinking it was your fault. It wasn’t.”

“The first time wasn’t. The second time was. I should’ve learned from the first. I should’ve—I could have brought her to full-term, Harry. You know I could’ve. Rose would’ve been born and we’d—our baby…” Her eyes filled and her gaze dropped to her hands. He saw the tear drop and it still hurt him to see her so sad and vulnerable about this when she was so strong and impenetrable in everything else. And he understood that pain; that loss. Rose was his, too. Rose was their child, but she wasn’t meant to live.

Hermione had gone into labor too soon and there was nothing anybody could have done about it.

Remus said it was no one’s fault but fate. Hermione still blamed herself.

It was their second miscarriage.

The first one didn’t even make it to sixteen weeks. Hermione had been inconsolable for days after that, but her recovery was evident soon after, and just a year later, she told him she wanted to try again.

The second pregnancy lasted seven months. When Hermione went into premature labor, her eyes were struck with such horror and helplessness that he just knew that if they lost the baby, it would take years before he could pick up the pieces of her broken heart and mend it back together.

It has been ten years since they lost Rose and Hermione was still blaming herself even as she sat beside him, begging him to try again.

Trying was easy. Trying was bliss. And hoping was a miracle in itself. But to see her so devastated after those miscarriages was almost too much for him to bear. It was embittering—that he could save everyone from anything, yet he couldn’t save his wife from heartbreak and loss, nor his own children from death.

“Listen to me,” Harry said gently, taking her hands in his. “You know I’d like to try again, don’t you? I wouldn’t normally say no to this, but Hermione… you know there’s a chance this would—that something would happen—“

“Nothing will happen this time.”

“Something can happen. You know most of all how hard your pregnancies were. You become weak, and the change of… diet drains you. You feel pain and stress and… it’s like everything in your body works just to keep the baby alive. The fact that it’s not an easy pregnancy just makes it all the more probable that the baby won’t…” He couldn’t stand to finish what he was saying.

She looked up, a new light of resolution in her eyes. “It has been ten years since the last time. Developments have been made to help me come to full term. It will happen this time.”

Hearing her so sure only made his stomach knot harder. He’d never heard of a vampire dying of a broken heart, but if it was possible, and by some cruel twist of fate they lost this baby again, it would be the heartbreak that would kill her.

“I need you to believe in this,” she said, her grip tightening on his hands. “I need you to think that we’re going to get this baby.”

“Hermione… we have children. And you can’t tell me it’s not the same, because you love John, Hans, and Natalya as much as I do, and I feel no different about them than I would have about Rose, or the baby before that.”

“I know that. I know that, Harry, and it has nothing to do with blood or lineage or…” she sighed.

“Then why do we have to do this?” he asked softly. “Why do we have to risk so much pain?”

She seemed utterly surprised by his question. Her eyes widened a bit. “Because it’s worth it, Harry.”

And there it was.

Of course.

Of course that’s the answer!

Hermione was always right. Well, almost always—but enough times, especially when it mattered.

It made him smile, and he kissed her, telling her in between kisses that of course they were going to try again, and that this time—this time, it would be alright.

He believed it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was a night like this one long before when Hermione Granger became the center of his life. He didn’t know back then that was what happened. All he knew was that she had appeared at the Dursley doorstep and quite possibly shifted his understanding of life.

He was so young then. Seventeen. He knew absolutely nothing, yet at the time, he thought he knew about everything there was to know about darkness, hatred, and love.

He watched the raindrops slide down the windowpane in rivulets while he saw the past. He’d been alive for forty-seven years, but when did the Boy really start to live?

“I was eleven…” he whispered.

Her presence was like silk in his mind, and then her softness, wrapped in blankets, settled behind him on the window seat. Her arms slipped around his naked torso, her cheek pressing against his spine. He could feel the soft tendrils of her hair brushing lightly over his skin.

His hands sought hers, and he closed his eyes, reveling in the sweet silence of peace.

“What about when you were eleven?” she asked.

He smiled. “I met you and Ron.”

She was silent, but he could almost feel her smiling. “Twas a good day.”

A soft chuckled rumble in his chest. “You say that now, but Ron was horrid to you.”

“Part of his charm. But I met you, and that made up for Ron’s horridness. I wrote home as soon as I had the chance. Told mum and dad that I made the acquaintance of the famous Harry Potter.”

He grinned. “No mention of Ron?”

“There was. Lots of him, in fact. I said, ‘Dear Mum and Dad, I met the famous Harry Potter today on the train going to Hogwarts. He was sharing a compartment with this awful boy with a smudge on his face who couldn’t speak a proper spell to save his life. Harry Potter was sooooo handsome I wanted to snog him right properly…”

“Oh, you did not write that, Mrs. Potter.”

“Well, not the snogging part, but I did say you were interesting looking.”

“That’s what Neville says about his Mimbulus Mimbletonia.”

“I was thinking that you looked ‘cute’ when I wrote that, but Hermione Granger would never say a boy was cute. Wasn’t going to happen.”

“But you sighed and swooned over Lockhart.”

“Oh, but Lockhart wasn’t a boy. He was a professor. I have a thing for professors, as you know.” She nudged him with her shoulder.

“Any professor?”

“Handsome professors.”

“Is that why you spend all that time with Remus?”

She pinched him to punish his snark. He complained softly but laughed anyway, turning a bit to kiss her.

He looked back out in the rain, their silence comfortable.

“Natalya talked to me this evening before going to bed,” he said. “She’d just finished reading Tuck Everlasting. Have you read that book? About young Winnie Forster meeting a family in the woods that had drank from the Fountain of Youth?”

Hermione stiffened distinctly before molding softly back against him, nodding. “What did she think of the book?”

“She liked it,” he replied. “But she asked me—she asked me if I felt sad, knowing that one day, I’d have to watch her, John, Hans and a lot of the family leaving. Her word, not mine.”

Now it was just Hermione’s hands that tensed, her fists tightening against his chest. “What did you say?”

“I said of course I was sad. I told her that the mere thought of seeing everyone age and knowing that they had to eventually go on to the next great adventure while I had to be left behind was the only thing that could ever make me cry.”

Natalya had understood then how deeply he would hurt. She’d never seen him cry, and Natalya… well, he’d never seen his little girl cry, either. She’d been beaten out of her tears at so young an age that she understood pain and loss so well—no tears to mar her vision.

Hermione sighed.

“She said you’ll keep me company,” he went on softly. “But then she began to worry about you. She asked me who would keep you company when I had to leave.”

There was a sniffle, but he felt no wetness on his back from stray tears. Hermione had stifled them, or wiped them away.

“That’s a long while, yet,” she said. “It’s not something I like to think about. But… that’s what a lot of mortals fail to understand, yes? Immortality isn’t a gift. Not if you have people to love. And what’s a vamp to do when everyone she loves is gone? Stop feeling? It’s not something I want to happen.”

He turned and looked at her, smiling wanly. “We have children, remember? And they’ll have children, and those children will have more children… you’ll always have people to love and look after. You won’t ever have to stop feeling.”

At that she smiled through her deep pain. “Is this my task, oh great one?”

He laughed softly, turning to face her. “I’m going to live a very, very long time, Hermione. It’s going to be a while before you have to do any of it alone. While I live, we’ll watch over them together. We’ll protect them and fight dark lords and dark wizards…” His thoughts flittered to Andrew Malfoy for a heartbeat before the thought dissipated into the darkest cavern of his mind.

“Dark lords?”

He didn’t laugh. “There will be more. You know this, yes? Many thought Grindewald was the last, then Voldemort came. There’s a new one in the making as we speak.”

“Uncharacteristically pessimistic of you.”

He shook his head. “Not really. I’ve been wondering what I was going to do with all this… power I have. It seems wrong to just sit here and do nothing, yes? Yet I have no taste for ruling the world, as might have been the case if I was just the tiniest bit inclined. I figured I’d put this thing to good use. Decide once and for all that if another Dark Lord crops up, it would be my personal mission to stop him.”

“Or her.”

“Her. Right. Couldn’t be sexist now, could we?”

She smiled.

“I thought maybe I’d… I don’t know, revive the Order just before it’s completely forgotten.”

She arched an eyebrow. “How are you going to do that?”

He shrugged. “I’ll think of something. I’ll keep it simple. Nothing militant. I don’t want to inadvertently become my own dark lord, now would I? Dumbledore would turn in his grave.”

After a moment, she smirked. “You’ll have your own little Coven.”

“Something like that. The ancient ones did say that I’d eventually have to put up some sort of system. This will be part of it. Very convenient, don’t you think?”

She nodded. “Very. And who would lead when you’re gone, Harry? How can you trust that the next one won’t abuse the power he or she has inherited?”

“That’ll be Fawke’s decision, not mine.”

She seemed surprised for a moment before smiling. “Well, that makes a lot of sense.”

And she wasn’t being sarcastic, too.

“Time works things out,” he said quietly. “So long as you don’t try to know how things happen ahead of time.”

“How true that is, Mr. Potter.”

He stared back out into the night, beyond the wet windows and dim moonlight, the future absolutely uncertain. Yet he was happier for it.

He closed his eyes again, savoring her closeness and the thought of how wonderful things were at that very moment in spite of the insecurities and unknowns.

Happy.

It felt good to know this was true.

Grateful.

Because no one was telling him that things can’t ever be the way things used to be—no Oracle telling him how things were probably going to be. There was no prophecy telling him to live, or die, and no Dark Lord telling him that his fate was at the mercy of a lightning-bolt shaped scar.

THE END

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author’s Final Notes:

And that’s it, folks. That’s the end of the fic that I began to write more than a year ago. I first posted this on Oct. 4, 2005. I’ve completed it today on Oct. 12, 2006. I CANNOT believe it, but here we are!

First, I cannot express enough thanks to my betas.

Tome Raider, you totally OWNED this story. Ladies and gentlemen, this woman was a pillar of inspiration and a guiding golden compass. I could not have done this without her. This story could not have been finished without her. If she hadn’t been around, I probably would’ve stopped around chapter 30 and let this story die. Seriously, that might have happened! But as Harry said, there’s hardly any point to dwelling on what might have been. So thank you so much, Tome Raider! And I’m just glad what is turned out to be such a wonderful writing/collaborating experience!

Lady Diamond, my first beta, who indeed showed me the virtues of having a beta, for making me realize, once and for all, that every writer should have a beta, no matter what other published Vampire-theme writers think. Lol.

Thanks to all you readers in Portkey, especially those who left reviews, good or bad (had to say that the good reviews were so very encouraging, though). I answered many of your reviews in the first part of this fic, but the parts after that, my review replying lagged. For that I am sorry. I truly am grateful to you all, and I wish I could have answered every single one of you, but I swear I’ve been absolutely swamped with real-life issues. So let it be said, one and all, from the bottom of my heart, that all of your reviews mean a lot to me.

For everyone in LJ, in my flist or not, you’ve given me countless hours of joy, both with your comments and snarky avatars. Thanks for letting me peek into your lives, upon which I was able to comment/rant/make unwholesome cracks at ;) . I’m so glad Tome Raider introduced me to LJ. I can’t believe I lived without it before! You guys at LJ are the best, and good lord, the talent running rampant in those archives… inspirational. So my dear flisters, stay tuned. I do have a bit more for you guys. ^_^

So it’s goodbye to this story, now.

I don’t know if I could give this a proper send off. I feel so fulfilled, yet I’m so reluctant to let this go. I think maybe if I was just a little mad(der), I’d just keep writing and writing FK, but thankfully, my mother once told me, “Sweetheart, you have to let it go,” when she tried to wean me off the baby bottle. Yes, I remember because I was already too old to be drinking from a baby bottle.

“Forever Knight” is hereby lovingly put to a close.

Forever Knight

1. Prologue: Now

2. PART ONE - Chapter First: Rain

3. Chapter Second: Dazed

4. Chapter Third: Possibilities

5. Chapter Fourth: Occasion

6. Chapter Fifth: Blood

7. Chapter Sixth: Daytime

8. Chapter Seventh: Nightfall

9. Chapter Eighth: Calling

10. Chapter Ninth: Homecoming

11. Chapter Tenth: Duality

12. Chapter Eleventh: Funeral

13. Chapter Twelfth: Avoidance

14. Chapter Thirteenth: Exchange

15. PART 2 - Chapter Fourteenth: Lost

16. Chapter Fifteenth: Search

17. Chapter Sixteenth: Found

18. Chapter Seventeenth: Reminisce

19. Chapter Eighteenth: Spar

20. Chapter Nineteenth: Journey

21. Chapter Twentieth: Hogwarts

22. Chapter Twenty-First: Learn

23. Chapter Twenty-Second: Teach

24. Chapter Twenty-Third: Betrayed

25. Chapter Twenty-Fourth: Lull

26. Chapter Twenty-Fifth: Truth

27. Chapter Twenty-Sixth: Ghosts

28. Chapter Twenty-seventh: Horcrux

29. Chapter Twenty-eighth: Revelations

30. PART 3 - Chapter Twenty-Ninth: Deceived

31. Chapter Thirtieth: Tested

32. Chapter Thirty-first: Mole

33. Chapter Thirty-Second: Allies

34. Chapter Thirty-third: Daemon

35. Chapter Thirty-fourth: Messages

36. Chapter Thirty-fifth: Provocation

37. Chapter Thirty-sixth: Purpose

38. Chapter Thirty-seventh: Captivity

39. Chapter Thirty-eighth: Engage

40. Chapter Thirty-ninth: Death

41. Chapter Forty: Turned

42. Chapter Forty-first: Aftermath

43. Chapter Forty-secondth: Beginning

44. Epilogue: Forever