Eighth by lorien829

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 05/10/2005
Last Updated: 16/12/2005
Status: Completed

Begins with Harry's quest for the Horcruxes and the Last Battle with Voldemort. The first
defeat of Voldemort has some unimagined and inescapable consequences that continue even after his
second defeat. There is some R/Hr and H/G initially, as this tries to move straight from book 6
canon.




1. Accomplishments and Distractions
-----------------------------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**EIGHTH**

**PART I: The End of the Beginning**

**Chapter 1:** **Accomplishments and Distractions**

The snake was dead.

Harry lowered his trembling hand, holding his wand, down to his side, and met the gazes of his
two best friends with serious intensity. Hermione's eyes were wide and brown, knowing the
gravity of the situation, looking unflinchingly at Harry, the same way that she had always looked
unflinchingly at life. Ron glanced at him too, a shadow of pain lurking behind his blue eyes.

The snake was dead.

Harry did not want to look at the charred corpse, now barely recognizable for what it had once
been. The snake - *Nagini* - something hissed inside him unwillingly - had been more than just
a snake. It had taken the best efforts of all three of them to finally vanquish it. If Harry had
had any doubts about the authenticity of Dumbledore's speculation, they were laid to rest, as
the snake emitted red smoke and a chilling high-pitched scream rose on the air with the vapor and
dissipated into nothingness.

The snake was a horcrux. And now it was dead. Not just any horcrux…but the fifth horcrux. The
next to last horcrux. Harry's mind seemed caught in a loop, cycling stupidly back and forth
through the obvious.

One horcrux left to destroy, and then the only piece of soul remaining to Voldemort would reside
inside that sick, twisted body itself.

And the three of them stood there motionless, staring at the dead reptile. Ron cradled his arm
to his side; it was broken from where he had fallen, stumbling back from an unexpected spring by
Nagini. Harry looked lost, bewildered, overwhelmed, as if he'd just realized that he was that
much closer to accomplishing what he'd set out to accomplish…and what that meant would come
next.

Hermione just watched Harry. Watched him like he was an extension of herself. She felt her soul
cry out the echo of Lily Potter's dying scream…*Not Harry! Not Harry! Take me
instead!*

The blackened, twisted remains of the snake lay there, unmoving. Dead.

Harry finally seemed to snap back to life, with a shuddering intake of breath. His eyes darted
quickly from Hermione to Ron. “We should go,” was all he said.

“Yeah,” Ron muttered, a little breathlessly. Hermione watched Harry. His face was so tired,
worn, older than his years. When had he started looking so tired?

She glanced back at the snake, a little unwillingly. It was dead. She pursed her lips tightly
together, and looked at Harry as she nodded, a quick, jerky, solitary nod.

Harry turned, as if he would leave, but then turned back, his eyes pulled with inexorable force
toward the corpse of the snake. Something hissed within him again, and he wondered if it was the
knowledge of Parseltongue or Voldemort's past forays into his head that was causing this.

He held his wand up again.

“We should - we should get rid of it…in case - so he - he won't…” He shook his head,
swearing under his breath. This had happened each time they had destroyed a horcrux. It fatigued
him, made him weak and dizzy and nauseated. None of them could figure out why. Hermione's best
guess was that it occurred because of the connection that he had to Voldemort. Harry had then
pointed out that Voldemort himself did not appear to be aware that they had been systematically
destroying the horcruxes; if they were connected, how would she explain that? She had no
answer.

“Harry, you couldn't vanish a flobberworm right now,” Hermione said, her tone brusk and
businesslike, but her eyes disarmingly tender. With a quick “Reducto”, she had blown the snake to
atoms.

Harry's knees wobbled, and a pain from his scar pulsed through his head. The image of his
two best mates anxiously watching him blurred, then doubled. He shook his head. There was a dull
roaring…the sound of a thousand snakes speaking… thrumming through his ears.

“I can't - " he tried to say, but could barely make out his own voice.

“Harry?” he heard Hermione cry out in anxiety, but her voice was tinny and far away, as if
perceived over a bad telephone connection. Blackness began to creep in around the edges of his
vision. He tasted dirt in his mouth, and dimly realized that he must have fallen down. He heard a
distant grunt of pain…his own? No, Ron was trying to help him to his feet.

“I've got him,” he heard Hermione say. Why was she so far away? “Can you Apparate?” Ron
murmured something; it must have been affirmative, for Hermione replied. “Good, I'll side-along
him. I'll meet you back…there.”

Harry reached out blindly with his hand…towards…something. Oh that was right, he thought
dimly…the snake was dead.

The snake was dead.

He reached into his pocket, unable to see, but feeling the rough cloth beneath his fingers.
Relief surged through him, as his questing fingertips met textured metal. He let go of his
consciousness…

And, distantly, behind and underneath the dull roar in his ears, he heard a shriek of dismay,
followed by maniacal laughter.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Harry awakened, he was lying in Hermione's room at Godric's Hollow. The soft halo
of lamplight cast a yellow glow around the room. It was already past dusk. Hermione was sitting in
a chair in the corner, perched on the edge of it, as alert as a cat, waiting for the slightest
movement from him. He licked his dry lips, and wished that his head didn't hurt so badly.

“What happened?” he asked hoarsely, even though he already knew the answer.

“The same thing that always happens. Only,” her eyes were dark and luminous, her face pale with
anxiety, “only this time it was worse.”

“We - we killed the snake?” he said, testing his fuzzy memory. He watched Hermione's brow
wrinkle in concern.

“Yes, Harry,” she said emphatically, as if to a small child that constantly needed reminding,
“we killed the snake.”

*Nagini*…the voice inside him hissed… *her name was Nagini*.

“He knows,” Harry told her, his green eyes looked large and fearful in glow from the lamp.

“What do you mean, Harry?” Hermione asked calmly, betraying none of the fear that licked through
her at those two simple, ominous words. “He knows we've destroyed horcruxes, or he knows we
killed the snake. Does he know *we* were involved at all?”

Harry closed his eyes. It was so difficult to think. A shriek…and then laughter…. “I'm -
I'm not sure. I - I heard him - I heard - he was laughing.” He knit his brow, not
understanding. “If - if the snake (*Nagini)* was his - his - his… why would he be
laughing?”

Hermione's eyes shone with sympathy. She stood slowly, and came to sit on the edge of the
bed. “I don't know, Harry,” she said, softly, hating, even now, *especially* now, the
admission that she didn't have the answers. Her eyes flitted down to his clenched fist, and he
followed her gaze, slowly opening his fingers.

Nestled in his palm was his grandmother's brooch. Hermione looked at him with warm
compassion. He hunched his shoulders, a little embarrassed for it to be found out that he carried
the ornate pin around with him now. He had found it in the ivy-bedecked ruins of his parents'
house on the opposite end of Godric's Hollow. Remus had come to examine it, as Harry turned it
over in his fingers. “Your grandmother's name was Rose,” Lupin had told him, while Harry ran
his fingertips over the raised Old English “R”. It was tarnished and old, the filigreed edges
blurred by years and exposure, but Harry found it oddly comforting. He rubbed his thumbs over the
piece of jewelry absently.

“It's going to be soon,” Harry's face was grim; he turned it away from her, to gaze out
the window where the inky-blue sky was beginning to blacken. They both knew, even though they could
not see them from this vantage point, that two shiny marble tombstones stood side by side not far
from where they were. “He'll come for me. He'll come…maybe here.” He jerked his gaze back
to her, his eyes stabbing her with their blazing intensity. “Where's Ron?” he asked, but
continued, roughly, before she could answer him. “You should both leave. You shouldn't be here
when…”

“He's in the kitchen talking to Remus,” Hermione said. “And you know we're not leaving
you. Not now…not when we're this close.”

Harry felt his eyes begin to close, and he struggled to keep his heavy lids open. “How can I
defeat him…when destroying the horcruxes….does this to me? And there's still one left.”

He felt her hand rest on his momentarily, and it was cool and calming against his clammy skin.
“Rest, Harry,” was all she said, and he felt the draft waft against his face, as she opened the
door, then closed it behind her.

He listened to her soft footfalls tread down the corridor, and heard a barely perceptible murmur
of voices from the kitchen. The house that they were living in was tiny, made of white clapboard
that had yellowed and peeled with age. Ron and Harry shared one room that barely had enough room
for two army cots and a rickety table with a lamp perched precariously atop it. Hermione had the
only actual bed in the house, with a sad sagging mattress. Her room doubled as the “office”, and
most of the space in the room was taken up with a gigantic desk, piled with old books,
ink-splotched scraps of parchment, and quills scattered hither and yon. Above the desk was tacked a
yellowed map of England, with various parchment notes affixed, and different colored pins
attached.

When Remus visited, he slept on the ramshackle sofa in the living room, which opened into a
dingy little kitchenette that barely had enough room for more than one person to move around in.
There was a card table and three folding chairs in the space between the kitchen and living room,
but more often than not, they ate on the sofa, perched over the coffee table.

Remus had been amazed at the dilapidation when he first came over. If Harry got fed up with Ron
after tripping over him, while cooking, for the thirty-seventh time, they sometimes expanded the
kitchen. But when Remus asked about it, the Trio waved their hands in a gesture of dismissal. *We
can't be bothered with that right now.* Any magic expended on the house went to wards and
charms, and it was one of the most protected buildings in Britain, probably. What did it matter if
the rooms were small and the lighting was bad?

Harry groped for his glasses, which had been placed on the small bedside table. He tried to sit
up, after he put them on, but felt his head swim. He finally managed to make it into a sitting
position, albeit one where he was propped against the headboard. He let his mind wander back to the
destruction of the other horcruxes*.*

*They had found the locket in Mundungus's case, along with several other items filched
from Grimmauld Place. After damn near blowing up the Order's headquarters, they had finally
tried, on Hermione's suggestion, submerging it in some kind of acid…which had dissolved it into
powder. Steam bubbled and frothed from the beaker, along with a thin trail of red smoke.*
*Trails of the viscous substance actually ate into the kitchen table.* *Hermione had sealed
up the remaining contents of the bea**ker and used “scourgify” on it* *six times.*
*Harry had thrown up on the kitchen floor**, something that Ron still occasionally needled
him about, in rare light moments**.*

*He and Ron had found Helga Hu**fflepuff's cup on a shelf in Bo**rgin and
Burkes. They had placed a glamour charm on each other, altering their appearance, and had simply
walked into the shop and attempted to buy the cup. When that didn't work (the proprietor had
explained toothily that he was “holding” it for a very important client), they went back under the
cover of night and the invisibility cloak, and took it.*

*Hermione had been furious when they arrived back at Grimmauld Place, looking somewhat
sheepish and triumphant at the same time, Ron's hand scorched from where he had unwisely
attempted to grab the cup before Harry had deactivated the wards around it. Knockturn Alley had
been in an uproar when they left, after a shrunken head perched near the cup had begun wailing a
deafening siren call* *in alarm. Somehow, he* *and Ron had managed to evade a squad of
hooded and cloaked people looking for the thieves**, and make it back to their
hideaway.*

*After examining it carefully, she sat the cup on the much maligned kitchen table, and raised
her wand.*

*“Hermione!” Harry had started to shout in concern.*

*“Reducto!” she called, and the cup was easily blasted apart. There was no* *collateral
destruction. There was no red smoke.*

*“That was not Hufflepuff's cup. You could have been killed for nothing.” she said. Harry
winced, as it paralleled Dumbledore's demise too closely for comfort. That was the last thing
that either of them heard from her* *for three days.*

*Going by the information received from Dumbledore's pensieve last year, the Trio next
visited the orphanage where young Tom Riddle had spent his early days. The dilapidated building had
been abandoned and condemned. Foreboding signs were posted in both front windows, and the house had
creaked and groaned ominously as they ignored those signs, and went inside anyway.*

Harry clenched his eyes shut, hoping to force away those unwelcome memories, but the flood
continued, and he knew it was futility to fight it.

*When the Trio had arrived on the second floor of the orphanage, they saw rows of rusted
bedsteads where forlorn children had once slept. The floor was thick with dust, and the air was
heavy. He had felt Ron make an involuntary movement beside him, and his own eyes widened with
horror.*

*Entwined sinuously, b**lackening the floor of the room they were facing**, writhed
dozens, hundreds, of* *venomous* *snakes. Hermione had breathed, in a disbelieving
tone,*

*“**Those are* *not even native to Britain.” Harry had noticed almost immediately
that the snakes did not ever* *pass the threshold to the room to come near where they were
still standing in the corridor.*

*“The horcrux is here,” he said, his voice a low rasp in his chest. He spoke to the snakes,
“Brothers, please move aside. You will not come to harm.” Hermione and Ron heard only a series of
sibilant hisses. The snakes had moved aside, leaving a path that led directly to a precariously
leaning wardrobe. Harry's hand reached out, almost of its own volition to touch the grimy knob,
but froze suddenly, just shy of its goal.*

*“Alohamora,” Hermione had said, in a whi**sper. He glanced behind him in alarm**,
having been unaware that she had followed him into the room. Her face was pale, and* *she
shook her head rapidly. “Don't use your wand,” she said. “You spoke Parseltongue, so the room
thinks you're one of the snakes.” Her* *spell had* *had* *no effect. “Open,”
Harry commanded in Parseltongue. The wardrobe had wobbled slightly, and the latch had
clicked.*

*On each shelf had lain rows and rows of small mouth organs, of the cheap variety that
unskilled children used to make noise.*

*“Harry, how - ?” Hermione had wondered, lifting her hand to sort through the array of mouth
organs.*

*“Don't touch them!” Harry had snapped. He looked carefully. “It's - it's this
one,” he said, taking a deep breath, as he reached for a small mouth organ near the back, it was
filthy, the silver finish was chipping, and dust clogged the small holes.* *He closed his hand
around it carefully; nothing happened.*

*“How did you know?” Hermione had finally asked, as they closed the wardrobe door.*

*“The others were clean, new**. Tom Riddle would nev**er have sullied himself by
touching, even cleaning,* *the instrument of a Muggle.” Harry's voice was low and grim and
full of loathing. “He stole it only because he could**, not because he had any desire to
actually use it**.”*

*“A gesture of power,” Hermione had said, and Harry had nodded.*

*“Exactly.”* *He stopped, in the process of putting the mouth organ in his pocket, as
something rattled and fell from one of the holes of the mouth organ. It bounced into the midst of
the snakes, and Harry once again requested them to kindly move aside.*

*The tiny object in between his thumb and forefinger was a miniature golden cup.*

*“A decoy!” Hermione said, sounding almost delighted by the cleverness of the scheme.
“Engorgio!” She said before Harry could stop her. The cup swelled to its original size.*

*There was a low rumble, and the house trembled slightly. The trio looked at each other with
wide, worried eyes. The building shuddered again, and the closet door opened and clattered shut
noisily, several times. There was a low groan, and Harry thought he saw an arm, hung loosely with
decaying flaky flesh. Inferi.*

*“We've got to get out of here, now!” he said urgently, nearly shoving Hermione down the
stairs in front of him.*

*“**The spell?**” she shouted* *in distress**, her feet a blur, as she hit
the bottom of the stairs and careened around the corner.*

*“**The room must have been keyed to respond to that charm**!” he cried, feeling Ron
hard on his heels. The house quaked violently, and dust began to sift down on their heads.
“**Since the cup was shrunken, `engorgio' would be a natural thing to do.**”*
*Hermione jerked her* *chin to the right and down**, in a gesture of frustration. She
had lectured them on their foolhardiness in Knockturn Alley, and here she had made a similarly
foolish, ill-thought-out choice**.* *They flung themselves out of the house, and crouched
panting in the garden. Somewhere inside the house, glass shattered.*

*“Harry, I'm sorry,” Hermione gasped. “I should have known. I should have
thought.”*

*Harry waved away the apology, as th**e orphanage* *shook, and they* *heard the
whine of nails being* *ripped from their resting places. It sounded as if some unearthly being
was trying to rise again.*

*“D'you mind if we continue this discussion elsewhere?” Ron asked.*

*They exited through the creaking garden gate, and left swiftly, looking furtively o**ver
their shoulders, as the building* *collapsed in on itself.* *The three exchanged a quick,
wordless, meaningful glance and apparated back to Grimmauld Place.*

*Three weeks later, Grimmauld Place had been compromised and abandoned.*

Harry jerked violently awake, with a start as Hermione softly re-entered the room. She was
carrying a still steaming cup of tea, and a plate of toast. “Do you think you could eat something?”
she asked. Harry raised his glasses, and knuckled one eye.

“Yeah…” he eyed the plate doubtfully, as his stomach churned a little bit. “Maybe just the tea.”
He sipped some of the nearly scalding brew, and felt its warmth all the way down to his belly. She
was watching him anxiously, as he pensively regarded the cup.

“Are you feeling any better?” she asked.

“Just really tired,” he replied. “And … and worried. This is wrong. Something's wrong.”

“What's wrong?” Hermione put the plate of toast down on the desk, and sat on the edge of the
bed. “What do you feel, Harry?” Harry was getting visibly agitated. He set the cup down on the
bedside table, and his trembling hand caused tea to slosh over the side.

“It's the wrong order. We've done it in the wrong order. The snake was supposed to be
last….the closest to Voldemort.” He ran one hand raggedly through his disheveled hair.

“You mean, because now Voldemort knows and we've still one horcrux left to find?”

“I don't know!” Harry said, desperation cracking his voice. “I don't know what he knows.
But he knows something… he - he - we don't even know what the last horcrux is… and if he comes
before it's destroyed, then…”

“He won't die,” Hermione said dully, her words dropping heavily into silence. “Harry, Ron
and I were talking downstairs. You know…term started yesterday at Hogwart's….and I - " She
watched Harry's eyes darken and his face shutter closed.

“I'm not going back there. I've already told you that, Hermione.” Annoyance laced his
tone.

“No, just *listen* to me, Harry,” Hermione said. “Please.” At his slow nod, she continued,
“The last horcrux is the one Dumbledore thought would be the item belonging to Gryffindor or
Ravenclaw. Think about the places we've found them so far. Dumbledore found the ring at his
mother's home, and the locket was in that cave where he…” she trailed off. The horrors that had
occurred in that cave remained mercifully undefined. “The fake cup was at his old workplace, and
the mouth organ and real cup were at the orphanage. We found Nagini at that abandoned Death Eater
camp near Little Hangleton, where his father lived.” Harry nodded again, impatiently. They knew all
this already. “The only place that was important to Tom Riddle that isn't represented here is
Hogwart's. The last horcrux has got to be at Hogwart's.”

“But the diary - " Harry began hoarsely.

“The diary was destroyed at Hogwart's, but Lucius Malfoy had it originally. Who knows where
it came from?” Hermione interrupted. Harry squinted at her.

“Right,” he said stupidly. He was so tired.

“We should leave for Hogwart's tomorrow,” Hermione said decisively. “We can speak with
McGonagall…concentrate on locating that horcrux. If Voldemort thinks we've returned to school,
and haven't been hunting for pieces of his soul, so much the better.”

“I s'pose you're right,” he answered. “So much hinges on when he comes. But
Hogwart's and Godric's Hollow are the two other places he'd look, especially after
Grimmauld Place and - and Little Whinging…” A pained look crossed both their faces. Harry had
barely escaped Little Whinging with his life. “I don't want to put the other students in
danger.”

“I'm not sure you have much choice,” Hermione pointed out, looking at him with compassion.
“What kind of danger will everyone face if we don't find that horcrux… if Voldemort is not
defeated?” Harry was grateful that she hadn't said “if you don't kill him”. He could always
count on Hermione's tact.

He sighed and looked away, his gaze straying to the window that overlooked the village square,
and the small churchyard just beyond, dotted with white tombstones…two in particular…

He wished that someone would tell him what to do. Hermione and Ron always gave advice or offered
opinions, but so far, they had left the final decision up to him, and had gone along with his
choice, without a murmur of dissent. He wished Dumbledore were here to tell him what needed to be
done, to tell him whether or not returning to Hogwart's was too much of a risk, or one that
simply had to be taken.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione walked slowly back into the kitchen, where Remus and Ron were seated at a card table.
They eyed her carefully, but her expression, other than being glum, gave nothing away. She sat
slowly in the other chair, her gaze far away and almost vacant.

“How is he?” Ron asked, clearing his throat.

“He's awake. He's…having some tea,” Hermione said, inanely. “I think he was still
feeling sick.” Ron leaned back in his chair, still moving gingerly with his newly-healed arm.

“He'll be fine by tomorrow. He always is,” he said, trying to muster up some confidence.
Hermione clamped her lips together, as if trying to refrain from speaking, but her words came
bursting out anyway.

“Ron, do you not see what is happening? Do you not realize that with every horcrux we destroy,
Harry gets worse?” She said, before her eyes darted toward the hallway, and she lowered her voice.
Her chin trembled. “He's up there right now afraid that he won't be able to defeat
Voldemort at the rate the bloody horcruxes are having a go at him!” Ron looked at her with mild
surprise. Hermione rarely swore.

“I reckon if - if Vold...emort,” Ron said his name hesitantly, “showed up right now, he could
take Harry out right easy, but - Hermione, I said `if'.” At his words, Hermione had jerked her
head up, glaring at him as her eyes filled up with angry tears. “And that's my point. Voldemort
doesn't know what we're doing. He doesn't realize the state Harry's in. He - "
.

“Harry said Voldemort knows,” Hermione interrupted, dully. Ron paled visibly, and Remus, who had
been watching their exchange in silence so far, straightened in his chair.

“What does he know?” Their former Defense teacher asked, his voice intense and serious. Hermione
slumped in her chair, and there was a hint of despair in her eyes.

“Harry isn't even sure!” she said, her forehead creased with anxiety. “He said he heard
Voldemort laughing. Harry said that he could realize we're after the horcruxes, or just realize
that we've killed his pet snake, or…it mayn't have anything to do with us at all.”

Ron watched her sympathetically, and reached across the table, laying his hand gently across
hers. She looked at him for a moment, with an unreadable expression.

“He's worried about the order,” Hermione said, after a long moment of silence. She slowly
slid her hand out from under Ron's and put it in her lap.

“The Order?” Lupin said, looking worried. “Does he think Voldemort's coming after the
Order?” The group had been more or less defunct since Dumbledore's death, but there was still
the worry that the information that members of the group held, especially since Snape's
apparent defection and betrayal, could put them in mortal peril, tortured by Death Eaters for the
knowledge they possessed. It was part of the reason that Lupin was the only Order member to know
the whereabouts of Harry, Ron, and Hermione. It was he who relayed messages back and forth from
McGonagall and an anxious and worried Burrow of Weasleys.

“No, the order…the order of the horcruxes,” Hermione corrected, waving her hand at him tiredly.
Ron's brow furrowed in confusion.

“But, Hermione, we talked about that. We decided to go on and try to find the snake, since we
weren't getting any further on the search for the item of Gryffindor's or
Ravenclaw's.”

“I know. But killing something so close to Voldemort…” Hermione's voice trailed off, as she
saw the charred body of the snake in her mind's eye. She saw it springing at Ron, fangs wide.
She saw Ron stumbling backward in abject terror, unable to even raise his wand in time. He slipped,
fell, the bone in his arm cracked loudly. She was unable to suppress the slight tremor that
shuddered through her.

“I think what Hermione means is that if Voldemort figures out the horcrux game before you've
found the last horcrux, and he comes for Harry early, then, even if Harry does defeat him…”

“Voldemort won't die…” Ron said grimly, echoing Hermione's very words from her
conversation with Harry. His eyes darted nervously toward the small window above the kitchen
window, as if he expected the Dark Lord himself to be peering in at them. There was a rustling
creak from behind them, and they all started.

Harry was standing there, weaving visibly on his feet, a weak grin on his face. “You lot are
rather jumpy, aren't you?” He held his empty tea cup loosely in one hand, clad in clean jeans
and a T-shirt. He was barefoot.

“Harry, why on earth are you out of bed?” Hermione chided him, getting up and helping him into
her chair. He was very pale.

“You can't have secret conclaves without me,” he said in mock protest. “What good am I doing
anybody if I'm just lying around on my arse in bed?” Hermione looked as if she would like to
protest, but said nothing.

“Have you decided what to do next, Harry?” Lupin asked.

“I think…” Harry began heavily, propping his forehead on one hand. “I think we're going to
have to go to Hogwart's.” Ron looked surprised at this reversal. “I really don't want to
endanger the students, but Hermione - " he glanced at her, and his eyes twinkled with a trace
of their old sparkle. “Hermione thinks the last horcrux may be there. It does make sense. We know
how important Hogwart's was to Tom Riddle.”

“You're not going to have a lot to worry about, regarding the welfare of the students,
Harry,” Lupin said, a little sadly. “Hogwart's is not like you remember it.” The three teens
looked at him questioningly. “Minerva owled me, after you two turned down your badges.” Hermione
and Ron looked down at their laps, shamefacedly. “There are less than fifty students enrolled this
year. Almost all of them were in your D.A.” Harry lifted his gaze from the table, and looked at
Lupin wonderingly.

“Really?” he said, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face.

“Only fifty?” Hermione said, looking devastated. Remus nodded.

“Almost all sixth and seventh years. I think the youngest student is a fourth-year…Gryffindor,
of course.” He grinned at them then, looking a little wolfish. Harry, Hermione, and Ron looked
upset at the thought of Hogwart's being but a shadow of its former self.

“Maybe our being there will help,” Ron offered, trying to sound hopeful. “And Harry, you'll
be able to see Ginny.”

“So, your mum let Ginny go?” Hermione asked, interested. At Bill and Fleur's wedding, it had
been a serious point of contention between Ginny and Mrs. Weasley. Ginny had been adamant that she
was returning to Hogwart's. Her mother had just as furiously been against it, and the whole
thing had culminated in a ferocious shrieking match the day before Harry, Ron, and Hermione left on
the horcrux hunt. It had made Harry and Hermione both quite uncomfortable, being in the presence of
such familial conflict.

“Oh, there was no letting involved,” Ron said, grinning slightly. “I think Ginny basically told
Mum that she was either going to Hogwart's or coming with us. She finally figured that
Hogwart's was the lesser of two evils.”

“Anywhere away from me is the lesser of two evils,” Harry sighed. Hermione watched him
curiously, wondering how he felt about seeing Ginny again. They had been stiff, uncomfortable, and
awkward around each other in the days leading up to Bill's wedding, but then they had danced
together at the reception…twice. Harry had gone up to Ginny's room the morning that they left
for Grimmauld Place, and told Ginny good-bye privately. When she had come down to see them off, her
face was pale and drawn, her eyes determinedly dry. She had shaken Harry's hand amiably, but
the subtext of things unspoken was heavy in the room. Hermione had always wondered what they had
said upstairs.

“Unless the choice is between you and Voldemort,” Ron pointed out seriously. Harry grinned
faintly at him.

“Right…” he said. “I think - " The others never found out what Harry was going to say. He
let out a kind of strangled noise, and his hand shuddered suddenly, his fingers splayed and rigid.
He fell, his right arm outstretched, sweeping his cup onto the floor, where it shattered. The
crashing sound was overshadowed by Hermione's shriek.

She pushed her chair out of the way, and it skidded across the room and hit the opposite wall.
She knelt down beside him, barely aware of the scuffling and shouting going on, as Ron and Lupin
tried to get near Harry's fallen form.

“Harry! Harry!” she cried out, her hands touching his face, his shoulders, his hands. A tremor
shuddered through his body, as his eyes rolled sightlessly back into his head, and his hands
flopped clumsily up toward his scar, which was now trickling blood. “Harry, talk to me,” she said,
taking his face in her hands, and making him look at her. “Tell me what's wrong. Tell me what
to do.”

“Hermione, move!” Ron said, grabbing her firmly by the shoulders, and pulling her backwards.
“Let Lupin have a look at him!” She glared at him, angry and bewildered, while Ron stared at her
like he didn't know her at all. Lupin knelt down beside Harry, as the fit seemed to subside
with a slight tremor. He handed Harry a handkerchief to clean up the blood dripping down his face,
and helped him sit up.

“Harry, are you quite all right?” The werewolf asked with some concern. Harry pressed the piece
of cloth over his eye, and shook his head in the negative.

“He -" he started to say, but froze, his eyes going above Ron and Hermione's heads to
the front door. The others exchanged frightened, bewildered.

“Harry, what do you know?” Lupin pressed, his voice managing to stay calm and even. Harry shook
his head again.

“Somebody's here.”

Ron pushed Hermione down on the ground, shielding her with his body, as the window adjacent to
the front door blew in with tremendous force. As they gingerly tried to right themselves, a
menacing voice shouted, “Reducto!” and pieces of door joined the shattered glass on the floor.
Harry heard Ron shout,

“Hermione!” Harry looked across to his two best friends, his heart in his throat. Hermione was
slumped against Ron, her hands over her face. He saw blood trickling from between her fingers.

“I'm okay,” he heard her voice faintly.

“How'd they get past the wards?” Harry whispered, his voice a desperate hiss. Lupin shook
his head, and pulled his wand out of his pocket.

“Harry, where's your wand?” Harry looked at him, his green eyes wide with alarm.

“Upstairs…” Lupin's eyes were steely, but there was no reproof in them. He had been up there
recovering after all.

“Go. Hurry.” Remus said tersely. Harry Apparated to Hermione's bedroom, without another look
or backward glance.

The intruder in the bedroom whirled around suddenly, as Harry appeared with a small pop. Harry
dove across the small bed, grabbing his wand from the pocket of his dirty, tattered jeans, where
they were draped over the back of a chair, before he hit the floor. He was almost instantly back on
his feet, his face set like flint, his eyes icy cold.

“You,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. Harry noticed quickly, with that part of his mind
that was rapidly processing sensory input, that there were two scorch marks on the wall above the
bed, where the intruder had evidently tried to hex him as he dove across for his wand. He also
noticed where the intruder had been standing, in front of the desk, which was obviously rifled.
Harry's face paled. That information could *not* get back to Voldemort.

Pain suddenly flashed through his wand hand, and his fingers involuntarily loosed their grip
around his wand, which clattered to the floor. The Death Eater looked pleased with himself, and
walked forward to pick up the fallen wand. Desperation surged up in Harry's chest. Everything
would be lost if Voldemort found out what they were looking for, and Harry was suddenly certain
that that was the object of this foray. The battle downstairs was a distraction, nothing more…and
if Harry hadn't gone to retrieve his wand, their objective would have been achieved.

He raised his wandless hand, the desperate urgency, the *need* to stop the intruder pumping
through his veins with the rhythm of his pulse, and thought *Petrificus Totalus!* His opponent
went rigid, and collapsed with an audible thump, a look of bewildered surprise on his face. Harry
looked at his hand for a brief moment, a little amazed himself, but an instant later, he had
grabbed his wand, and was dragging the rigid body across the hall to his and Ron's room. He
shoved him none too gently up onto the cot, and covered him with the invisibility cloak, in case
the Death Eaters took the house. After he placed several fairly complicated locking charms on the
bedroom door, he Apparated back to the living area.

It was a shambles. Ron had cast “Reparo” on the front door, and was trying to fit it back on its
hinges, but was having less than moderate success. Lupin had seated Hermione on a chair, and was
working on her wound.

“Are they gone?” Harry asked, stepping carefully around the remains of their kitchen table.
“Aguamenti,” he said mechanically, carefully aiming the stream of water onto the smoldering sofa.
Once the piece of furniture had been doused, he tucked his wand carefully into his back pocket.

“They must not have expected us to fight back,” Ron was saying, somewhat cheerfully. “Hermione
took two of them down, even while she was bleeding like a stuck pig. I've never seen such
spell-casting.” He looked over at her, his tone frankly admiring.

“Must you use such vulgar expressions, Ron?” Hermione said, snippily, although her voice was
somewhat muffled under the damp dishtowel that was across her face. The large splotches of blood
marring the towel's surface vaguely disquieted Harry.

“They weren't coming to fight,” Harry said quietly, looking around for a place to sit, and
finding none. The sofa was damp and faintly smoking, while Hermione sat in the only surviving
chair. Ron turned to look incredulously at Harry, while the front door crashed back to the living
room floor.

“Well, they were certainly giving a good imitation of it!” he said, looking at the recalcitrant
door with disgust.

“One of them…was in Hermione's room…going through the desk.” There was an audible gasp from
Hermione, who straightened quickly, as the towel fell onto the floor, unheeded. Harry noticed that
the laceration at her temple was glowing pink, and seemed to be shrinking under Lupin's healing
charm. Dried blood still marred her ear and neck.

“Did they get anything, Harry?” she asked quickly, her voice low and intense.

“No, I got him…he's in our room, under a full body bind…and the invisibility cloak,” Harry
said. “But we don't have much time. When the Death Eaters get back to …wherever it is that they
go…and he doesn't show up there too, they'll come back. Perhaps with even a larger
force.”

“Harry's right,” Lupin said with determination. “Hermione, are you up to packing in a
hurry?” Hermione nodded, though the dried blood stood in stark contrast to her pale face. Lupin
searched her eyes, and evidently what he saw met with his approval. “Good.” He looked over at the
boys. “What we can't take with us, we destroy. You have three minutes.”

Ron was still wrangling with the front door. “Ron, for crying out loud!” Harry said, with
annoyance. He flicked his empty hand out and upward, in the approximation of a swish and flick
gesture, and the door flew into place, settling on its hinges with a noticeable click. The other
three looked at him, astonishment clearly written on their faces. “What?” Harry asked. “It was
`Wingardium Leviosa'. I've been trying to work on the non-verbal casting…”

“Harry, it might have been non-verbal, but it was also wandless,” Hermione said softly. Harry
looked at her, then down at his hand, comically, as if he'd forgotten that he wasn't
actually holding his wand.

“We'll have to discuss this later,” Lupin said, giving Harry a meaningful look that meant
that the topic would not be forgotten.

“Where are we going to go?” Harry asked him, the fatigue in his voice and the pallor of his face
reminding the other three that, no matter what Harry found himself capable of doing, he was still
clearly not well. They exchanged a long glance, and Lupin found himself suddenly regretful of
Harry's all-too-adult gaze. He'd had to grow up too quickly.

“We're going to Hogwart's,” Lupin said, with resignation. “There's no other choice
now.”

**TBC**

**AN:** I have not forgotten about “Isle”, but it is being quite difficult and stubborn. I am
having the worst time with chapter 12. Anyway, I hope to have an update eventually. In the
meantime, I am cheating on “Isle” with this story, and am quite pleased with the way it is going so
far. I have what I hope is an interesting and somewhat unique plot in the works.

Hope you enjoy!

-->



2. The Trio Returns
-------------------



**AN:** I guess I've been spoiled by the response to “What Might Have Been”, but I'm
really hoping for a few more reviews this time. Pretty please? Thanks to those who did review. Glad
to know you enjoyed it.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART I: The End of the Beginning**

**Chapter Two:** **The Trio Returns**

It took them four minutes, but Ron and Hermione were back in the ruined living room, with what
few belongings they had brought to Godric's Hollow with them, facing Lupin expectantly. Remus
looked back at them, oddly amused by this, that they still looked to him as the adult for
direction, when they had proven themselves adults in the strongest sense of the word.

“Did you get absolutely everything pertaining to the horcruxes?” Lupin said urgently, looking
directly at Hermione. She met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Yes sir,” she said clearly, indicating her knapsack, where the entire contents of the desk had
been reduced in size and placed.

“Where's Harry?” he asked them, even though the house was tiny enough that his voice carried
clearly to the back bedroom.

“Right here,” he called back, heading down the hallway, with someone in tow. “I had to get my
cloak.” Ron and Hermione both gaped at the newcomer, and Ron lunged toward him suddenly, only to be
held back by both Hermione and Lupin.

“*He* was the Death Eater going through the desk?” Hermione asked, disdain dripping from
every syllable. Harry nodded grimly.

“I've `Incarcerous'ed him…and used Silencio… and put up an anti-apparation ward. Is that
enough?” he asked Lupin seriously. Lupin didn't answer right away, as he was staring at the
young Death Eater with utter contempt and loathing.

“That'll do, Harry,” their former professor finally said. “Are we ready? I'm going to
Incendio the house once we're out. Then we'll Apparate to Hogsmeade. We'll have to walk
to Hogwart's from there. Minerva won't be expecting us, but…” Lupin shrugged.

“What about *him*?” Ron asked with disgust.

“What choice do we have but to take him with us, Ronald?” Hermione said in her lecturing tone,
her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the Death Eater. “Besides, there's been an entire squad of
Aurors searching England for him for the last 3 months. I'm sure they'll be more than happy
to deal with him… appropriately.”

They walked carefully out onto the small, shabby lawn, and Hermione, Harry, and Ron went
immediately into a kind of defense mode, each with his or her wand out, and facing a different
direction. Not a thing stirred. Their house was far enough on the outskirts of the little village
that the brief, but noisy, battle had apparently gone unnoticed.

“Incendio,” Lupin said, and a stream of fire issued from his wand, and hit the house, which went
up in flames as if it had been hit with an accelerant. Harry watched with mixed emotions as the
house burned, unsure how he had felt while living here in the town where his parents had lived, and
unsure also how he felt now upon leaving. He felt Hermione's light touch on his arm.

“Harry? Let's go,” she said gently. He reckoned that somehow she knew exactly what thoughts
were running through his mind. He quirked his lips upward in the approximation of a smile. It had
bee awhile since any of them had really smiled.

“What about him?” Harry said.

“I'll side-along young Mr. Malfoy,” Lupin said, with a mirthless smile that bared nearly all
of his teeth. The Slytherin's face managed to retain his impassive mask, even though Lupin had
him by one arm, escorting him none too gently.

“But - " Harry said, wanting to remind him about the ward he'd set up. Lupin looked at
him warningly, reminding him wordlessly not to say too much around Malfoy.

“Go.” Lupin ordered. “Start on to Hogwart's straight away. Watch yourselves. I'll be
right behind you.”

The Trio nodded in a determined fashion, and with soft cracks, vanished away almost
simultaneously.

Lupin regarding Malfoy for a long moment. Fear had flickered into Draco's eyes, as he
realized that he was being left quite alone and totally unprotected, and with a werewolf, no less.
His gaze involuntarily went to the night sky, which was studded with stars and adorned with a tiny
sliver of crescent moon. Lupin's eyes followed Draco's, and his mouth twisted into a
smirk.

“I would never put Harry, Hermione, and Ron in that kind of peril,” he said smoothly, in
response to Draco's glance. “Even if it lost me the opportunity to rid the world of you.”
Malfoy regarded him, with something of a challenge in his gaze. He did not attempt to speak,
realizing all too well that the silencing charm would only serve to make him look foolish and
powerless.

“You're lucky I didn't leave you here alone with Harry after what you've done,”
Lupin remarked, as casually as if commenting on the weather. Draco raised one eyebrow, clearly
contemptuous of the idea that Harry Potter was any threat to him. “I am a werewolf, as you know,
Mr. Malfoy,” Lupin practically spat the respectful address at him. “As such, I have very little
leeway with regard to my actions. I am required to toe the line, if you will. Harry is the Boy Who
Lived. If he were to do away with you, I'm sure there are many in the Ministry who would be
content to look the other way.” An odd look flickered across the younger man's face. “See that
you do not give me cause to arrange that.”

Without further discussion, Lupin whipped out his wand, and said, “Stupefy!” He nearly staggered
under the dead weight of Draco Malfoy, but managed to remove the anti-Apparation ward, and vanished
with the barest of pops.

When he arrived at Hogsmeade only a second later, he found Ron waiting for him. The village was
silent and dark, the inhabitants obviously safely abed. Even the Hog's Head had already closed
for the night, a testament to the dangerous times in which they now lived.

“I thought I told you to go ahead,” Lupin said, disapprovingly, as he recast the anti-Apparation
charm, and Enervated Malfoy. Ron seemed to quail a little under his reproving look, but spoke in a
steady voice.

“We were all going to wait…just in case…” he shot a suspicious glance at Malfoy as he said this.
“But Harry and Hermione went ahead… he wasn't - he didn't feel too - " He blundered to
a stop suddenly, and did not finish his sentence. Lupin and Ron exchanged a meaningful glance, and
Lupin began to walk at a fast clip, almost dragging Malfoy behind him. Ron's long-legged gait
made an easier time of it for him.

Ron watched the werewolf sidewise in the dim light of the crescent moon, as they strode quickly
up the path that led to Hogwart's. Ron's wand was out, but Lupin's was not…standard
procedure for an Auror when one was escorting a potentially dangerous prisoner. Ron was also being
careful to stay a safe distance away from Malfoy, even in his Incarcerous-ed state. The redhead
didn't need to ask Lupin why he walked so quickly, or what was causing the anxiety that
furrowed his brow.

He was worried about Harry.

They all were.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

**“**I told you I'm fine,” Harry said, some annoyance lacing his tone. Hermione crossed
her arms in front of her chest and looked down at him, cocking one eyebrow in an “oh, really?” kind
of way. He read her look perfectly, as she'd intended him to, and glared at her mutinously. He
knocked the crisp, white standard-issue infirmary bedsheet off of his legs, and swung them over the
side of the bed.

The room spun crazily around him, first in one direction, then the other, slanting in at an odd
angle and then slowly coming to a halt. His stomach lurched, and his hand unwillingly grasped for a
bedrail.

“Harry, I had to levitate you in here,” she said, softly, her tone a gentle plea.

“I could have made it,” he insisted. Hermione smiled at him as if he were a small child that
needed to be humored. His skin was pasty white, and his eyes were sunken into his head, with deep
circles under them. “Don't look at me like that!” he snapped, glowering at her. She looked a
little startled at his sudden outburst.

“I don't need sympathy, Hermione,” he said, his voice biting at her angrily. “I don't
need you to coddle me, and I don't need you to patronize me. You think - you think…” he trailed
off, and gestured at himself with one trembling hand. “You think I don't realize what this is
doing to me? You think I - I don't know that I'm probably going to die? The - the horcruxes
- *he's* killing me, now…a little at a time. Maybe he won't have to face me at
all.”

Hermione's face had crumpled a little, and she put one hand over her mouth to stifle any
wayward sound of protest or despair that might emerge.

“I've got to be able to stand on my own and do this,” he looked at her levelly, leaning back
down on the bed and looking more tired than Hermione had ever seen him. “Even if I - I don't
make it, I've got to take him out - take him with me. Rid the world of danger, and all that
nonsense,” he waved his hand around airily, speaking his last sentence lightly to defuse the
moment. His eyes were sliding closed, in spite of themselves, and Hermione's heart broke to see
her best friend so sapped, so frail, so … *mortal*.

She was a little shocked at the thought. Is that what she really believed? That Harry had some
kind of special dispensation from the gods…that he had magically made it out of every scrape
virtually unscathed because he was fated to do so?...and would continue to do so? She amended her
previous thought quickly, thinking that Harry would not call losing his parents, Cedric, Sirius, or
Dumbledore coming out of things `unscathed'.

“But you *don't* have to do it by yourself, Harry,” she said quietly, laying one hand
on top of his. His eyes flickered open again. “You might have to stand on your own, but you
don't have to stand alone. Ron and I will be right there with you. You know that.”

“If anything happened to you…Ron…” he slurred. “I wouldn't be able to…” *live with
myself*. He was asleep before he'd finished the sentence. She patted his hand for a moment,
and slid off of the edge of the bed, where she'd propped herself, with a sigh.

“Is he going to be okay?” came a voice from the doorway. She looked up to see a familiar lanky
form unfold itself from the shadows. Hermione pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead and
sighed.

“I just don't know, Ron,” she said, looking up at him with wet eyes, her expression confused
and afraid. Ron was a little taken aback, having seen Hermione in almost every mood possible,
except for those two. “He seems to get so much weaker every time…” she trailed off, with a little
sob vibrating in her voice. Ron put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed them lightly, moving
beside her to loop one arm around her back. She leaned into the half-embrace.

“It must be some kind of … you know, trap that…Voldemort put around or in the horcruxes. Maybe
he hoped that if someone was going around trying to destroy all of them, they'd …” Ron stopped
speaking abruptly and clamped his mouth shut.

“Die before they finished the job?” Hermione finished for him. Ron swallowed hard, and looked
down at her for a moment, as she looked up at him. Her eyes were luminous and wet, her expression
mirroring the same bewildered, defeated emotions that he had. He placed a light kiss against her
temple, and gently ran his fingers one time through her snarled, curly hair. Their relationship
hadn't gone much beyond a few chaste kisses, and a handful of dances at Bill and Fleur's
wedding, and they were both still rather hesitant about it. As Hermione had quite bluntly put it,
in their one discussion about the subject, that would be rather like “fiddling while Rome burned.”
She'd had to explain the reference to Ron, who was disappointed, but did see her point.
They'd deliberately kept their relationship as casual as possible, and said virtually nothing
at all about it in front of Harry.

“Well, I wouldn't have put it…but yeah,” Ron said. “Do you think there is anything we can do
to stop it?”

Hermione took a deep breath, and straightened her posture, getting what Ron liked to teasingly
call her “thinking face” on. “I have been wondering about that,” she said seriously.

“Of course you have,” Ron said, with no hint of a grin or a smirk on his face.

“The prophecy says Harry has to kill him or be killed by him. I'm still not sure that's
not a load of complete rubbish, but I also don't know of anyone else besides Harry that's
even *capable* of facing him. Especially now that - now that - that…”

“Dumbledore's gone,” Ron supplied for her, solemnly. Hermione looked at him gratefully, and
nodded.

“If we can't face Voldemort in his stead,” she said evenly, while Ron's eyes boggled
that she had even thought of such a thing, “then maybe we can find and destroy the last horcrux for
him, so that he *is* able fight the final Battle.” Ron gaped at her for a long moment.

“You're serious, aren't you?” he finally said, a little foolishly.

“Of course I'm serious,” she said with irritation. “Why wouldn't I be serious at a time
like this?”

“But, Hermione,” Ron argued. “You don't even know why this is happening to Harry. He might
react the same way whether *he* finds the horcrux or not. It might not matter who finds it...
or who destroys it.”

“Well, that's just ridiculous, Ronald,” Hermione replied primly, going back into lecture
mode. “Why would the horcruxes be specifically attuned to Harry, when most of them were probably
created before he was even born? The *only* way that would make sense would be if he was…” she
clapped a hand over her mouth, and let out a soft moan, weaving slightly on her feet.

“Hermione!” Ron said, peering into her face, alarmed. “Hermione, what's wrong?” She just
shook her head, her eyes wide with alarm. “Hermione, what? If he's a what?”

Her chin trembled, as she looked full into his face, and spoke in as even a tone as she could
muster. “If he is a horcrux too.”

There was an endless moment of nauseating, wrenching, *oh-no-please-anything-but-that*
shock. Ron felt the bile rise up in the back of his throat, and he desperately tried to quell the
desire to vomit.

“No,” he shook his head, and even backed away from her a little, as if her theory were something
contagious. “No, that's not possible. I won't accept that.” He was looking at her as if
she'd betrayed Harry, merely by stating the possibility.

“It's just a theory, Ron. It probably - "

“NO!” The shout was unintentional, involuntary, torn from him without his consent, driven by his
emotional attachment to his closest friend. Hermione hissed at him to hush, as they heard Harry
shift and mutter from his bed. Ron was going to bring Madame Pomfrey's wrath down on them both.
She could barely see him in the shadowy ward, but knew that he was likely red to the ears. “I know
you, Hermione,” he continued, his voice more under control. “You've already thought of this,
haven't you? You wouldn't come up with just any theory. It's the only one that fits all
the facts….isn't it?” he prodded.

She nodded, mutely, miserably. “Except that we *don't* have all the facts, Ron. There
could be a different horcrux…Dumbledore had his reasons for suspecting it could be something of
Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's. Surely he would have mentioned it to *somebody* if there
was a possibility that Harry could be made a horcrux. We don't even know what it would do to
something alive…” She trailed off from her desperate tirade, as Ron shook his head.

“The snake,” he supplied. “The snake did just fine, didn't it? Look - look what we had to do
to it just to get rid of it.” His voice was dull and bleak, and she hurried to placate him to
encourage him, to dissuade him from the horrible possibilities that she had been the one to voice
just seconds ago.

“There are incredible differences between snakes and humans, Ronald. Besides, when would
Voldemort have made Harry a horcrux? He was too weak to do anything after he tried to kill Harry.
Harry virtually destroyed him.”

Ron pulled his gaze away from her, and glanced toward the windows. The weak moon and starlight
filtering in etched his face into harsh lines, and made him look suddenly older than his years.

“What if he wasn't trying to kill Harry? What if he was performing the spell to make Harry
the horcrux? And then it backfired on him. Everyone has always assumed it was the Killing curse,
but what if it was another spell that cast a green light?” Hermione swallowed at Ron's
statement, and her expression was clearly one that had hoped he wouldn't think of that.
“Surprised?” Ron said, curling up one side of his mouth in a somewhat bitter smile.

“Ron!” she said, half-exasperated, half-apologetic. “We can postulate and conjecture all night
long. The fact is that we don't know. You said it yourself. *We don't know*. All we
can do is be there for Harry. And what he needs from us right now is to find that last
horcrux.”

“Even if it's him?” Ron queried, the question slipping out of his mouth before he could stop
it. Hermione set her jaw in a determined line.

“Even if it's him,” she said, with finality. He reached down and laced her fingers through
his, and they looked at each other. It wasn't a look of romance or affection, or even mutual
vulnerability; it was a look of solidarity. They were in this together, for Harry, no matter what
happened.

“But it won't be him,” they said in unison, and then stared at each other again, startled
and surprised to find that they were both hoping that if they said it, it might come true.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Headmistress of Hogwart's School of Witchcraft and Wizardry sat at her desk quite
motionless and looked sorrowfully at Remus Lupin. It seemed to be her default expression these
days…ever since Dumbledore's demise, when she had taken on a mantle of leadership for a dying
school.

“How is he?” she asked, the gentleness in her voice seeming to soften her brogue. Lupin was
slumped forward in the chintz armchair, his elbows on his knees, his pallor and fatigue making him
somehow look more unkempt that usual. He shrugged.

“I'm not sure if anybody even knows,” he answered honestly.

“Miss Granger…or Mr. Weasley…” McGonagall put forth tentatively.

“They just say that it's been getting worse…with each successive…” he trailed off,
compulsively editing out the word, furtively glancing at the multitude of portraits ringing the
office walls, most of whom appeared to be slumbering. Very few people knew of the objective of the
Trio's quest. Most people who were even in a position to wonder at their absence just assumed
that they were in hiding, perhaps training, in prelude to the final Battle. Lupin leaned forward,
speaking confidentially. “Each … one that's destroyed takes a little more out of him.” Minerva
McGonagall's face seemed to become even more lined and careworn with concern for her former
student.

“Why come here, Remus?” she asked. “What can we do that is not already being done?”

“Death Eaters attacked Godric's Hollow…that's how we came across young Mr. Malfoy,”
Lupin said, referring to the prisoner now residing down in the dungeons under as many charms and
spells as the Hogwart's faculty could come up with on a moment's notice. “The attack was a
diversion. He was looking for information…about what Harry's searching for. Voldemort,” his
name was a mutter, spoken through clenched teeth, “must have some kind of suspicion, some kind of
*reason* to concern himself with what Harry's doing. We just don't know what.” He
sighed. “But it takes him longer to recover…with each one that's destroyed. There's one
left...and they think it's here. And if Voldemort thinks that Harry has returned to school,
maybe that's so much the better.”

“What about the students? Will they be kept safe?” A shadow of fear darkened her eyes. She was
responsible for so many innocent lives.

“I wish I could tell you they'd be fine,” Lupin said, looking at his hands, rather than at
her. “Harry does seem to attract danger wherever he goes, and we don't know when Voldemort is
going to come calling for Harry - and they did think of this before they came - but…” he spread his
hands out in a “what can you do?” gesture. “If the final …item… really is here, then Harry has to
be here. I'll let the Aurors stationed here know… they'll need to be able to evacuate the
students… if - if…” There was no need to finish the sentence. Their *if*, rapidly turning to
*when*, did not bear contemplation.

McGonagall smiled grimly. “They are just a day late.” She grabbed a quill, and began jotting
notes down on a blank piece of parchment. “I think they would do well in an independent study
program, don't you? Any student still here is certainly aware of Mr. Potter's prowess in
Defense Against the Dark Arts, as well as Miss Granger's ability at anything she sets her mind
to. And Mr. Weasley… well, I'm sure he applies himself diligently to things that are important
to him.” *Like his friends.* She looked up at Lupin, a hint of moisture glinting in her eyes.
Lupin met her gaze, emotion flashing behind his eyes as well. He stood, and extended his hand,
which she took.

“The Aurors will be by in the morning to collect the prisoner,” he said, speaking casually. “And
Minerva? Thank you.”

“You're quite welcome, Remus.” She stood with him, and walked him out. He hesitated just
outside the gargoyle that guarded the entrance, and she looked at him questioningly.

“I - I thought I'd tell Harry good-bye,” he explained, “before I go to London. I'm sure
the Ministry will want a report.” The Headmistress seemed momentarily conflicted, but she evidently
decided against accompanying Lupin to the hospital wing, and said only,

“Tell Mr. Potter that he is always welcome here, and that I hope he feels well enough to join us
for breakfast.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry's eyes fluttered open to sunlight streaming in the windows of the hospital wing. He
could hear someone rustling around in the adjacent room and the ting of glass vials clanking
together, and assumed that Madame Pomfrey would be in to see him shortly…probably to give him some
potion or other that tasted disgusting.

He blinked his eyes and sat up experimentally. When the room did not spin, he reached for his
glasses and placed them on his nose. Ron was sitting in a chair across the room from him, his neck
bent at a painful-looking angle as he slept. Hermione was asleep on his lap. They had obviously
already been up at some point that morning, because they were both in different clothes, as well as
their standard-issue school robes. Harry was rather surprised by the uncomfortable flutterings in
his stomach as he saw them together. *This is ridiculous. Are you worried they're leaving you
out?* His inner voice said mockingly, in a tone somewhat like that of Bellatrix Lestrange.
*They're giving up everything to help you…can't you let them have this at least?*

Madame Pomfrey swished through the door, humming tunelessly, and looking quite chipper for so
early in the morning. She was pushing a cart laden with potions, and parked it at Harry's
bedside. She indicated with one hand that he should begin drinking, as she started scanning him
with her wand.

Ron and Hermione had startled awake at the disruption, and Hermione flew out of Ron's lap,
looking at Harry with utter mortification. Ron looked thoughtfully at Hermione, as he stood to his
feet, stretching up onto his toes and rubbing his neck. Harry waved at them wordlessly, as he
knocked back the first potion.

“How're you feeling this morning, mate?” Ron asked, in a voice distorted by a yawn.

“Better,” Harry said, nodding his head, and then repeating his reply with a little more
enthusiasm. He drank the other potions quickly, eager to put their acrid odors and bitter tastes
behind him. “I think I - I could go down to breakfast?” He looked at Madame Pomfrey pleadingly.

“Very well,” the mediwitch said gruffly. “If you have any more dizziness or nausea or pain in
your scar, you're to come see me at once. Is that understood?” Harry nodded meekly, and then
slid carefully out of bed, standing on his feet carefully like one who is walking for the first
time.

“Harry, maybe you shouldn't -" Hermione said, almost involuntarily, but then clamped
her lips tightly shut. Harry looked at her, with a faint smile ghosting his features.

“Hermione, I'll be fine, really,” he said reassuringly, and, grabbing his bag that he had
brought from Godric's Hollow, he circled behind a divider and began to change into fresh
clothes. “Where'd they put Malfoy?” he called out from behind the screen.

“Down in the dungeons,” Ron answered. “Lucky for him it wasn't a full moon. I've never
seen Lupin so angry.”

“Ron,” Hermione chastised him. “Professor Lupin would never even think of such a -"

“Relax, Hermione,” Ron said, cutting her off. “I was only joking. Of course I don't think
that Lu - "

“You want me to *relax*? At a time like *this*? Are you daft?” Hermione's voice
became a little higher in pitch with every angry question. Ron drew back, stung.

“I'm taking this as seriously as anyone else, Hermione,” he retorted. “I happen to think
that a little bit of joking every now and then might be just what we need.” Hermione looked
livid.

“With Harry's life on the line?” she hissed at him. Ron looked anxiously at the divider, and
told her to hush.

“I - I already know my life's on the line, guys,” Harry said, his voice muffled, as if he
were pulling a shirt over his head. “No need to keep it a secret from me.” He came around the
divider, his school robes on, but unfastened. He had a slight grin on his face, until he saw that
Hermione looked not annoyed, but rather sad that he was making jokes.

“Harry…this is - this is so important,” she said earnestly, clasping her hands together. He
looked back at her, just as seriously.

“I know that, Hermione,” he said, looking intently at her. All at once, Ron had the
uncomfortable feeling that they had forgotten he was in the room. “But Ron's right. If
Voldemort's able to take away everything we love and appreciate about life, then he's won.”
When Harry spoke Ron's name they both looked at him, and Ron figured that the other feeling
must have been all in his head.

“I know,” Hermione said, with that bored tone that highlighted just how little she liked being
wrong. “I still wish you two would wait until it's all over to make jokes.”

Harry regarded her solemnly for a moment. “All right, Hermione,” he said gravely, and checked
his watch. “How `bout it, Ron? The day after I defeat Voldemort good for you? How about a joke that
day at breakfast?”

Ron's mouth twitched, but he refrained from laughing at Hermione's warning glare. She
stalked down to breakfast ahead of them, her spine rigid, her shoulders square, pretending that she
didn't hear the snorts of partially repressed laughter behind her.

When they arrived at the Great Hall, Hermione inexplicably stopped before the large double
doors. She turned around to face her two best friends, and they looked at her curiously.

“You know what's going to happen when we open those doors,” she said, without preamble.
Harry and Ron nodded, all pretense of joviality gone. “Are you all right?” she asked Harry, her
brown eyes warm with compassion.

Harry was still incredibly pale, though his scar stood out lividly on his forehead, and looked
as if a breeze might blow him over. “Just…” he said, hating the need to ask for help, “just flank
me…in case anything happens.” Hermione and Ron obligingly moved to either side of him.

“Just in case you fall right on your arse, you mean,” Ron said to him, out of the side of his
mouth.

“Ronald Weasley!” Hermione said in disbelief. “You are *the* most insensitive git I have
ever had the misfortune to meet.” Ron eyed her in a disgruntled fashion.

“You need to get some new lines,” he said laconically, and Harry could almost see Hermione
winding up. Her eyes crackled with energy.

“I'll have you know -" she began, when Harry thrust open both doors, with one sweeping
motion of his arms. The Great Hall no longer had four house tables, but several smaller rectangular
tables arranged in a giant U shape. The staff table was as it had been, but had far fewer teachers
seated at it than they were accustomed to seeing. Still, every eye in the Great Hall had turned,
almost fearfully, when the doors clattered open.

There was a moment of complete silence, as the Trio stood motionless in the doorway,
Hermione's mouth still open where she had frozen in mid-sentence. Harry hesitated for another
fraction of a second, before striding confidently into the Great Hall, leaving Ron and Hermione to
hastily catch up with him. Ron was pretty sure that they made quite an impressive sight, marching
in like that, black school robes billowing behind them.

They were about halfway up the length of the tables, headed for some empty seats at the top of
the U, when the murmurs finally reached Harry's ears, rising quickly in volume.

“It's Harry.”

“He's back.”

“Didn't reckon we'd see him again.”

“You sure know how to make an entrance, mate,” Ron remarked, at the rushing whispers than
meandered up the aisle behind them.

Harry couldn't stop a smile from flitting across his face. Most of the people who had chosen
to return to Hogwart's were friends of his, and he didn't think he'd ever see this
place as anywhere else but home. It had been the first place where he'd actually felt he
belonged. His eyes drifted up to the empty place at the center of the staff table, and he felt a
pang of sadness, as he saw Professor McGonagall seated just to the right, as if she too could not
admit to herself that Dumbledore was gone.

He sat down as nonchalantly as possible, while Ron and Hermione crossed to the inner side of the
table, and sat opposite. Someone - Harry thought it was Ernie MacMillan - started clapping, and
soon the whole room was awash in applause. There were several cheers, and Harry felt himself began
to redden.

He saw Seamus and Dean clap Ron on the back, and smiled widely when Neville sat next to him,
nudging him companionably in the shoulder. Lavender, Parvati, Padma, and Luna all slid a little
closer, straining to hear what was being said. Harry noticed that the houses seemed to be
intermingled with each other, save for a tiny group of Slytherins at the opposite side of the
U.

“Glad you're back, Harry,” Neville said simply, as they shared a man-to-man look.

“It's nice to be back, Neville,” Harry said, picking up his goblet of pumpkin juice and
raising it to his lips.

Before he could take a sip, something hurtled toward him, speaking in a rapid, unintelligible
voice. His goblet went flying as it was knocked from his hand when a warm body slammed into his,
and he dimly realized that he had a mouthful of hair.

“Ginny,” he sputtered, spitting her hair out of his mouth. Her eyes gleamed with pleasure and
something like triumph.

“You're back,” she said in a satisfied tone, reaching up with one hand to run her fingers
through his hair. He captured her hand with his own, interrupting the gesture, and brought their
hands back down to their sides. He saw a flicker of hurt in her eyes, but she didn't comment
further.

“I'm back,” he responded in kind, his eyes wandering over her face. She was so beautiful,
and he really wished that…

“D'you mind?” Ron asked good-naturedly. “I'd rather not be subject to you ogling my
sister at breakfast. Way too early.” He chewed thoughtfully on a slice of bacon. “Any time would be
too early, really.”

“Ron, it's not - " Harry began to protest, slightly annoyed. He wasn't really in
the mood for this conversation just now. But he was interrupted as Headmistress McGonagall took the
podium. Ginny kept her fingers tightly laced through his, and Harry had to admit that he did enjoy
the feeling, so he stopped trying to worm his hand out of her grip.

“Good morning, students,” she said briefly. “I trust you have noticed our newest arrivals?”
There were some more cheers and whistles. “It's good to have you back at Hogwart's, Harry,”
she said, her obvious emotion slipping out at the use of his given name. “Mr. Weasley, Miss
Granger,” she continued, a trifle more formally, nodding at them in greeting. “If you three will
meet me in my office after breakfast, we can go over your schedules.”

McGonagall exited the Great Hall with as much authority as she had ever exuded, and yet…it
seemed different somehow. Harry wondered with mild surprise if she was seeing him as differently as
he was seeing her, and wondered if his being of age put them on a more equal footing…as adults. He
managed to reclaim his hand from Ginny, and tucked in to his food.

More than halfway through his meal, he noticed that both Ginny and Hermione were watching him
surreptitiously. Ron had seen it as well, and was giving them both looks that he reserved for
people that he thought were nutters.

“Um…” Harry began politely, swallowing his bite of food. His eyes darted from Ginny to Hermione
and back again.

“What?” Ginny asked innocently, tucking a loose strand of fiery hair behind her ear, as she
poured syrup on her waffle. She looked up at him again, and her whole face brightened. “It
*really* is good to see you again, Harry. After - after everything that - " her face grew
somber and her gaze was momentarily distant. When her attention turned back to Harry, she smiled
again, as if to say “but now you're here, so everything will be fine.” Harry felt a distinct
sick sensation in the pit of his stomach.

“Hermione?” Harry queried, turning toward her.

“What?” she said blandly.

“Have I got food on my face or something?” Harry asked patiently. Hermione colored violently,
and dropped her gaze to her plate, muttering,

“I just want to be sure you're all right.” Ron rolled his eyes, and said something, not very
*sotto voce*, about hysterical, paranoid women.

Hermione rounded on him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes blazing, as she let Ron have it. Her
words flowed so quickly that Harry could hardly keep up with what she was saying, wondering instead
if she ever realized how pretty she was when she was angry. *Maybe that's why Ron winds her
up all the time,* he thought, and his musing was followed immediately by shock. *What the hell
am I thinking?*

Ron was slouching more and more sulkily into his plate, every now and then zinging Hermione with
a pithy one-liner that only served to ratchet her up to the next level.

“Merlin's Beard,” Neville said, shaking his head at the two of them. “Something's never
change, do they, Harry?”

“No,” Harry replied, toying with his eggs and feeling suddenly and inexplicably glum. “No, they
don't.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When they left breakfast to head to McGonagall's office, Ron and Hermione were both in a
huff, refusing to speak to one another. They parted ways from a positively bubbly Ginny at the
doors of the Great Hall, as she was on her way to Charms class.

“Maybe you'll have some classes with me,” she said giddily, looking at him so fondly that
Harry felt his heart clench and something lurch in the region of his stomach.

“You're…you're not in our year,” Harry managed to mumble idiotically. Ginny
shrugged.

“There are so few students left that they've combined some of the classes. Sixth and seventh
years have quite a lot of classes together, actually.” She kissed his cheek, waved good-bye to Ron
and Hermione, and headed for Flitwick's classroom. Harry watched her go, and wondered when
he'd have the heart to tell her that sitting in a class writing essays and turning aardvarks
into hearthrugs was the last thing he planned on doing. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets,
and began walking toward the offices of the Headmistress. Hermione and Ron trailed along behind him
in a haughty silence.

When they reached the gargoyle, it had already moved aside and the spiral staircase was awaiting
them. They hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances, as they reached the top and stopped before the
office doors. Harry finally reached up and rapped lightly on the door.

“Enter,” came the Headmistress's voice. They walked into the room to find her seated behind
the large desk, smiling slightly at them. “I find that an open-door policy is more … appropriate
nowadays,” she said by way of explanation. Harry figured that was just a roundabout way of saying
that she wanted to be able to be notified immediately if anything happened.

Harry looked around the room, noting that most of Dumbledore's trinkets were gone. The desk
was larger and more functional looking. But the squashy armchairs were the same, and there was a
bowl of lemon drops on her desk… Harry sucked in a sharp breath, and looked quickly down at his
lap. He knew what would be hanging on the wall, had seen the portrait shortly after
Dumbledore's death, but it had been slumbering then. He didn't know if he could face the
Headmaster's twinkling blue gaze, even from a portrait.

McGonagall was watching him carefully, and appeared to know exactly what he was thinking. “It
took me three weeks to even be able to look at his portrait,” she said suddenly. “When I did, Albus
said that he'd been wondering if he'd offended me somehow,” she smiled a little, but her
eyes were watery. Hermione and Ron raised their eyes cautiously toward Dumbledore's portrait,
but Harry kept his eyes stubbornly on his lap. McGonagall cleared her throat, and began speaking in
the business-like tone that they were more accustomed to.

“Regarding the class schedules…” she began, but Harry interrupted her.

“I won't be taking classes, Professor McGonagall,” he said respectfully, his voice
nonetheless firm. “I've other things to do while I'm here.” He looked at Hermione and Ron,
and added, almost as an afterthought, “Ron and Hermione are welcome to do what they want, of
course.” McGonagall regarded him for a moment, with a glimmer of something like amusement behind
her eyes.

“As I was saying,” she continued, with a trace of her old sharpness, “I believe you three would
benefit from an independent study program.” Hermione's eyes lit up. Ron smirked at Harry, and
Harry felt himself flush at his jump to a wrong conclusion. “Remus Lupin tells me there is
some…research … that you are particularly interested in.” Her words were guarded.

“Yes, ma'am,” Harry replied.

“You will, of course, have unhampered access to the Library, including the restricted sections,
and use of any materials in the Potions laboratory that you may need,” she said, rapidly making
notes on a roll of parchment. Hermione looked like Christmas had come early. “I've taken the
liberty of reserving the Gryffindor Head Suite for the three of you. Since you turned down the
badges…” Here, Hermione and Ron looked at each other guiltily, “the Head honors went to Susan Bones
and Ernie MacMillan, and the Gryffindor Suites are not in use. You will have more privacy this way,
and I'll have an extra bed moved into the Head Boy room. You do not object to sharing?” Harry
and Ron shook their heads quickly, astounded at their good fortune. “I will not enforce curfew for
the three of you, but I do ask that you act responsibly. And, should you need to leave the castle
for any reason, I'd like for you to please notify someone first.” Harry noticed that she was
carefully phrasing her guidelines as requests rather than demands. He smiled at her gratefully.

“Professor, how many people know about the…research we're doing?” Harry asked tentatively.
He had agonized long and hard over whether or not to tell Lupin, but had finally decided that they
needed some kind of liaison to the outside world, while they were on their quest. He had figured
that Lupin had probably told someone, as a kind of failsafe, but he didn't know who.

“Remus Lupin has served you well,” McGonagall replied, in answer to his unasked question. “It is
just myself and Miss Tonks that know anything about your project…and your father, of course,” she
said, nodding to Ron.

“So that's why he was on my side about leaving with Harry,” Ron said in a voice of sudden
comprehension.

“The Order is still intact, though it's in a stand-by mode at the moment. Others in the
Order merely believe you've been training. As you're only one day late to school, I see no
reason why that story should not continue to stand to the other students and faculty here.”

Harry appeared not to be listening. His eyes had locked on the dish of lemon drops, and he felt
the incredible empty unreality of Dumbledore's death again, wishing that somehow it would all
suddenly make sense. He stood abruptly, stumbling as his foot caught the leg of the chair he'd
been sitting in. The room wobbled crazily, as a wave of dizziness and nausea swept over him.
Hermione was suddenly in his field of vision, as she wrapped her arm through his, and helped him
find his balance.

“I'm all right,” he said, trying to get his eyes to focus. “I'm fine.” Hermione and Ron
looked at him skeptically.

“You remember what Madame Pomfrey said,” Hermione remarked, with a warning tone. Harry glowered
at her without result.

“I'm sure that your studies can wait until after you visit the hospital wing,” McGonagall
said, handing a note to Hermione. “This is for Madame Pince, authorizing your use of the Restricted
section.” Hermione thanked her.

They were nearly to the door, when Professor McGonagall spoke again, “As I'm sure you could
figure out, there is no House cup and no House Quidditch teams. There are simply not enough
students. But there is a pick-up Quidditch game every now and then, that I'm sure the students
would be delighted to have you join, should you be so inclined.” She smiled a little then, and for
the first time, it seemed to reach her eyes. “Mr. Finnegan tells me that Mr. Thomas is an abysmal
Seeker.”

**TBC**

**Please leave a review on your way out!**

-->



3. Research and Regards
-----------------------



**AN:** To all those who have reviewed, thanks ever so! And now I'm going to be utterly
greedy and ask for more!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART I: The End of the Beginning**

**Chapter Three: Research and Regards**

Hermione and Ron dragged an unwilling and by turns, protesting and sulking, Harry Potter back to
the hospital wing after their meeting with McGonagall.

“I said I was fine,” he muttered, managing to sound like a petulant child. Hermione told him so,
irritating him further. He was still allowing them to steer him toward the infirmary, so Hermione
suspected that he was much more fatigued than he was letting on.

“Intramural Quidditch?” Ron murmured sadly to himself, appearing to be thinking of brighter
days, like the day last year when Gryffindor won the Quidditch cup, even though Harry was in
detention. He shook his head, as if the sport had disgraced itself somehow. “Reckon we could get in
a game sometime?”

Harry thought of flying on his broom, the wind blowing through his hair, the utter freedom and
exhilaration of sweeping through the air, the graceful rush of diving after the Snitch. He missed
Quidditch.

“Harry's in no condition to be swooping around on a broom,” Hermione said snippily, still
annoyed at his recalcitrant mood. “While he's in hospital, we ought to go on down to the
library, and get started.” Ron rather looked like he'd prefer to be almost anywhere other than
in the library with Hermione on a rampage, but he said nothing.

“I could play Quidditch,” Harry muttered mutinously.

“And if you got dizzy? And fell off your broom? And broke your neck?” Hermione said, in her most
confrontational voice.

“Then everybody's little weapon to kill Voldemort would be all ruined!” Harry said, in a
nasty sing-song voice, as he slammed into the infirmary. Hermione stopped, stunned.

“Harry, that's not what I - " he heard, before the doors shut behind him. She turned to
Ron, leaning up against the wall adjacent to the hospital wing doors. “That's not what I
meant.”

“He knows that, Hermione,” Ron said in an unconcerned voice. “He's just in a pissy mood.
Wouldn't you be?” Hermione looked at the floor and said nothing. “Why don't you lay off
him, though?”

“I'm not -" she started to protest.

“He knows what he has to do. He knows what's at stake if he mucks it up. He doesn't need
you constantly reminding him about it,” Ron said forthrightly. “He's an adult. He doesn't
need a mum. He needs *us.*”

Hermione looked at Ron like he'd betrayed her. “I would have thought you'd be on my
side, Ronald Weasley!”

Ron was aghast. “Side? What side? We're all on the same side, Hermione. You know, the
opposite one from Voldemort?” He stopped suddenly and peered sharply into her face. “How much sleep
have *you* been getting?” Hermione drew herself up to her full height, which was still
considerably less than Ron's, and said,

“Plenty.”

“Liar.”

“Harry needs me,” she said, in a much less strident tone.

“He needs you to not kill yourself for him. Weren't you just telling him something like
that?” Ron got to watch in satisfaction as Hermione Granger was at a loss for words. “Go up to the
suite, and go to sleep. I'm sure Dobby's already got our stuff in there. *I'll* go
to the library and start looking - what? Really I will,” Hermione had shot him a dubious look.

“Do you even know what to look for, Ronald?” Hermione asked with a long-suffering voice. Ron
grinned, because the fact that she'd even asked the question meant she was going to do what he
said.

“Gryffindor. Ravenclaw. Stuff that they left at Hogwart's.” Ron said, shrugging, but stopped
at the look on Hermione's face. “You really don't think I can handle it, do you?”

“Of course you can handle it,” Hermione said, clearly lying. Ron rolled his eyes and stomped off
toward the library, his voice carrying distinctly back to Hermione, as he muttered something about
why enemies were needed when your own best mates thought you were a bleeding moron.

Hermione started toward Gryffindor tower where the suite was located, near the common room, but
stopped, and looked uncertainly back toward the hospital wing. She looked over her shoulder in the
direction that Ron had gone, but he had already disappeared from sight. She took a deep breath, and
entered the doors to the infirmary.

Harry was sitting on a bed, the same one he'd used that morning, in the otherwise empty
ward. He wasn't looking at her, though he'd clearly realized she'd entered.

“I can hear you yelling at each other, you know,” Harry said, still looking away.

“I know,” Hermione said, twirling a strand of hair around her fingers, and rocking on her heels
uncomfortably. “I didn't - I didn't - I shouldn't have said…” she stammered.

“I know you didn't mean it. And I'm sorry for snapping at you,” Harry said, finally
looking at her, with sympathy shining out of his green eyes. “I know I'm not the only one under
stress here. If one of you were under an almost-certain death sentence, then I know I'd be
-"

“Harry!” Hermione protested at his choice of words, but he gave her a dry, “let's not fool
ourselves” look. There was a moment of silence. They could both hear Madame Pomfrey bustling around
in the adjacent room.

“Lupin came to see you last night before he left,” Hermione said finally. “He'd been talking
with Professor McGonagall, but he didn't want to wake you. He went to London to file a report
about Malfoy.”

“I was wondering where he was,” Harry said. “Did they take Malfoy to the Ministry?” Hermione
nodded. “Were you in here last night?” he asked curiously. Was it just his imagination or did
slight color stain Hermione's cheeks?

“Ron and I both were. We didn't really fancy going up to the dormitories in the middle of
the night, and we - well, we wanted to keep an eye on you.” She watched him hesitantly, as if
he'd explode at the idea of needing a minder.

“Yeah, you two really looked like you were keeping an eye on me this morning,” he said with a
slight smirk, jerking his chin toward the chair they'd both been sitting in when he
awakened.

“Honestly, Harry!” Hermione said, rolling her eyes, her color heightening further.

“So…er…how's that going anyway?” he asked, gesturing again toward the chair. Hermione's
finger twirled up in her hair again, and she wouldn't meet his gaze. She shrugged, a little
unwillingly.

“It's not really a very good time for a relationship, Harry,” she mumbled, sitting on the
next bed over, and swinging her feet.

“It's the perfect time!” Harry protested. “Didn't McGonagall say that Dumbledore would
be glad there was a little more love in the world? Look at Remus and Tonks…or Bill and Fleur.”

Hermione looked mortified. “Who said anything about love?” she said, and then looked like she
wished she hadn't. “Ron's just - we're - we wanted - I was…” she gave up, throwing her
hands into the air. “We're fine.” Harry eyed her suspiciously. “Really!” she insisted, flushing
brilliantly. “What about you and Ginny?” she asked suddenly, in a retaliatory tone.

“There is no `me and Ginny',” Harry said, looking warily at Hermione. “There hasn't been
since … since Dumbledore's funeral. And…and there's not going to be.”

“Does Ginny know that?” Hermione said with a rather appraising tone, thinking of the scene from
the Great Hall at breakfast.

“Of course she does,” Harry answered carefully, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Of course,” Hermione murmured in agreement, but Harry got the impression that she didn't
mean it at all. He opened his mouth to say something about it, but Madame Pomfrey came in then, and
thrust three different potions at Harry, with the obvious expectation that he drink them. He looked
like he was deciding whether or not to protest, but Madame Pomfrey said,

“If you take those, I will let you sleep in your room tonight… provided that you let me see you
again before breakfast.”

“All right,” Harry muttered resignedly, taking the three elixirs in rapid succession. Almost
immediately, his nausea lessened, and the swimmy feeling in his head abated somewhat. Madame
Pomfrey nodded with approval, and whisked the empty containers back into the other room. Hermione
slid off of the bed, and looked in askance at Harry when he did not immediately follow.

“What is it?” she said, in a “don't try and pretend nothing's wrong” tone of voice.

Harry's fingers kneaded the bedsheet where he was sitting, and he looked ill at ease.

“Hermione, I -" he faltered and then stopped. She stepped back over to him, standing so
close that her midsection was nearly touching his knees, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“You can tell me anything, Harry. You know that.”

“I don't - I don't want to mess everything up!” he burst out suddenly, and she looked at
him in bewilderment. “Between you and Ron,” he added. “You shouldn't put things on hold because
of me…I - you - you're only seventeen. You deserve to do normal things…like - like go on dates,
and - and snog…and …stuff…” he trailed off, embarrassed. She regarded him with an amused smile.

“Why should we do `normal' things, if you don't get to?” she asked, arching one
eyebrow.

“I do `normal' things,” he said, a little sulkily. This time, Hermione arched both brows,
with a “really?” look.

“What about what you said before?” she asked quietly. “'There is no me and Ginny. And
there's not going to be.' Why is that exactly?” He let out a frustrated sigh, and ran his
hands through his hair.

“You know why.”

“Tell me anyway,” she said tersely.

“People that I love end up dead,” he replied, refusing to make eye contact with her. *And
I'm not even sure that I'm in love with Ginny. What kind of an arse does that make me?*
He added silently.

“Harry, nobody died *just* *because* they loved you.”

“Yes, they did!” he said, his voice rising. “My mum and dad did. Sirius did. And - and
Dumbledore…If it hadn't been for me…”

“Harry, you're - you're special,” she said feebly, obviously groping for a word. She
raised one hand, as if to thread her fingers through his hair, but she stopped herself. “Love for
you doesn't mark people for death. They loved you, and wanted you to live. So much that it
didn't matter to them how that was accomplished. That's an amazing kind of love. That's
what you have that Voldemort doesn't. And you…*you*… inspire that in - in - people…” She
looked up at him briefly, a half-smile curling the corner of her mouth. “Voldemort may try to use
love against you…against us, but he'll fail in the end. None of us are going into this blind.
And you need to let me…let Ginny…let Ron… make our own choices. Because we do love you, you know.
And nothing is ever going to change that.”

Something in Harry's stomach lurched oddly at her last words, and he wondered if the potions
he'd been given were going to make him sick.

“I don't think I could face knowing that I had lived when you should have,” Harry managed to
choke out.

“Then I won't die,” Hermione said in a tone that was suddenly and strangely breathy. Her
face suddenly seemed very close to his, even though neither of them had moved, and he was having
trouble swallowing. There was a fleeting instant of…something?...that Harry couldn't even begin
to analyze. And just as quickly, Hermione turned, her hair swirling out in an arc behind her,
speaking briskly,

“Are you ready to go?” He blinked at her.

“Go?”

“To the Gryffindor Head suite.”

“Right,” Harry said slowly, feeling somewhat idiotic. He slid off the bed and stood for a
moment, as he had earlier, testing his balance. He nodded at Hermione, who was looking at him
questioningly, and they walked out of the hospital wing together.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron clambered noisily into the portrait hole that led to the Head Suite - including a large
common room, bathroom, and two dormitories - several hours later. He was dragging a large knapsack
that appeared to be straining at its seams, and had his arms piled up with several rather ponderous
looking tomes. He staggered across the room with difficulty, and nearly threw the books down on a
desk, having been favoring his injured arm and thereby unbalancing himself. Belatedly, he
remembered that Harry and Hermione were both under instructions to be asleep, and he cursed under
his breath, hoping that he hadn't awakened them.

He settled in at one of the three desks lining the left wall of the common room, and, with a
roll of parchment and a quill and ink on one hand, and the first of the ponderous tomes on the
other, he began to read, also jotting occasional notes.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, when he finally heard footfalls on the stairs that
led to the dorms, and felt two arms encircle his neck.

“You'd better be Hermione,” he said gruffly, and he heard her soft laugh, felt her breath on
his ear. At the sound, he turned around, and looked at her in amazement. Laughing was something
none of them did that often, and Hermione was more serious than most on a good day. “Now I
*know* you're not Hermione!” he said. “What have you done with her?” She smiled slightly,
but her eyes fell on the stack of books and the scrawled-on parchment and lit up.

“Did you find anything?” she asked eagerly, and the moment was gone.

“Not much,” Ron said in resignation. He gestured toward the book he'd been scanning, which
was titled *The Founding Four**: A History of Hogwart's.* “Ravenclaw had some
jewelry, but no mention of whether that was ever at Hogwart's. They've mentioned
Gryffindor's sword, of course…and the Hat. But those have never been out of Dumbledore's
office.”

“The sword has been in the Chamber of Secrets,” Hermione corrected him. “There could be other
times as well…times we don't know about.”

“But Dumbledore ruddy well would have,” Ron argued. “And he never mentioned it to Harry.”

“Maybe he meant to, but didn't get the chance,” Hermione said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Do you have to argue with absolutely everything I say?” Ron said, thoroughly annoyed. “Is it
some kind of reflex action with you?” Hermione looked highly insulted.

“Honestly, Ron! If you're going to go around saying things that are obviously not true!” She
replied haughtily. “You know that Gryffindor's sword has been out of Dumbledore's office.
You were there…in the Chamber!”

“Behind a bunch of rocks from a bloody cave-in!” Ron exclaimed. “With an Obliviated Lockhart! I
wasn't exactly in a position to see anything!”

“You came out of the Chamber with Fawkes…and Harry…and *the sword*.” Hermione's tone
was just short of scathing. “Details are important, Ronald! Especially with…”

“…Harry's life at stake! I bloody well know that, Hermione!” Ron said angrily.

“Then you know why it's important that we - "

“I don't know that anything about this conversation is important,” Ron interrupted her.
“What does this have to do with - ?”

“The sword - " Hermione began again.

“If the sword was made into a Horcrux, then the `outing' we're talking about should have
happened years ago! The fact that Fawkes took it to the Chamber of Secrets less than five years ago
is utterly irrelevant, *Hermione!*” Hermione looked a little startled as Ron ground her name
through gritted teeth. Ron was on a roll now, and stood from the desk, gesticulating wildly. “You
don't have a corner on this, Hermione. You aren't the only one who can help him. You
aren't the only one who wants to help him. And *you* aren't the savior of the
Wizarding world. He is.” Hermione drew back as if she'd been slapped.

“I never said I - " she began in an affronted tone.

“How many times have we had this argument - this exact one - in the last three months?” Ron
sounded weary. “You want to live and breathe and bleed Harry Potter, and I want… I - I want…” He
stopped suddenly, seeming unsure of what it was that he wanted. Hermione looked at him as if he
were a stranger.

“Are you *jealous*?” she asked, finally. “Of *Harry?* Or of my trying to help Harry?
This isn't a contest to see who can help him the most, Ron.”

“No, I'm not jealous,” Ron said, making a face at her, though most of the fight seemed to
have left him. “And *I'm* not the one with the issues about competition.” Hermione inhaled
deeply, ready to begin another spiel, but he continued speaking. “What is it we're trying to
accomplish here, Hermione?”

“We're trying to help Harry defeat Voldemort,” Hermione said, deliberately misunderstanding
him.

“I meant with *us*, Hermione. What are *we* trying to accomplish? I thought I knew - I
thought - I - but I - I don't anymore.”

“Ron?” And for the first time in that conversation, there was fear in Hermione's voice.

There was a long silence.

She held out her hand to him. “Do you want to go for a walk? Around the lake?”

He regarded her for a moment. His eyes fell on the stacks of books that he had brought back from
the library.

“Those will keep,” Hermione said lightly, her voice on the verge of breaking. Ron stood and took
her hand, his gaze never leaving hers.

“All right then,” he said, and his voice was almost a whisper.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Harry awakened and ventured down into the common room, it was empty. He hadn't the
faintest idea where Ron and Hermione were, but there were stacks of books on one of the desks. He
scanned the titles, and saw that most of them had to do with Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, the founders in
general, or Hogwart's itself.

He sat at the adjacent desk, which was empty, and grabbed the open book from where it lay. He
began to flip the pages listlessly, wondering at his own discontent.

*Where are they? Why aren't they here…helping?* He found himself thinking petulantly,
before he caught himself. *They could be down in the library. And even if they're not,
wasn't I just telling Hermione that she needed to do normal things.* He sighed gustily,
annoyed with his hypocrisy. And yet he could not quell the sense of rejection, of unease, of
abandonment that pervaded him at that moment. He was alone, and they were somewhere…perhaps
together. *You don't even know that much.* But somehow he knew they were.

And maybe that was his biggest fear. Not the deaths of his friends in and of themselves, but the
fact that they might die, he might live, and he might be condemned to live long years without the
close companionship that he had come to rely on. He tried to imagine life without Ron…without
Hermione…and he could only see a vast emptiness, a shell of a life, without any real substance.

*And if they end up married?* A snide inner voice said. *They'll be alive, but
you'll still be alone. Maybe you're destined to always be alone just like you always have
been. No parents, no godfather, no mentor…no Hermione…Alone, just like Lord Voldemort…*

“NO!” Harry shouted at the empty room, slamming the book shut. A cloud of dust wafted up, and
the motes were caught in the lamplight. His heart was pounding rapidly. He wasn't sure where
that voice had come from…had it been his? Or had the thoughts insinuated themselves inside his head
from somewhere else…someone else?

*What if you're more like him than you realize? You're rich, famous, magically
powerful… if you defeat him, who could stand against you? You could do anything you wanted, have
anyone you wanted…*

Hermione flashed briefly in his mind, and he recoiled from the desk in shock, as if he could
somehow remove himself from his own thoughts.

“No!” he said again, out loud. “I won't become like him. I won't!” He was oddly reminded
of his own Sorting, where he had vehemently argued with the Sorting Hat that he not be put into
Slytherin. And then he heard Dumbledore's gravelly voice in his mind,

“It is our choices, Harry, that show us who we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

“Choices…” Harry muttered to himself, a tranquil kind of sadness embracing him as he thought of
the headmaster. He clenched both fists. *I can choose not to be like him…just like he chose his
path…* His head ached vaguely, and he rubbed his fingers absent-mindedly over his scar.

“Harry?” came a sudden voice, and Harry started violently, banging his knees on the desk in
front of them and swearing colorfully. Ginny was peeking around the edge of the portrait hole,
looking at him with an amused expression.

“Aren't you supposed to be in class?” Harry asked irritably, rubbing his knees in an injured
fashion. Ginny took this to be her invitation to enter and be welcome, and came the rest of the way
into the common room, closing the portrait behind her.

“I'm done for the day,” she said simply. “Ron gave me the password. I hope that's okay?”
She looked at him with a wistful face that was half-hopeful, half-apologetic.

“Sure,” Harry said vaguely, making a mental note to himself to thank Ron later. “You saw
Ron?”

“Yeah, a while ago. He and Hermione were on their way down to the lake, I think,” she
answered.

*Down to the lake.* Harry recalled his own visits to the lake with the pretty redhead in
front of him. Once again, he felt a yearning well up within him…nothing more than a heartfelt
desire to forget who he was and just…*be*. To come out from under the shadow of his destiny,
of his duty, of his calling, and enjoy a date, a snog, his final year of school. *Is that really
too much to ask?*

Something of his gloom must have showed on his face, because Ginny looked at him with
compassion. “Harry, what's wrong?” she asked. He regarded her for a moment, watching the way
the warm lamplight created pools of fire in her eyes and made her hair into a flaming gold nimbus
around her head.

He wondered if he could talk to Ginny. He couldn't talk to Ron or Hermione… Ron would fidget
and look uncomfortable, and he was afraid that he was already burdening Hermione with enough. She
would fret and worry even more than she was already, and would sleep and eat less. He looked at
Ginny doubtfully, wondering how he could sum up the deepest desires of his heart in one
sentence.

“I just wish it was over.” Ginny pressed her lips together in a small, sympathetic smile.

“I know you do, Harry,” was all she said. “I wish I could help you.”

“Some things have to be done on one's own,” Harry said, trying to sound nonchalant, and not
completely succeeding. There was a silence, which stretched from being a lull to being awkward,
fairly quickly. He didn't remember silence ever being a problem before, but he supposed that
most silences between them before had been taken up with snogging. He looked up at her, and found
her watching him, with a quiet, discerning look in her eyes.

“Ginny, we - " he began, blurting the words suddenly, without having any really clear idea
of what he was intending to say.

“You don't have to say it,” she cut him off, her smile reworking itself bitterly. “I know.”
Harry was genuinely curious.

“What?” he said. Ginny rolled her eyes.

“I know that nothing's changed between us. I know that just because you're back at
Hogwart's doesn't mean your battle's over. I know why we still can't be together.
And I understand.” Harry watched her with obvious relief that she had known so well what he was
thinking.

“I wish things were different,” Harry said honestly, thinking of other things than just the
wedge between him and Ginny that was the coming battle with Voldemort.

“So do I,” she replied. “It was awfully nice to see you this morning, strolling into the Great
Hall like a conquering hero.” She flushed and laughed a little at herself. “I just - I wanted to
pretend…for a little while.” Harry felt his lips quirk upward in a return smile.

“Is that why you hugged me?” he asked. “Hermione was wondering about that.” Something odd
flashed in Ginny's eyes for a moment, but was gone so quickly that Harry figured he must have
imagined it.

“Can't blame a girl for trying,” she said gaily, performing much better than Harry had with
his nonchalance. “You know you can come to me anytime you want to talk.” Harry leaned back in his
chair, and crossed his arms over his chest, the stacks of books on the neighboring desk catching
his eye.

*Ron and Hermione are down at the lake,* was the thought that rolled somewhat incongruously
through his mind.

“No, I can't, Ginny,” Harry said slowly, thinking of the destroyed horcruxes and the one
they had yet to locate. “But I appreciate the offer.” He pulled his grandmother's brooch out of
his pocket, and ran it absently through his fingers.

Her expression was wistful. “Maybe after - " she began, but he cut her off, sitting forward
so suddenly that the chair creaked ominously.

“No no no no, Ginny,” he said, speaking rapidly. “No maybes. Not now. I can't deal with
maybes.” He watched with horror as her eyes filled up with tears, and she turned toward the empty
fireplace, not wanting him to see her cry. She said something in a clogged voice that he didn't
quite catch. “What?” he asked cautiously, shoving the brooch back into the pocket of his jeans,
rising from his chair, and stepping toward her.

“You may not want to deal with maybe,” she said suddenly, whirling on him, tears streaking her
cheeks. “But `maybe' is all I have.”

And then suddenly, his arms were around her and her cheek was against his chest and he was
murmuring something over and over again into her hair. It took a moment or two before Harry
realized that he was saying, “I'm sorry.” I'm sorry. I'm sorry. *I'm sorry.
I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry.*

He pushed her back from him, both hands gripping her shoulders, so he could look into her face.
Her brown eyes were awash with unshed tears, and he watched as she blinked them back and tried to
compose her face into a stoic expression.

“I can't - I can't promise…*anything,* Gin,” he said in a voice full of emotion. “I
don't know how much time I - " *have left*. He swallowed the last two words, and did
not say them. “I don't know when it's going to end, how it's going to end…. I - "
*I don't even know whether or not I'm in love with you*. “I can't…ask anything of
you…it's not fair…I - won't…” It seemed a feeble echo of the earlier conversation that
he'd had with himself. *I won't be like him. I won't.*

“I won't ask for promises,” Ginny said evenly, her face composed. “I won't even ask for
maybe. All I'll ask for is what you can give…and when you can give it.”

He looked at her again. Her hair was long and shiny, vibrant in the yellowy light of the common
room. Her cheeks were flushed and wet where tears had been shed, and her eyes were still damp, but
clear and penetrating.

An image of Hermione, hunched over a book, eyes intent, fingers clutching a quill, flashed into
his mind of its own accord. He shoved the thought away, completely frustrated with himself.
*Dammit!* he thought ferociously. *What the hell's the matter with me?*

His gaze went reluctantly back to Ginny, stabbing him with guilt through her wide, serene
eyes.

“We'll talk…later,” was all he said, unable to totally reject her. Something inside him
moaned and writhed in irritation. *You know you don't love her, Potter*, came a voice that
sounded oddly like Malfoy's, *you're just leading her on*. He saw the hopeful smile
that flitted across her face, and guilt stabbed him in the gut. “Ginny - " he began again,
putting his hand on her arm to catch her attention. She turned back toward him, and her face was
only centimeters from his.

“Sweet Merlin, warn a person, would you?” came Ron's voice, as the portrait hole suddenly
swung wide. “I may never recover!”

“Sod off, Ron,” Ginny said amiably, even as she flushed a brilliant red. Harry felt heat fill
his own face, and he glanced at his other best friend, standing next to Ron, with her eyes going
back and forth from him to Ginny and a bland expression on her face. He wondered why he suddenly
felt as if he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't have.

“We can come back later,” Hermione said suddenly, clutching Ron's arm, as if to pull him
back out into the corridor.

“We most certainly can not!” Ron argued, pulling his arm out of her grip. “We aren't leaving
them in here alone!” Harry stepped away from Ginny, leaving a more obvious distance between them.
Hermione looked like she'd rather be anywhere else other than where she was.

“For the love of Merlin!” Ginny said irately, throwing her hands up in the air. “There's -
we're not - he - we don't have to explain ourselves to you!” She let out a kind of shriek
of annoyance and disgust.

“We were just talking,” Harry mumbled quickly, finally glad to get a word in edgewise.

“We really ought to get to work,” Hermione said in a business-like tone, moving over to sit at
the desk laden with books.

Ginny looked inquiringly at Harry, who said, “McGonagall's given us an independent project
to do.”

“So you won't be in any classes?” She sounded rather disappointed. Harry felt guilty. How
many times had he lied to her? He shook his head. “Mind if I stay?” she asked, inclining her head
toward the sofa. “I'll be quiet.”

“Ginny, you can't,” Ron said quietly, “there's some…other stuff - the Order - erm…”
Ginny looked at Hermione, who was studiously tapping her quill into her ink bottle, and would not
meet the other girl's gaze.

“Harry?” Ginny said finally, looking at her erstwhile boyfriend. Harry looked pained.

“I'm sorry, Ginny. You can't stay.” Ginny inhaled a shuddering breath as she lifted her
chin.

“I see,” she said primly, squaring her shoulders and not meeting their eyes. “I guess I'll
see you around then.”

Harry and Ron both flinched as the portrait hole slammed shut. Ron and Hermione turned to look
curiously at Harry, who cleared his throat noisily and ignored his two friends, sitting down at his
desk, and opening the book he'd been trying to look at earlier.

“So…er, Harry?” Ron began.

“Don't want to talk about it, Ron,” Harry said in a monotone, keeping his eyes on the page,
but absorbing none of the words on it. He could feel rather than see Ron staring at him, and
finally heard Hermione hiss,

“Leave him alone.” Harry could not stop a smile from twitching at his lips. Did they really
think he was deaf?

“I think we ought to look for artifacts mentioned as being owned, especially particularly
prized, by Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. The horcrux would be something well-known, I think. Voldemort
wouldn't stand for second-best of anything,” Hermione said authoritatively.

“He was in Slytherin, you know,” Ron pointed out. “He might think himself right clever if he
made the horcrux from Gryffindor's old sock, while everyone was out looking for a
bejeweled…something or other.” Hermione rolled her eyes in a quite exaggerated fashion, and
retreated to her book in a huff.

There was silence for awhile, marred only by the rustling of pages and the scratch of
Hermione's quill.

“Rowena Ravenclaw had a pet Kneazle,” Ron said, apropos of nothing.

“Ron, that Kneazle would be over a thousand years old by now. There's no way that - "
Hermione began.

“Did I *say* that the Kneazle was a horcrux?” Ron asked, incensed. “No, I was just
remarking that Ravenclaw *had* a Kneazle. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Well, if you'd stick to the topic at hand, you'd - "

“I thought it was interesting…I thought *you'd* find it interesting, considering that
ill-tempered hairball you call a pet is half-Kneazle.”

“You leave Crookshanks out of this!” Hermione sputtered in outrage.

“Will you two give it a rest?” Harry finally said, his even voice cutting into their bickering,
but not betraying his annoyance. “Do you two ever *not* argue about anything? Is it some kind
of foreplay for you?” *Oops.* He hadn't really meant to say that out loud. Hermione
blushed to the roots of her hair, and resumed writing. Ron eyed him suspiciously.

“I'd better not find out that you learned what that is with my sister,” he said in what
would have been a menacing tone, if he hadn't looked so nauseated. Harry looked at him
dourly.

“I'm seventeen years old, Ron. Do you know any seventeen year olds who *don't* know
what that is?” Now Ron was refusing to look at him too. *Great.* “Okay, look, I'm sorry,”
Harry finally said, flipping a page with annoyance. “I shouldn't have said that, but I just -
" he trailed off as he saw what filled nearly the entire page: a finely done engraving of
Godric Gryffindor's sword. “Hey, look at this.” There was a caption at the bottom of the page,
highlighting the dimensions and details of the beautifully wrought weapon. “It says that the -
"

“Harry, give me your grandmother's brooch,” Hermione interrupted him in a trembling voice,
her eyes fixed on a page with something akin to horror.

“What? Why? Hermione, what are you on about?” Harry said, looking at her with curiosity and
concern.

“Please,” Hermione said, forcing herself to sound calm, even though she did not look it. “May I
see it?” Harry leaned over and passed the brooch to Ron, who handed it to Hermione. Both boys were
watching her with reserved expressions. She leveled her wand at it.

“Hermione - " Harry protested.

“*Finite Incantatem*,” Hermione said, and the brooch emitted a bright glow, which quickly
faded. She was staring at the jewelry in awe, and held it up for them to see. It was beautiful, a
bright silver, etched with blue accents. The raised “R” stood out in sharp relief, and the filigree
was vivid. Underneath the letter was a graceful engraving of an eagle in flight. “There was a
glamour charm on it... disguising it.”

“How did you know that?” Ron asked, mystified. In answer, Hermione held up the book she'd
been looking at, showing a picture of the very brooch she now held.

“It belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw.”

“How in the world would a brooch belonging to Ravenclaw end up in Harry's house?” Ron
wondered aloud. “Lupin said it was Harry's grandmother's. You're not related to the
Ravenclaws, are you?” The last statement was directed at Harry, who was thinking furiously, and did
not respond.

“Think, Ronald!” Hermione said sharply, and Ron was so caught up in the mystery that he did not
respond to her biting tone. She began to read from the book she held.

“'The Ravenclaw Brooch, known as `Eagleflight', had been passed down from mother-in-law
to daughter-in-law for generations. The magical etching was done by Eriseld Algernon, a master of
his craft, whose work has never been equaled. The brooch was displayed at the Ravenclaw manor house
until 1853, when it disappeared after the house burned down. It was never seen again.'”
Hermione looked at her best friends, her eyes shining with discovery. “Don't you see? Voldemort
must have found it. He tracked it down, and had it, and made it a - "

“You mean we've had the damned thing all along?” Ron groaned. “Why did Lupin talk about
Harry's - ?”

“Professor Lupin didn't say the brooch was Harry's grandmother's,” Hermione
corrected him. “He said, `Your grandmother's name was Rose.' He assumed that because the
brooch was in Harry's house that it belonged to Harry's family. And it had the glamour
charm on it. There was no reason that Professor Lupin would have recognized it.”

“So, how do we get rid of it?” Ron asked, eying the jewelry cautiously.

“We don't,” Harry finally said, speaking flatly. “It's not a horcrux.”

“Harry, how can you know that for sure?” Hermione asked.

“Everything fits, mate,” Ron echoed, backing her up.

“No,” Harry shook his head. “No, it doesn't. Think about it. Why would Voldemort take
Ravenclaw's brooch into my h - my parent's house? To make a horcrux with it. I don't
think he used it after my father or my mother's death. Dumbledore thought he made horcruxes
with significant murders. He was waiting for me. He was going to kill me and make a horcrux.”

“But you're not dead,” Ron pointed out, rather obviously. Harry gave him a “really?”
look.

“That's why it's not a horcrux,” Hermione said dully, looking a little disappointed. “By
the time he tried to kill you, he was weakened and defeated and couldn't have made the
horcrux.” She didn't mention Ron's theory that Voldemort hadn't been using the killing
curse at all. It seemed they were quite wrong about that after all.

“It was a brilliant theory, really,” Harry hastened to reassure her.

“But that's good, right?” Ron said, moving onto another tack. “If that horcrux failed, then
there's only six horcruxes. That means we've found them all.”

“No, I think there's another one. I think Voldemort used Nagini as the last horcrux, when
the brooch didn't work, after he came back. Dumbledore was wondering about the logic of using
something alive, but if it was a - a backup plan, then that makes more sense. Voldemort probably
felt that he *needed* seven - since seven is such a powerful number.”

“So we're back to square one, then?” Ron said gloomily.

“No, I think - " Harry turned back to his book, pointed at the engraving of the sword. “I
think - it's got to have something to do with Godric Gryffindor's sword. It's easily
the most well-known thing he ever owned.”

Ron and Hermione came over, and leaned over Harry's shoulder to examine the picture.

“But Harry, if that sword had ever been stolen - even removed from the headmaster's office
for a short time - it would have been noticed immediately. That kind of thing is just too big to
smuggle ou - " She stopped as Harry tapped his finger on the text at the bottom, and read what
he was indicating. “'The sword is over one meter long from pommel to tip, and the hilt is
elaborately carved and inset with rubies, chosen for their large size and near-perfect
clarity.'” She looked at Harry with awe in her eyes. “Rubies…” she repeated.

“It would be easy to smuggle a ruby out in your pocket, wouldn't it?” Harry said
thoughtfully. “Tom was Head Boy. He would have been in the headmaster's office any number of
times. Maybe - maybe he stole the ruby after his conversation with Professor Slughorn. Maybe he was
thinking, even then, of making one.” Hermione shivered suddenly.

“Let's go look at the sword,” she said abruptly.

“What for?” Harry and Ron said in unison.

“Hermione, if he took the ruby to use for a horcrux, then it's not there,” Harry finished
patiently. Hermione smirked at him.

“Don't you think it's brilliant? If he had just put it back? Who would ever think to
look for a horcrux - one ruby out of several - on a Gryffindor sword that was prominently visible
in the most guarded room of one of the most secure places in Britain?”

Harry and Ron gaped in amazement, and stood, wordlessly indicating that she should precede them
out of the portrait hole.

“And you think *you* should have been in Slytherin?” Ron said in an aside to Harry, open
admiration in his voice.

**TBC**

-->



4. The Burning of Hogsmeade
---------------------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART I: The End of the Beginning**

**Chapter Four: The Burning of Hogsmeade**

Harry, Hermione, and Ron walked with purposeful stride toward the Headmistress's office. As
they walked, Harry absently fingered the Eagleflight brooch that Hermione had returned to him. It
was odd, but he rather missed the tarnished, inelegant version of the jewelry, the one that he
thought was a small connection to his grandmother, albeit a false one.

“I guess I should…turn this in or something, shouldn't I?” He mumbled, turning the bauble
over in his hands.

“It *was* in your house, Harry,” Ron said, shrugging.

“But who knows who Voldemort stole it from?” Harry replied glumly. He shoved it back in his
pocket, feeling strangely discontented, knowing that the brooch did not actually belong to him or
his family.

They arrived at the gargoyle, which was in its now-customary place to one side, and mounted the
stairs. Hermione knocked decisively, and heard the Headmistress's obliging “Come.”

Professor McGonagall was seated at her desk, writing in what looked to be a gigantic ledger. She
arched her eyebrows in surprise when she saw the three of them.

“What can I do for you?” she asked politely.

“Please…Professor McGonagall…” Harry said, sounding a little hesitant. “We'd like to have a
look at Gryffindor's sword.”

“Certainly, Mr. Potter,” the Headmistress said smoothly. “You do know,” she began, hazarding a
guess as to why they were there, “that it has never left Hogwart's grounds, since Godric
Gryffindor himself left it to the school after his death.”

Ron flashed Hermione a triumphant look, and hissed, “See!” Hermione looked irritated, but would
not be baited into speaking out in front of their old Head of House. McGonagall made her way over
to the glass display case in which Gryffindor's sword hung, and tapped it with her wand,
muttering an incantation. The case sparkled gold, and disappeared.

“Take all the time you need,” she said generously. “I'll leave you to it.” And she was out
the door without another word.

“I told you it had never been out of here,” Ron said triumphantly, as soon as McGonagall had
gone.

“I never said it had been out of Hogwart's!” Hermione explained patiently, an undercurrent
of annoyance unmistakable in her tone. “I said it had been out of this office.” Ron glanced at her
for a moment, realizing that she was right, and looked crestfallen.

Meanwhile, Harry had ventured up to the case, and was examining the sword closely, running his
fingers down the shiny lettering on the blade. The hilt was exquisitely wrought, obviously molded
and carved by a master, and the inset rubies flared with deep fire. After a moment of hesitation,
he reached up and lifted the sword down, feeling the heft of it in his hand. He held it on both
sides of the pommel to be more thoroughly able to examine the hilt.

“How many rubies are there?” Hermione asked, coming closer.

“Six,” Harry said shortly. “But it looks like there should be one…back here.” He turned the
sword, and there was an unmistakable depression.

“Was there supposed to be one there at all?” Ron asked, looking curiously where Harry indicated.
“Would that make the sword…I don't know, sort of knobbly to hold?”

“Did you notice anything when you held it, Harry? In the Chamber?” Hermione asked. Harry gripped
the sword properly, and held it in a defensive stance, as he had when fighting the basilisk. He
shook his head.

“I'm not sure,” he replied, with some frustration. “But my palm fits right into the dip
though. If there had been a ruby there last time, I think I would have known.”

“But if there was another ruby, it would make seven. Wouldn't the artisan creating this want
the highest magical resonance possible? There's *got* to be one missing,” Hermione said.
“I just know it.”

“So maybe it's never been put back,” Ron mused. The other two turned to look at him. “Like
Harry said,” the redhead continued, obviously thinking aloud, “Tom stole the ruby at some point
during his seventh year, when he was Head Boy. Took it from the back and everything, so nobody even
noticed. And when he went back and met with Dumbledore, to ask for the Defense job - "

“ - he was looking for the chance to replace the ruby after he'd made it into a…” Hermione
breathed, having figured out where Ron was going, but trailed off before she said the incriminating
word.

“Where in the world would he have hidden it then?” Harry said. “We may know *what* it is,
but a ruby that size could be hidden anywhere.”

“Maybe he had another place in mind…like the snake being his backup plan,” Ron ventured. “What
other places did Gryffindor live? Maybe he put it there.” He managed to inject his voice with a
hopeful note, but all three of them looked more than a little dejected. If one counted
Hermione's brainwave about Ravenclaw's brooch, that made two failed attempts to find and
get rid of the final horcrux.

They stood in silence for a moment. Hermione finally said, “Well, let's go back up to the
common room. We can do some more reading before supper.” Harry replaced the sword on its hook, and
the display case shimmered back into view around it. From the front, the sword appeared in as
pristine condition as it always had.

“Yeah, let's go,” Harry said, jerking his chin toward the door and sounding somewhat
chagrined.

“Am I going to have to ask you the same thing I asked Minerva, Harry?” came a familiar old voice
that sent Harry's heart into his throat. He stood motionless for a moment, his spine rigid,
still facing the door. Hermione's hand reached out and gripped his forearm, quietly directing
him to turn. He did, and unwillingly lifted his eyes to Dumbledore's portrait.

“Professor,” Harry said in a ragged voice, after swallowing with difficulty. Dumbledore's
eyes seemed to shine as they always did, even from the limited abilities of oil and brush.

“It is good to see all three of you, alive and well,” Dumbledore said, quite sincerely. “And
doing quite well on your quest, apparently. You needn't be afraid to speak freely in here. No
headmaster of Hogwart's would betray you.”

“D'you think we're right then?” Harry asked, straining to keep his voice sounding
normal. “About the - ?” he nodded at the case.

“Quite a brilliant thought, actually,” the former Headmaster agreed. “Much more subtle than
using the entire sword, and much more subtle than I would have given Tom credit for. I knew Tom had
reasons for requesting the position of Dark Arts teacher. However, I did think that his motivations
were more far-reaching than merely wanting to gain entrance to my office.”

“We - we don't know where to look next, sir,” Harry said, his tone hopeful. Dumbledore shook
his head regretfully.

“You've done more in your quest than I could have ever hoped to, Harry, and, as always, you
seem to exceed my expectations. But I'm afraid I know no more than what we discussed last
year.” Harry shoulders slumped then, and Ron clapped him on the back lightly.

“Sir?” Hermione asked, and Dumbledore turned to look at her. “When we were here last, you were
asleep…”

“Yes. I believe I told Harry once that death was the next great adventure. As such, it takes
rest and preparation before one begins. And in sleep, there are answers. You should ask them, if
you can.”

Hermione, Harry, and Ron exchanged somewhat bewildered glances. Dumbledore was nodding, speaking
apparently to himself. “Ask… who, sir?” Hermione queried, once it was clear that Harry and Ron were
not going to ask.

“Yes, answers…those that sleep….” And before they could question him or comment further,
Dumbledore's snowy chin had tilted forward onto his chest, and he was asleep.

“He's just as barmy as he was when he was alive,” Ron said ruefully, and recoiled when
Hermione hit him in the arm, hissing something about respect and the headmaster and Harry.

Harry hung back at the doorway, as the other two proceeded ahead of him. He turned back, looking
at the large portrait of his headmaster, slumbering.

“Enjoy your adventure, Professor,” he said quietly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a dejected trio that made its way down to dinner that night. They had spent the remainder
of the afternoon poring over obscure old texts to no avail. On Hermione's suggestion, they had
returned to the library to gather more books, this time concentrating only on Godric Gryffindor.
They had spent the last hour or two making note of any place name mentioned in conjunction with the
Founder that seemed significant. Harry thought privately that they had pitifully little to show for
their research thus far.

Their conversation over their meal was stilted and nearly non-existent, as they felt uncertain
as to what could and could not be discussed.

“Research going badly, eh?” Ginny remarked, a little stiffly, as she sat down near them,
avoiding Harry's eyes studiously. Ron sighed and Harry shrugged, by way of response.

“We've sort of hit a dead end,” Hermione said, sounding like Luna Lovegood at her vaguest.
They sat in silence again, listening to the ripple of conversation around them, which seemed to
sound hollow and cavernous, quiet in the too-big Great Hall. Harry looked around him despondently.
He wanted to see the four House tables again. He wanted to see the Hall filled with students, even
the Slytherins. And suddenly he felt a fierce rush of anger toward Voldemort, righteous indignation
at what had been wrongfully and unfairly incurred, at the countless lives that had been changed or
warped or lost. *You have no right*, he thought vehemently, *and I'm going to see you
stopped.*

The double doors leading into the Great Hall opened to admit unexpected visitors for the second
time that day. They were not opened hastily or noisily, but still managed to attract the attention
of most of the admittedly smaller student body. A murmur began to swell in the Hall, when they saw
that it was former Professor Lupin and Auror Nymphadora Tonks. Harry saw Remus searching the
student tables with roving eyes, and stood to his feet, waving slightly to catch the attention of
his father's old friend.

“Everything's always about you, isn't it?” Ron snickered, much to Hermione's
disapproval. Harry shrugged casually, but looked grim.

“I'm playing the odds.” And those odds were on that anything out of the ordinary occurring
at Hogwart's - if he was present, and sometimes, even if he wasn't - had something to do
with him.

He met Lupin and Tonks near the top of the right side of the U, and Professor McGonagall joined
them from the staff table, accompanied by the new Deputy Headmaster, Professor Flitwick. Ron and
Hermione had swung their legs away from the table, like they were at the point of standing, but had
not actually risen from the table. They were watching the group anxiously.

“We came as quickly as we could,” Lupin said, managing to speak calmly, even though there was an
unmistakable manner of urgency about him. “We figured you'd want to know.”

“What's going on?” Harry asked grimly.

“Malfoy's escaped - " Lupin began, but Tonks made an angry noise, and he amended his
statement. “Well, he's been let go really. He - "

“Let *go*?” Harry said, speaking more loudly than he meant to. “Why in the name of the Four
Founders would anyone at the Ministry authorize his release after what he did - after - " The
fury that Harry now felt swelled up inside him, eclipsing his ability to verbalize anything
coherent, and he stumbled to a stop. Harry had masked his ire toward Malfoy well earlier, content
to give his fate over to the authorities in charge. He had given a statement after Dumbledore's
death, and that, in addition to Malfoy's suspect disappearance, had been enough for the MLE
department to swear out a warrant.

Remus was shaking his head. “Harry, nobody at the Ministry authorized it,” Tonks spoke quietly,
but her eyes were snapping with anger.

“Then, what - ?” Harry was at a loss.

“An aide was down at Malfoy's cell, asking him some questions. Malfoy was quite agitated and
uncooperative - " Tonks began.

“There's a big surprise,” Harry cut in dourly.

“He was quite insistent upon leaving, said that it was a matter of life or death, said that
things had not happened the way everyone thought, and it was imperative that he be released,” Tonks
continued.

“So the aide just took him at his word?!” Harry's voice was dumbfounded. “Who was this
idiot?” Lupin and Tonks exchanged unreadable glances. Harry looked back at Ron and Hermione, whose
attention, along with everybody else's, remained fixed on their discussion.

“We think Malfoy told him something else. Something that must have convinced him to let him
go.”

“Why don't you know for sure?”

“Malfoy Obliviated him,” Tonks said. “And didn't do a very good job at it, either. He must
have been in a bit of a hurry, because the first part of the conversation was still intact.
Whatever sealed the deal though, whatever Malfoy said he knew, or promised to tell, or promised to
stop….that's gone. All P - " she bit off whatever she was about to say suddenly.

Harry glanced at them suspiciously, and saw Remus's eyes dart over Harry's shoulder to
where his friends were sitting. All the information suddenly coalesced in his mind.

“Percy?” He said with complete incredulity. “*Percy* let him go?” Lupin got a strained look
on his face, as he gestured with one hand for Harry to lower his voice. There was a clatter and
some yelling behind him; when Harry turned, Ron was red in the face and shouting something, having
to be restrained by Hermione and Neville. His chair was overturned on the floor. They'd
obviously been able to follow the conversation closely enough to gather the general idea. Harry
winced. “Sorry,” he said, scrunching up his shoulders.

“Percy related to us what we just told you. Then the memory charm must have taken effect,
because he got a glazed look on his face, and said, `It's going to be too late, you arrogant
berk. Let me go. Don't you want it stopped?' After that, he seemed to come back to himself,
apologizing profusely, and saying he didn't know what happened next, but when he woke up,
Malfoy was gone. The cell had not been broken out of. Someone with the ward codes had keyed it with
his or her wand.”

“Why would Malfoy ask Percy, `Don't you want it stopped?'” Harry mused out loud.
“Percy's a prat, but as far as I know, he's not actually playing on the same team as
Malfoy.” His eyes flickered upward in thought. “Do you think something's going to happen -
?”

He was interrupted by Ron, who had finally gotten away from Hermione and Neville, and came
storming over to where they were standing.

“Are you serious? That - that - " Ron obviously could not think of anything bad enough to
say. “ - Percy let *Malfoy* go?” He was quite clearly furious.

“There's a lot we don't know yet, Ron,” Lupin said in a placating voice.

“Have you told Mum and Dad?” he asked. Lupin and Tonks exchanged pained glances, and Remus
nodded.

“They're at the Ministry now, with him. He's in custody,” Remus spoke the last sentence
hesitantly. “But only while we figure out what the hell's going on.” Harry clapped Ron on one
shoulder sympathetically, while his oldest friend's slouchy posture seemed to droop even more
than normal. “They've doubled the Auror watch around the school, in case Malfoy tries to come
here.” He shrugged with finality, indicating that he'd said everything he knew to say. “We
thought you'd want - we thought you deserved to know.”

Harry was once again struck by the difference in the way the adults seemed to be treating him.
The respect in Lupin's tone was one directed to a friend, an equal. He stuck out his hand.
“Thanks…Remus,” he said. “I - "

His hand clenched suddenly and sharply around Lupin's, the knuckles turning white, as,
almost immediately on the heels of his thought, came a sharp pain in his scar. Hermione stood from
the table in alarm, and rushed over to them, opening her mouth to speak. She was interrupted by
sudden exclamations and clamor from the other students.

“Do you see that?”

“What's doing that?”

“What's going on?” came various voices, intertwining and mingling together. Hermione's
gaze followed their stares and pointing fingers to the enchanted sky of Hogwart's, near what
was supposed to be the horizon. She dimly registered the fact that the sky seemed to be lightening,
but did not stop to wonder at it.

As she reached his side, Harry grimaced, as the pinprick of pain grew into a stabbing blade. He
clenched his teeth together, and dug his fingernails into Lupin's hand. His old professor had
placed his other arm around him, as Harry's knees buckled. Spots danced before his eyes; he was
going to pass out.

*Now…* came a hiss that wasn't from him, bouncing around inside his skull, and
ratcheting the pain up to another level entirely. *Now…*

“Harry?” came Ron's concerned voice. The agony flared inside Harry's head like white-hot
flame, and he thought for a moment that his head would literally explode. He released Lupin's
hand, and brought the heels of both hands up to each temple, hoping to somehow equalize the
incredible pressure being brought to bear on him.

“Ron…Hermione…” he tried to say. He must have made some unintelligible gasping noise, because
now some of the students were starting to notice him rather than the orange glow tinting the
enchanted sky.

“His scar's bleeding again,” Hermione said, not to Harry, but to Ron. Distantly, clouded by
pain, Harry was aware of stinging liquid trickling into his eye.

*Now…*the malevolent voice said, and Hermione and Ron exchanged looks of frightened
bewilderment. Harry wondered dimly if he'd spoken out loud.

“Somebody get Madame Pomfrey!” Someone - McGonagall? - cried out.

“I'll go,” someone that sounded like Neville cried., and Harry heard a crash of cutlery and
dinnerware. Then he was on the floor, folded over his knees, with Lupin, Hermione, and Ron kneeling
beside him.

The pain began to subside slowly, although a dull prodding ache remained. Hermione watched as
the glassiness began to fade from his eyes. Harry looked up at the enchanted ceiling, where the
orange horizon had grown even brighter. It almost looked like dawn, but everyone knew that all was
darkness outside. *Dawn may never come*, Harry thought grimly, and when he looked around, he
was startled to realize that everyone in the Great Hall, even the teachers, some of whom had been
heading for him when the fit had ended, was looking at him, but not in fright. For direction. For
answers.

Pain roiled through his head like a relentless wave, and he lifted his eyes, with effort, to the
ceiling. He could almost hear Hermione's lecturing voice in his head, “The ceiling's
enchanted to look like the night sky. I read it in *Hogwart's: A History*.” Whatever was
causing the ominous glow on the enchanted ceiling was also actually occurring somewhere outside, he
knew.

Three Aurors hurtled into the Great Hall, breathing heavily, obviously panicked, but Harry spoke
before they could, raising his voice to project it throughout the Hall.

“Hogsmeade is burning,” Harry said, his mouth pulled into a grim, taut line. His eyes looked
hollow and cold, drawn with the unpleasant resignation that the moment he had been dreading - for
his entire life, it seemed - had finally and irrevocably arrived. “And *he* is here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Great Hall was in a tumult. McGonagall and Lupin barked out orders, while Hagrid herded the
few fourth and fifth years out a side door, while most protested vehemently. There were preset
portkeys that had been arranged for just this eventuality.

Harry had the key leaders of the D.A. circled around them, as he tried to give them some kind of
instruction. Most of them looked grimly determined, although Susan Bones in particular wore a
perpetual look of wide-eyed fright.

“There are Aurors already down in Hogsmeade, and there are sure to be more on the way. Maybe the
Order as well,” Harry said. “I want you to go where the Aurors need you, and look to Ron for
directions.” He and Ron exchanged a glance, and he spoke again to ward off Ron's protest. “You
know strategy, Ron. Have I beaten you in a chess match yet?”

“Harry - " Ron began, trying not to state the obvious fact that a battle and chess were not
exactly on the same level. “Where will you be?”

“I'm coming with you…for now. But I don't know how long I'll - " He stopped
speaking, and quickly pulled Ron and Hermione aside. The other D.A. members began to murmur among
themselves, with Ernie MacMillan taking the forefront in an unintentionally pontificating way.

“You mean before you have to fight Voldemort, don't you?” Hermione asked, her voice low and
urgent. Harry nodded, and watched her swallow with difficulty.

“He's here, Hermione. I can - I can feel it. We've been waiting for six years, and this
is it.” He took a deep breath, as if to let the reality sink in. “This is it.”

“But the - the horcrux - " Hermione stammered, almost inaudibly. Harry sighed, looking
downcast.

“We knew this might happen. If only he'd gotten to replace that ruby,” Ron said with
chagrin.

“At least we're buying time. Look what happened to him the last time. It took him years to
come back, and that was with additional horcruxes,” Harry said, trying to be positive. All this did
was cause Hermione's eyes to well up with tears.

“Har-ry,” she said, in a kind of hiccupy way, and threw her arms around his neck. He returned
the embrace, and the teenage boy part of him that wasn't preoccupied with the imminent
possibility of death relished how delicious she felt in his arms.

“Erm..” Ron cleared his throat, but did not look terribly upset. He and Harry looked each other
directly in the eye, their long friendship speaking without words. They clasped hands, nearly at
the wrist, and shook.

“Here's to the deaths of evil Dark Lords,” Ron said flippantly.

“You've got it,” Harry rejoined, while Hermione emitted an exasperated sigh.

“*Honestly!*” She had begun, when Lupin approached them.

“The Order's arrived. We're marching on Hogsmeade. Are you ready?” The trio nodded. “We
didn't get a chance to discuss your wandless magic, Harry,” Lupin was speaking rapidly.
“Concentration is important, Harry, but I think the pressing *need* to do it carries even more
weight. You weren't thinking about that door at Godric's Hollow at all, but Ron was
annoying you. You felt the urge to fix the door so he would stop trying.” Ron and Harry exchanged
rueful glances. “If you are somehow disarmed, you'll need to call on your emotions, more so
than your concentration on the specific spell.” Harry nodded gravely, drinking in all Lupin was
telling him. “Can you and Ron be in charge of the student fighters?” he asked.

“We'd already discussed that, sir.” Lupin's lips twitched in something like
approval.

“Good!” he said with an air of finality, and then raised his voice to address the occupants of
the Great Hall. “There will be specific persons with portkeys that will take you to the hospital
wing, should it become necessary. To signal these people, have your wand send up white
sparks….*white sparks*…” he repeated. Everyone nodded, their faces deadly serious.

Ron spotted red hair in the crowd of new arrivals at the back of the Great Hall.

“Mum! Dad!” he cried, making his way toward them. Hermione, Harry, and Ginny followed as well.
Mr. Weasley's robes had ash on the shoulders, and Mrs. Weasley's hair was dimmed by soot.
They had obviously just Flooed in from the Ministry.

“Percy?” Ron stammered, a question in his voice. Mrs. Weasley waved one hand dismissively, as if
to say “we'll discuss it later.”

She then enfolded all four of them into successive embraces, while Mr. Weasley shook Ron's
and Harry's hand in a very man-to-man fashion. His eyes gave him away though, as they glistened
with emotion.

“I know you're all going to do me proud today,” he said abruptly, and went to find Lupin.
Ginny and Hermione exchanged misty glances, while Ron and Harry looked intently at their shoes.

“Do be careful,” Mrs. Weasley pleaded. “I'm going to be assisting Madame Pomfrey in the
hospital wing. I'd really rather not see any of you up there.”

“Yes, ma'am,” they replied.

“Except for you, Ginevra Weasley,” her mother continued cheerfully.

“What?” Ginny was uncomprehending.

“I can't do anything with those three, since they're of age. But you aren't, and
you're going to assist in the hospital wing.” Mrs. Weasley's tone brooked no argument.
Ginny looked simply furious.

“You've - you've been planning this!” she accused, and Mrs. Weasley did not deny it.

“Why else would I have had you learning healing charms this summer?” Ginny opened her mouth to
argue, but Mrs. Weasley cut in, saying gently, “Not every fight is on a battlefield, Ginny.
You're going to be needed, and you can do a lot of good.” Ginny closed her mouth with a snap,
then opened and closed it again, but saying nothing. She was clearly at a loss. She looked at Harry
a little wistfully.

“All right,” she conceded, then turned to give Ron and Hermione hugs. She bussed Ron on the
cheek. “Be safe,” she said, her words simple, but her emotion heartfelt. She turned to Harry and
hesitated. Harry looked uncomfortable at her feelings for him, which were shining out of her
beautiful eyes. “You too,” she whispered, as he lifted his arms to enbrace her. He darted a quick
glance at Hermione, and kissed Ginny lightly at the corner of her mouth. He was feeling oddly
guilty, but he wasn't sure if it was because he didn't have the guts to tell Ginny the
truth, or because he had kissed her in front of Hermione, or because he *cared* at all how
Hermione felt about the whole thing.

“You take care,” he replied.

And then Lupin and McGonagall were calling out to everybody that it was time to go.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Death Eaters were firmly entrenched in Hogsmeade, a large percentage of which was already
ablaze. It was impossible to tell where the fire had started, but when Harry saw the roof of
Honeyduke's fall in, sending a plume of sparks upward, and the more distant glow of what could
only be the Shrieking Shack burning, he knew that the fire or fires had been set with a purpose.
The Shrieking Shack could not have caught fire from the other buildings, and now the secret
passages from Hogwart's were blocked.

As the Aurors, Order members, and students crept into the woods flanking the back streets of
Hogsmeade, Harry could hear cries of fear from townspeople, along with angry rejoinders from the
Death Eaters. He felt the familiar thrum of anger buzz in his ears over the crackling of the
flames, and swore once again to himself that Voldemort would pay. He had spoken brave words to
Hermione, but a trickle of doubt seeped into his mind. Did he know what would happen if he defeated
Voldemort without the destruction of the final horcrux? *Do I know whether or not I can defeat
him in the first place?*

Somewhere in the woods, a twig snapped loudly, someone swore, and a voice from the town said,
“Someone's out there!” Harry was close enough now to feel the heat from the burning buildings,
and looked up at the trees worriedly, wondering how long it would take for them to ignite as
well.

There were shouts and cries just a short distance away, as Death Eaters were dispatched to
investigate the source of the noise. Harry, Hermione, and Ron were in a loose clump with some other
members of the D.A. Someone stood, wand out, and Harry frantically gestured for them to get back
down, shaking his head vigorously. There was no need to give away their position until things got
more out of hand.

Harry felt the talisman in his pocket vibrate, and knew that to be the signal to advance. Lupin
had given them out at the door to all of the “Captains”. Ron had gotten one as well.

“We want to take them unawares, if possible,” Lupin had said. “They've got us by numbers,
and we don't yet know what their objective is.”

Harry rose to his feet, along with Ron, and he inclined his head toward the town, indicating
that the others should follow him. Twilight was now nearly full dark, and Harry could be seen as
only a silhouette against the darker outlines of trees, backlit by the growing inferno.

Lupin had wanted them to cut off access to Hogwart's, assuming that to be their goal, and
Harry couldn't help but appreciate that the Death Eaters, in their zeal to prevent back-up from
arriving from Hogwart's had cut off some of their mobility as well.

“We need to set up directly behind these buildings,” Harry whispered to the small group. “Lupin
said he was going to try to cut them off at the road. We need to make sure they can't get onto
the grounds through the woods. We should have two there, and there, and three there, and there,” he
pointed toward buildings that were not yet aflame. “Watch out for the fire.”

The D.A. began to disperse, and Harry turned toward Lupin's position, wanting to place
himself the closest to that end of town.

“Harry, where are you going?” Hermione hissed. He jerked his head in his intended direction, and
she responded, “I'm coming with you.” He shook his head at her.

“Go with Ron,” he ordered.

“You need someone with you,” she replied stubbornly. “Besides, Ron's already gone.” Harry
looked over her shoulder in the darkness, barely able to make out the uneven outlines of buildings
that had people crouched near them. Ron had melted into the blackness, taking up his indicated
position with Seamus Finnegan and Luna Lovegood. Harry wondered how he and Hermione always seemed
to end up in these situations together, and wondered if, in fact, Ron had come to expect it too,
perhaps without even realizing he did so.

He hesitated again, when he heard more shouts and cries, as wand light began to flash rapidly. A
hex must have hit the building nearest to where they were standing because it began to rumble
ominously, already weakened by fire.

“I'm not taking `no' for an ans - " Hermione said firmly, even as her eyes darted
around anxiously. Ginny had acquiesced to his wishes and accepted his point of view on things
without much fight. She had probably thought she was doing him a favor, but Harry wondered
fleetingly that, if she had fought, had stubbornly insisted on accompanying them, if things might
be different now.

“This is not the time or the - " Harry began, but Hermione called out over the whining of
bending wood and the grinding shriek of falling stone.

“Get down!” She pushed him into a depression in the ground, just on the border of the treeline,
and fell on top of him, as the building collapsed.

There was a tremendous thundering roar, as the flames, which had been previously trapped inside
the attic of the building, surged upward into open air, devouring the sudden abundance of oxygen.
Hermione stood up, flexing her fingers, as she rubbed her bleeding palm against her jeans. She
offered her other hand to him, and he grasped her fingers, and stood, marveling at how small her
hand seemed in his.

“Sorry about that,” she said, self-consciously.

Some of the trees had started to burn, and Harry saw with horror that white sparks had shot up
from somewhere further down the D.A.'s line. He could no longer see the shadowy outlines of
people, and figured that they had already begun making their way down the alleys toward the main
street running through Hogsmeade.

“What are they playing at?” he murmured in frustration. “They've got to know that we're
here. What's going on?” He felt a hand on his shoulder, with pressure behind it, as Hermione
indicated wordlessly that he should get down. She knelt behind him, her hand warm and reassuring on
his shoulder, and her form close enough to him that he could feel the heat radiating from it.

“Wha - ?” he started to say, turning back to look at her. Her face was all in shadows, except
for her eyes, which shone in the orange light, reflecting dancing tongues of flame. She shook her
head, and drew her wand.

A cloaked Death Eater ventured slowly toward them, separating from the shadowy black outline of
an adjacent building. Harry had only just located him, and he had apparently not seen them at all,
when Hermione felled him neatly with a non-verbal Stupefy, leaning over Harry's shoulder.

“Good show!” Harry said, in the heartiest whisper he could muster, turning toward Hermione
suddenly. They both froze, as their faces were only millimeters apart. Harry's heartbeat
increased to a frenetic pace, and he suddenly thought that his heart was in his mouth; it would
explain, at least, why he was unable to swallow. *This is not the time, not the time, not the
time!* A voice inside his head exclaimed furiously, seeming to speak more rapidly and
insistently as it realized that it was going to be ignored.

Hermione's eyes were large and luminous in the light, and Harry felt, rather than saw, a
tremor run through her like quicksilver. He leaned almost imperceptibly closer, and he thought she
did too. And she wasn't resisting, she wasn't backing away, she wasn't doing any of
those things…and why wasn't she? He couldn't understand, but he couldn't make himself
stop, and… had a lifetime gone by in these few seconds?

*Ron!* Something in his mind said very loudly and suddenly, and whether it was fatigue, or
his own guilty conscience, he didn't know, but his knees gave out at that moment, and he fell
abruptly onto his arse. Hermione had been leaning on his shoulder still, and fell over his lap,
with a soft “oof”, her hands not quite preventing herself from plowing face first into soft
earth..

She scrambled away from him then, as he'd half-expected her to earlier, and whatever
unspeakable, intangible thing that was trembling between them had snapped. She ran dirty hands over
an even dirtier face, and looked as adorable as he'd ever seen her. *This is* **not**
*the time for this, even if she wasn't your best mate's girlfriend*, Harry thought,
unbearably frustrated, and extremely annoyed with himself to boot. *It's the bloody Final
Battle,* *and I'm behind a burning building trying to get a snog?*

Hermione stood up, dusted her hands off on the back of her jeans, and held a hand out to Harry,
much as she had just a few moments earlier. He stood as well, and Incarcerous-ed the Death
Eater's prone form. Behind Hermione, towards Lupin's end of the line, white sparks shot up
like a shower of stars.

*Why aren't the Death Eaters pressing their advantage?* He wondered again, and a voice
behind him said,

“Expelliarmus.” Two wands flew into the air, and landed neatly in an outstretched hand. Harry
couldn't make out any features, but he would know that slick cultured voice anywhere.

*Concentrate on the emotion. Concentrate on the emotion,* Harry chanted to himself. He
thought of how much he had always loathed Draco Malfoy, thought of him cornering Dumbledore on the
Astronomy Tower, an injured, disarmed Dumbledore, and how even then, *even then,* Malfoy
didn't have the - contempt suddenly replaced Harry's anger, and he didn't know if that
would work as well, but he thought *Petrificus Totalus* anyway.

Malfoy's arms and legs snapped to his sides, and he fell over, bouncing rigidly to the
ground. Hermione had retrieved their wands in the next instant, and Harry was kneeling on the
ground, both fists wound in Malfoy's cloak, his teeth bared in a grimace, his nose only inches
away from Malfoy's.

“Give me one good reason,” Harry panted, “why I shouldn't kill you now.” Malfoy's eyes
were wild and staring. Every muscle in his face was tense and unmoving, yet Harry somehow got the
uncomfortable impression that Malfoy was desperately trying to tell him something.

Hermione deftly relieved Malfoy of his wand, and cast a Muffliato spell. “Let him go, Harry. See
if he can tell you anything worth knowing first…then you can kill him.” Harry looked at her with
some surprise, but if she was acting, she was doing a fine job. Her lips were drawn into a tight
line, and her eyes were hooded, shadowed under lowered brows.

“Finite Incantatem!” Harry said, and Malfoy immediately began to struggle, thrashing out at
Harry in an attempt to rise. “Be still, you idiot. Nobody can hear you anyway.” Malfoy stopped
fighting, but managed to pull himself to a sitting position, dusting earth and dry leaves off of
his robes, with what was left of his regal demeanor.

“Accio wand,” Malfoy shouted suddenly, and his wand shot into his hand. Harry was caught
off-guard, and took a couple of steps backwards, as there was suddenly a clumsy, unpracticed thrust
into his mind.

*H**ex* *me*, the voice said, *and make it look good.* He looked at Malfoy
in astonishment, and his eyes were wide and uncomprehending.

“What the hell…?” he said, dazedly. Malfoy's sneer deepened. He pushed harder into
Harry's mind, and Harry brought one hand up to his temple, unaware that he was even doing
so.

*HEX* *ME*, came the voice, more vehemently, *or do I have to do something to your
little mudblood girlfriend first? I could…*

Harry hit him with a low-level reductor before Malfoy could make up any details. The spell
caught him on the jaw, and landed him on his back. Malfoy opened and closed his mouth a couple of
times, as if testing it, and then, as quick as wandflash, he was back on his feet, and had tackled
Harry to the ground. He could vaguely hear Hermione's voice, low and urgent in the background,
demanding to know what the hell he was doing.

“We don't have a lot of time,” he hissed in a low voice. “He's watching us, but he
can't hear us. We've got to look like we're fighting.” Harry struggled under
Malfoy's tight grip, finally managing to get his wand arm free, but Malfoy dodged his next
hex.

“Give me one good reason why I should believe you. Why'd you use Legilimency if he can't
hear us?” Malfoy charmed a length of wooden beam to attack Harry, which bloodied his nose, but
Harry kicked his legs out as he fell, and knocked Malfoy down as well.

“There was no reason for me to speak to you. It would have made him suspicious,” Draco panted.
“There's someone waiting for you at the Shrieking Shack.”

“It's burnt down,” Harry countered, grunting as he rolled to miss Malfoy's fist, and
scrambling to aim his wand.

“He's guarding the tunnels to Hogswart's, underneath the house. You know what's
going on, don't you? The Dark Lo - *he's* waiting for you….where he was before. The
Death Eaters have orders to hold Hogsmeade, nothing more. They're going to destroy the town,
and pick your people off one by one…unless you go now…and end this.”

*Don't you want it stopped?* The words echoed suddenly in Harry's head. Percy's
half-Obliviated conversation made sense now. They faced each other, wands out, breathing heavily,
and seemed unsure what to do next.

“Why should I believe you?” Harry asked wearily.

“I can't give you a reason,” Draco said, as imperiously as ever. “But the fact remains that
I'm telling the truth. You can take it or leave it, while more of your friends die.” As if his
words were prophetic, Harry saw white sparks blaze a silvery trail into the blue-black sky.

He kept his wand trained on Malfoy, mindful of watching eyes, but said, “All right.” His very
expression was resignation personified.

“Follow me,” Malfoy hissed, and sent a Stupefy zinging past Harry's ear, and vanished into
the woods. The curse hit a tree branch with a loud crack, and Hermione shrieked as she tried to
dodge it. Harry had almost forgotten she was there.

“Hermione!” he cried out suddenly. She was climbing slowly back to her feet, twin lacerations
across her cheek, where the branch had lashed her as it fell.

“I'm okay. We've got to hurry,” she said wildly, gesturing toward where Malfoy had
disappeared.

“He's probably taking me to a trap. It could be a trap. Just like Cedric…” he said, trailing
off.

“It may be utterly stupid, but I believe him, Harry,” Hermione said, looking him straight in the
eye. “He could have just showed up and lured you to chase him there. He didn't have to tell you
all that.” Harry had to admit that she had a point, but he still gave her a dubious look.

“I have every intention of going,” Harry said. “But that doesn't mean that I trust Malfoy
further than I can throw him. And you're *not* going,” he said, as Hermione opened her
mouth to say something else.

“Harry James Potter, I'm not leaving you now!” she said passionately, and kissed him full on
the mouth. His eyes widened for a moment, and then slid shut, as his stomach dropped into his
knees. Almost immediately the kiss was over, and Hermione was running one hand self-consciously
across her mouth.

“What was that for?” he asked, stunned.

“You're all dirty,” Hermione said, wrinkling her nose and deliberately misunderstanding him.
“We should go,” she said regretfully, as if they'd been standing there for hours, instead of
seconds.

“Yeah…” Harry said, looking wistfully at her mouth. He couldn't think of anything else right
then, not Ron, not Ginny, not the logistical impossibilities they faced.

“Harry - " she began, breathlessly, but then stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing. Let's go.” They clasped and released hands quickly, and took a zigzagging track
into the woods, where they melted into the darkness as completely as if they'd never been there
at all.

**TBC**

-->



5. Journey's End
----------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART I: The End of the Beginning**

**Chapter Five: Journey's End**

Harry and Hermione moved in an erratic, zigzag course through the forest between Hogsmeade and
Hogwart's, trying to head in the general direction of the Shrieking Shack. Harry seemed to be
making for the dull orange gleam that was probably what was left of the “most haunted building in
Britain”. Every now and then, some distance ahead of them, there was a spray of light from a wand.
Hermione thought that it must have been Draco, both helping them find the way and maintaining the
illusion that they were dueling.

Harry obviously thought the same thing, for he was shooting hexes harmlessly into the trees at
random intervals. They were moving at an easy jog, and it was a minute or so before Hermione
realized that they were still - again? - holding hands. She guiltily thought of Ron, and squirmed
her fingers a bit. She couldn't tell if he'd glanced at her in the dark, but she felt his
sudden involuntary movement toward her, which he quickly checked.

He let go of her hand, and she felt bereft.

Behind them, Hogsmeade was lit in a brilliant blaze. Distantly, he heard cries of warning, sharp
incantations, and exclamations of surprise or pain. White sparks shot up from two different places
simultaneously. The battle appeared to have heightened in the few moments since their
departure.

She felt him hesitate.

“Hermione…” he said, and in that one word - her own name - he managed to convey all of the
uncertainty, the fear, the guilt, and desperation that he was feeling at that precise moment. They
were two of the best combatants at Hogwart's - he had taken the place of an actual Defense
teacher their fifth year! - and here they were, abandoning their mates at a time when they were
sorely needed, to follow Draco Malfoy on an improbable quest into the Shrieking Shack.

He heard the soft smack of her lips, as she parted them to speak. Her fingers groped toward him
in the dark, and caressed his in a gesture meant to reassure. He sent another curse into the
treetops, and was pleased to see an answering flash, much closer to the fire. Some dried leaves
fluttered onto their heads, dislodged by Draco's misaimed spell.

“Don't think of it, Harry,” she said, her voice hoarse, and he knew that she knew and
understood the thousand and one thoughts ricocheting around his mind. “If Malfoy's telling the
truth…then how many lives will you be saving?”

“And if he's not?” Harry asked, as Hermione had known he would, his tone laden with
bitterness. They were at the edge of the trees now, and the dying orange light was more vivid now.
The Shrieking Shack was a shell of what it had once been - which wasn't much. The roof was
blackened and gone on one side, and pieces of charred wall stood unevenly, pointing up at the sky
like accusing fingers. The fire seemed to be going out on its own, though gouts of flame still shot
up occasionally from the gap in the roof…or else the person guarding the tunnels was keeping it at
a predetermined level. They approached the clearing around the house cautiously, wands out. Somehow
he and Hermione had joined hands again. *Damn.*

“You're not thinking like him, Harry,” Hermione said gently, feeling so glad that he was
completely incapable of processes that dark. “Voldemort's scared of you. He's not sure he
can beat you on his own, even though he gets some confidence from his horcruxes. He might not even
realize that most of them are gone. Why not take out as many people as possible at the same time?
And if - by some off-chance - you beat him, then he's still destroyed all the people close to
you.” Hermione spoke lightly, but her voice was tremulous.

Harry swallowed suddenly, watching her with eyes that seemed suspiciously moist. “I hope
you're wrong, Hermione,” he said. “And this at least reinforces my opinion that you
shouldn't come with me. If *anything* happens to you…” He stretched out a hand to cup her
cheek, but stopped, his eyes suddenly going to the ruined building. “There's Malfoy,” he said
suddenly, as the Slytherin tried to enter stealthily through a window, obviously keeping up the
illusion of enmity. Harry blasted an area just to the right of the window with a Reductor
curse.

“Let's go,” he nodded to Hermione, and she followed him. They entered through the same
window, stepping into a room that was hot and thick with smoke. Reflexively, they both began
coughing.

“At least the passageway is in the basement,” Hermione whispered gratefully. A spell shot past
them both, and shattered another window. Harry swore under his breath. They crept through the
downstairs rooms, stepping carefully. It was unbearably hot, and somewhere upstairs, fire still
crackled. Harry watched as a tongue of flame worked its way down the mostly charred stairwell, only
to stop suddenly at a point about halfway down. He grunted in satisfaction; he'd been right.
After burning the downstairs, the fire had been charmed to stay upstairs, probably after the person
guarding the passage arrived.

Now they were at the top of the stairs leading into the cellar. Harry thought of casting
“Lumos”, but decided against it, not wanting to give whoever awaited them any more of an advantage
than necessary. He felt Hermione's hand dig into his, as they began their descent, the stairs
beneath them groaning ominously.

Suddenly, a hand reached out between the treads of the stairs and grabbed his ankle, causing his
forward momentum to continue only with his upper body. His hand wrenched from Hermione's - she
shrieked his name and lit her wand - while he bounced end over end to the bottom of the stairs. He
impacted the cool earthen floor with his face, although he did manage to absorb some of the blow
with his outstretched arms. Something in his side crunched noisily as he hit the bottom step with
his midsection, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He had heard Hermione's cry as he fell, and
turned to look back up at her, his head swimming with the pain and sudden movement.

She was standing on the center step, her wand alight, staring at the foot of the stairs, but
over Harry's head in utter horror.

With growing dread, Harry turned to look at what had Hermione so stricken. He was not sure who
he *had* been expecting, but the person towering over him was not it; although now that he
thought about it, he wasn't sure why. Anger spurred him to his feet, though the mere actions of
moving and breathing sent stabs of pain through his torso. At least one rib was probably broken. He
spat blood into the hard-packed earth, and willed himself not to throw up.

He lifted his chin with as much cool defiance and controlled fury as he could muster, and
deliberately raised his wand. “*You.*” His voice dripped with menace.

“I do hate to spoil your fun, Potter, but unfortunately, you have little time for ridiculous
posturing.” The man was as implacable as ever, speaking as infuriatingly calmly as he ever did
while lecturing a Potions class. Did he not realize that the last time they saw each other that he
had *killed* someone, and Harry had tried, however pitiable those attempts might have been, to
kill him?

Harry stood silently, as he heard Hermione's soft footfalls on the stairs, and felt her
presence just behind him. His nostrils flared as he compressed his mouth tightly, the anger inside
him causing him to breathe more rapidly.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly, her voice velvety with concern. “Why are you hurting
him?” She asked Snape accusingly, and her tone had a quasi-hysterical note in it that she
immediately wished she could call back. She flattened her mouth into a thin line.

Snape read the situation instantly, and his mouth pinched upward in the approximation of a
smirk. “Oh, this *is* lovely,” he said sarcastically. Harry felt himself flush, as Draco
Malfoy crawled out from under the stairs, and loftily brushed dust from his robes. Why did Snape
have to take this… this *thing*…between him and Hermione, that neither one of them had even
begun to figure out yet, and make it something tawdry and sordid? “The Dark Lord will very much
enjoy having the girl Potter loves at his … disposal.” His insinuation was unmistakable, and Harry
felt his blood begin to roar at a fever-pitch in his ears.

“Really, Potter…I'd have thought you would know better than to bring someone so…important
along. Having her here will only serve to make you *weak*.” He spat the last word, his face
twisting into an ugly sneer. Harry felt Hermione draw closer, and he had a sickening feeling in his
gut that Snape was right. All Voldemort had to do was maim, torture, or threaten to kill Hermione,
and he would be lost, broken…and the hopes of the wizarding world would be lost and broken with
him.

“I'd think you'd be glad of that, then,” Harry said coolly, his white knuckles the only
betrayal of his surging emotions, as he gripped his wand tightly. The look on Snape's face was
one of utter contempt and loathing.

“And still you fail miserably to understand. How predictable…and pathetic,” Snape said. Malfoy
stood nearby, watching the conversation intently.

“How come you're not carting me off to see Tom?” Harry asked, arching one brow, trying to
call Voldemort the most disrespectful moniker he could think of. “Master would reward you pretty
well for that, I'd imagine. Aren't you worried he'll know you're talking to me
instead of AK'ing me on the spot?” His ire trembled beneath his words, and he struggled to
control it.

“Once you were in the Shrieking Shack, you were removed from the Dark Lord's ability to see.
There are powerful charms on this building…stemming, I suppose, from the years that wolf had to use
it,” Snape said, sounding almost civil until he began to speak of Lupin. Harry thought of Lupin,
fighting in Hogsmeade, and the anger rose up to stifle him.

He felt the brush of a mind against his, and slammed the doors to his consciousness closed with
all the force he could muster. He imagined gigantic steel portals shutting with a resounding clang.
Physically, he hadn't moved a centimeter. Snape looked grudgingly impressed.

“It would appear that you have at least attempted to follow the advice I gave you at our last
meeting,” Snape said, beginning to stroll coolly around the cellar. His black robes billowed behind
him dramatically. Harry just gaped at him, thoroughly astonished. The *nerve* of this man to
call their flight across the Hogwart's green firing curses and accusations at each other…their
last *meeting*? “Voldemort will be expecting us to arrive with you soon. We do not have much
time.”

*We do not have much time*. Harry fastened onto that phrase and tried to understand it.
Snape was still fighting against Voldemort? But where had he been? And why had he run? And *why
had he used Avada Kedavra on the only man that trusted him?*

“I suppose an explanation of sorts is in order, because it is imperative that you do as I tell
you,” Snape continued. “I was ensnared into an Unbreakable Vow by Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix
Lestrange before term last school year. To refuse the vow would have invited questions and perhaps
blown my cover. I confided this to Dumbledore, and we both began to watch Mr. Malfoy.” Harry's
surprise must have been transparently emblazoned across his forehead, for Snape turned to sneer at
him again. “Did you really think that *you* were the only person in the school to notice that
Mr. Malfoy was acting oddly? Your father had the same inflated opinion of himself, and it was just
as revolting then as it is now.”

“You leave my father out of this,” Harry interjected, his voice quivering with rage. “You
can't hold his actions in school against *him*, so you'll just hold them against me
instead?”

“Like you hold my house and my former affiliations against me?” Snape rebutted smoothly.

“I hold only your blatant prejudices against you,” Harry retorted, although he was not entirely
sure that Snape wasn't at least partially correct. The former Professor waved one hand
dismissively.

“I tried to gain Mr. Malfoy's confidence throughout the school year, and, though I guessed
much, I was not actually told anything. It was only when Professor Flitwick came to my office with
the news that Death Eaters were in the castle that I began to realize the full picture.”

“You didn't kill him,” Hermione cut in suddenly, remembering rushing in with Luna to help
their fallen Charms teacher. Snape looked at her contemptuously.

“Ten points to Gryffindor. And contrary to popular opinion, Miss Granger,” Snape said in a
scathing tone, “I do *not* enjoy drinking blood, sacrificing baby animals, or murdering
people.

“When I arrived at the Astronomy Tower, and saw the…tableau there, I knew then what Mr. Malfoy
had been told to do, and that he would be unable to do it.” He darted a quick look at Draco. “I
must confess I had had my doubts as to Mr. Malfoy's allegiances up until that point. Dumbledore
was dying already; it was quite obvious that he had ingested some kind of poison that was killing
him. We had already discussed the possibility of Draco being forced to harm someone - namely him -
and it was the Headmaster's opinion that my cover was more important than his life.” Snape
seemed to think the idea foolish, and Harry was reminded of Hagrid's report of their argument
over…something the headmaster wanted Snape to do.

“Your story is quite convenient considering that the only other party to it is dead!” Harry said
suddenly. But he remembered Dumbledore's final words, “Severus, please…” Harry had thought he
was begging for his life, but what if he'd been wrong? *Severus, please end this. I know you
can see the pallor of death on my face. We've discussed this. Death Eaters are watching. Your
ability to provide information is at stake. Severus, please…* Uncertainty flickered across
Harry's face, and he knew that Snape had seen it.

“Why did you run?” Harry asked abruptly, annoyed with himself. “If Dumbledore was so concerned
about your ability to feed information to the Order, why did you run? You certainly haven't
provided any information.”

“I sent Draco to you as soon as I had any information to send,” Snape said smoothly. Harry's
face was a mask of confusion.

“The - the Death Eater attack at Godric's Hollow?” he asked. Snape nodded as if it should
have been patently obvious. “He was … he was going through the desk…”

“He had placed a list of names and dates on the desk…information on the key Death Eaters inside
Voldemort's inner circle. Did any of you even look at it?” Harry and Hermione exchanged
bewildered looks. They had shrunk all their notes and carted them to Hogwart's. Had they even
looked through it in the last couple of days?

“He tried to duel me!” Harry accused.

“I was trying to get you to listen to me!” Draco said, speaking for the first time since
they'd arrived in the cellar.

“Disarming me after attempting to Stun me is not a way to get me to listen!”

“Did you ever stop to wonder why I tried to Stun you instead of just using the Killing Curse
right then?!”

“'*Potter belongs to the Dark Lord…we are to leave him!'”* Harry yelled suddenly,
the words ripping hoarsely from the depths of his throat, betraying all of his pain and anger in
one sentence, as he quoted from his battle with Snape. Something unreadable flickered in the dark
eyes of their former Professor. Harry felt Hermione's comforting hand on his lower arm. He felt
suddenly exhausted, trembling with fury and fatigue, and his left side was throbbing unbearably
with every breath he took.

“We've tarried here long enough,” Snape said, cutting into his and Draco's altercation.
“Draco is to take you to him.”

Harry looked at Draco Malfoy with the purest loathing. “Take me where?” he asked, with as much
attitude as he could muster. Snape glanced at him with some surprise.

“Why, to the Chamber of Secrets, of course. That's where he's waiting.” *Of
course*, Harry thought gloomily. A part of him knew that in the next few minutes his life would
most probably be over, and yet, there welled up inside him a fierce desire to live, not for
himself, but for the hundreds of thousands - maybe *millions* - that would be affected if he
failed. He was the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One… as much as he hated this nicknames, he was bound
by them, bound by people's expectations of him. He couldn't let them down.

*But the horcrux…the last horcrux…*he thought dismally.

As if reading his mind, although Harry had felt no intrusion, Snape turned suddenly and looked
at him sharply.

“The Dark Lord is wearing an amulet. He has confided to no one what exactly it is or what it
does, but he has been fiercely protective of it and quite secretive about it. I would be wary of
it, if I were you. Destroying it would most likely be … worth your while.” Snape's black eyes
darted back and forth across Harry's face, as if he were searching for something.

“This?” Harry said contemptuously. “This is what all the cloak and dagger was for? Spiriting me
down here to tell me that Tom has a necklace he really likes?”

Snape's eyes appeared to grow darker in the dim light, and his mouth turned downward
suddenly in an angry, angular slash. Harry could feel Hermione's hand on his arm, tugging
insistently at his sleeve. He looked over his shoulder at her, and her eyes were wide, as she
looked at him urgently, trying to wordlessly convey something to him.

*Horcrux…* the word swam through his mind and drifted away. Harry focused his attention
back on Snape.

“Is the amulet a gemstone? A ruby?” he asked brusquely, trying to repress the urgency that laced
his tone. Snape said nothing, but nodded once, slowly. Harry let a rush of air out through his
nostrils in a kind of relieved half-laugh. *Great…nothing to do now but destroy a Dark Lord and
his last horcrux that he is guarding at the same time!*

“Let's go,” Snape said. Without warning, Draco shoved Harry down to the ground roughly.

He made a kind of grunting “Nngh” sound as he tried desperately to keep his injured rib from
impacting the floor. He tore one knee of his jeans, and his cloak was smeared with dirt. Carefully,
and with much effort, he stood back to his feet, trying to keep his weight off of the knee that was
now swelling. His rib stabbed at him painfully, and he tried to take breaths without gasping out
loud.

“Mr. Malfoy!” Snape said in an exasperated way, in what Harry assumed was intended as some kind
of reproach.

“It has to look like I brought him in with a fight,” Draco explained coolly, although a smirk
played around the edges of his mouth.

“That would be easier to believe if you weren't enjoying it so much,” Harry shot back.
“Besides, if you really want me to prevail, starting me out with the disadvantage of being wounded
doesn't make much - NO!”

Draco had moved behind Hermione, and was preparing to throw her down as well. He looked up at
Harry's shout.

“Don't hurt her,” he said. “She's not going down into the Chamber with me - "

“Harry - !” she protested, but he overrode her interjection.

“—so you don't have to hurt her. Please.” His voice was calm, even though his insides roiled
at the thought of pleading with Malfoy for anything. Malfoy arched one brow at him.

“Have it your way, Potter,” he said, magnanimously, as if granting a favor. He raked his gaze
insolently over Hermione, taking in her dirty face, slashed cheek, and bloody hand. “She looks bad
enough all on her own, I suppose.”

Harry made an involuntary movement forward, which Hermione checked by replacing her hand on his
arm. “Don't fight him, Harry. You have rather enough to be worrying about.” She then addressed
the two nemeses that stood between them and the passageway to Hogwart's. “We're ready,” she
said coolly.

“Hermione, I said - " Harry began desperately, his eyes darting toward Snape and Malfoy. He
*really* did not want to have this conversation in front of Snape's dour countenance and
Malfoy's superior amusement.

“Harry, I can help you!” Hermione whispered urgently, moving her hand from his arm to his mouth,
to stem his flow of words. “You're going to need all the help you can get.” Harry turned his
head to one side, to speak again, and Hermione gasped slightly at the sensation of his lips running
across her palm.

“You can't help me, Hermione. You'd be a liability down there. Anybody would…but you
especially - "

“Why `me especially?'” Hermione asked quietly, looking hurt. He grabbed her arms just above
the elbows with both hands, and looked intently into her face, which remained in the shadows due to
the dirt and uncertain lighting.

“Hermione, don't you know that I l - " He blundered to a stop hastily, but not before
it was obvious to everyone present what he had been going to say. He cursed inwardly, as Malfoy
raised both eyebrows and rubbed his hands together in a sort of shocked glee. *I was never going
to tell her. I was never going to tell anybody,* Harry thought angrily.

“Granger, weren't you lusting after the Weasel all last year?” Malfoy asked, delightedly. “A
love triangle in the Golden Trio? How *dirty!*” He wrinkled his nose with mock amusement.
“This might give me another reason to hope you live, Potter. Although, if you've got the choice
between Ginny Weasley - " he made an hourglass shape with his hands and then gestured
dismissively toward Hermione, who'd stepped out of Harry's grasp and was staring into
middle distance, her chin lifted.

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry ground out through clenched teeth.

Snape was masking a yawn politely with one hand. “These adolescent intrigues have always been
quite tiresome, but never more so than now. For the *last* time, it is time you departed.” He
ushered them into the tunnel with one hand, Draco taking the lead with a lit wand. Harry and
Hermione came after, and Snape remained behind, guarding the passageway. Harry felt some measure of
relief that his great bat-like form would not be stalking behind them all the way to the
Chamber.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They stood in Moaning Myrtle's loo, staring at the sink in question. It was quite dark and
disconcerting, and somewhere in the cavernous-sounding place, water was dripping. Voldemort must
have closed the entrance after he entered to assure that only the lone Parselmouth in school would
be able to follow him down there.

“Come on, snakey-face, let's have it open,” Malfoy taunted, and Harry followed his
instructions. His heart had been pounding rapidly as they walked through the strangely abandoned
corridors of Hogwart's, but now, faced with his final destiny, he felt strangely calm. There
was a heavy grind of moving porcelain, as the entrance to the Chamber formed in front of them.
Hermione gaped at it in awe.

Harry moved toward the dark hole in the bathroom floor, when a breathy voice spoke from behind
them.

“Oh, hallo, Harry!” it said in delight. “It seems as if you are *always* following someone
down *there*. Though the little redheaded girl was a much *nicer* person to be running
after than this chap who's down there now,” the resident ghost shuddered dramatically. Harry
thought he felt Hermione stiffen a little next to him at the mention of Ginny.

“Hello, Myrtle,” Harry said politely.

“And *you!*” Myrtle's voice went up even higher, if that was possible. “I heard you
couldn't do it,” she said, disappointment tingeing her voice, as she looked fondly at Draco.
“That's *really* a pity, because you could have stayed with *me* after they excecuted
you! Do they still do that?” Her forehead crinkled, as she cocked her head inquisitively to one
side, her voice oddly light and bubbly, considering the subject matter she was discussing. Malfoy
was staring toward the sink, studiously ignoring her.

“Go on, Potter,” he said woodenly, jerking his chin at the opening.

“That's fine,” Myrtle said sulkily. “Ignore me now that you're no longer
*emotionally* wounded. Just forget about how I was *there* for you, when *no one*
else was!” She glanced back and forth between the two young men, and then flounced huffily off to
her U-bend. There was a loud splash, and then silence.

“You're not coming?” Harry said, some surprise leaking involuntarily into his tone. A ghost
of Malfoy's trademark smirk was back.

“You thought I was?” He asked, cocking one eyebrow. Hermione had moved up to stand with him at
the entrance to the Chamber.

“Hermione, stay here.” He said forcefully. She drew back in astonishment at his imperative tone.
He blinked at her, and added, “Please. Stay up here. If anything happened to you - and *he*
knows that…he can use it against me. Please.” She watched him for a moment, her eyes limpid.

“All right, I'll stay,” she said, even as she rather loathed the acquiescent note in her
voice. “But we're going to have *a lot* to talk about when you get back!” One side of
Harry's mouth quirked up in a half-smile, and he nodded at her.

Then he was gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At the bottom of the slick chute, he landed with a light splat into damp muck, much as he had
nearly five years ago. He came gingerly to his feet, his left arm cradled protectively around his
side, limping slightly. His knee felt stiff and sore. *Damn Malfoy for his ridiculous games. And
damn him for always hedging his bets.* *How typically Slytherin!* He knew that that was the
reason Malfoy had remained above…in case Harry lost, he could still pretend that he had always been
on Voldemort's side.

His scar began to twinge, and the pain quickly grew into a dull, throbbing ache, pressing
mercilessly against his skull as if something were trying to get out. Something like despair surged
up in him. How was he supposed to fight Voldemort - or anybody at all - handicapped thusly?

Shuffling softly, wand out but unlit, he made his way to the door with the entwined snakes, and
quietly hissed for it to open. The panels of the door slid to each side, and Harry found himself in
the Chamber. Instinctively, he kept to one side, stealing near the shadows of the pillars that
lined the main aisle, rather than walking in plain view.

“Mr. Potter?” came a high, blood-chilling voice. “So good of you to come.” He managed to make it
sound like he had invited Harry over for tea.

“Let's get this over with, Tom,” Harry said dully, putting a biting emphasis on the Muggle
name that Voldemort hated so.

“Taking a lesson or two from old Dumbledore, are you?” Voldemort said, with anger obviously
running through his tone. “*He* couldn't stand against me either!”

“We won't ever know that, will we?” Harry shot back, ducking around one pillar and peering
toward the statue of Slytherin. Where *was* he? “You didn't even have the guts to do it
yourself; instead you bullied a little Death Eater-in-training into doing it. And then Snape had to
save *his* arse. Some following you have, eh, Tom?”

A jet of light shot from somewhere ahead of him and to his right, and nicked the edge of the
pillar just above his head. Powdery rock sifted down onto him and stung his eyes. His scar
throbbed.

He shot a reductor curse, not in the direction of the light, but at the Salazar Slytherin
statue. A fold of his robes and part of his beard crumbled away, falling onto the damp stone with a
low rumble.

Voldemort laughed. “You're going to have to come out and face me eventually, Potter!”

Harry's next two curses misfired, which was no surprise since Harry still had no clear read
on exactly where Voldemort was standing. Voldemort's next hex stung the edges of his fingers,
which were clinging to a pillar, and caused him to drop his wand. It clattered noisily to the stone
pavement, echoes resounding around the chamber, and Voldemort chortled again.

*He's completely mad*, Harry thought in amazement, as he threw himself down to the damp
stone and scrambled for his wand. He could not stop a loud wheeze of pain as his knee and rib
protested mightily. Half-blindly, he searched, his numb fingers questing, until they finally closed
around a smooth wooden shaft. He breathed a silent sigh of relief, and crept around another column,
almost noiselessly.

And there! He could see the hem of Voldemort's robes, standing at the head of the Chamber,
partially obscured by Salazar's memorial. *I wasn't so far off with my reductor curse
after all*, he thought, and sent a non-verbal Incendio toward his archenemy.

The flame snaked across the floor as if following a fuse, but stopped short, as something blue
and shimmery swirled around Voldemort. *A shield…* Harry thought glumly.

Voldemort snapped his head in the direction from which the flame had come. A gout of green light
spewed from the end of his wand.

Harry jerked behind the relative safety of the stone column just in time.

The curse hit the column, which vibrated in protest with a dull roar. More rock bounced down
toward him, as Harry looked warily at the ceiling.

He leaned with his back against the column, and thought furiously. Voldemort was obviously in no
hurry, thinking - probably correctly - that he could take Harry out at anytime he so wished.

He darted suddenly from one column to another, throwing out Stupefy after Stupefy, as he did so.
He watched Voldemort's shield smoke and begin to fizzle, as the Dark Lord tried desperately to
get a bead on him. Green light shot almost continuously from his wadn, gouging out holes from the
paving stones and the surrounding pillars. Harry danced away from it, favoring his injured leg,
desperately trying to stay one step ahead of Voldemort's curses. The Chamber rumbled again, as
if in protest.

Harry had raised his wand again, hoping against hope that the shield had been dismantled by his
bombardment, when he heard it. He stopped still, wishing with everything that he had that he'd
been wrong.

But no, there it was again.

“Harry?” came a questioning voice, like she was looking for him in the library, instead of in
the evil Chamber of Snakes and Death, with the most feared wizard ever trying to kill him.

It was Hermione.

She was walking almost unconcernedly up the main aisle of the Chamber, in plain sight of
Voldemort, like she was taking a stroll out in the courtyard on a lovely spring afternoon. Her wand
was out, but down by her side. *Hermione, what the hell are you doing?* Harry thought
desperately.

Voldemort was watching her with undisguised and almost amused curiosity, and Harry felt hope
rise up in him again. *His ego is what Hermione is counting on.* Perhaps he could finish
Voldemort off while Hermione distracted him.

The two duelers raised their wands at almost the same time.

Voldemort was aiming at Hermione.

“NO!” Harry screamed out suddenly, the echoes bouncing hideously around the Chamber. He dashed
out from his hiding place, wildly fired off a couple of curses that bounced off of the still-intact
shield, and would have thrown himself in front of her, but Voldemort leveled his wand on Harry
instead.

“Reducto!” Voldemort said in a low, malevolent voice, and blasted out both of Harry's
knees.

Harry let out a blood-curdling scream of unadulterated pain, as his legs crumpled grotesquely
beneath him, and he skidded toward Hermione, his cheek coming roughly into contact with the damp
stone of the Chamber floor. His wand flew out of his hand into the shadows of the pillars
opposite.

Hermione was looking at him with unmitigated horror. Her wand was blasted from her hand by a
wordless spell from Voldemort, before she even had a chance to raise it.

She knelt down behind him, and he pulled himself up into a half-sitting position with his arms,
still managing to be in between her and Voldemort. His vision blackened around the edges, as he
dragged his useless legs behind him.

Voldemort regarded the two of them almost paternally.

“This has all turned out much better than I expected,” he said. “Now I get to kill you both.” He
looked at Hermione. “Yes, I know you quite well. His dreams are full of you? Did you know that?” He
then addressed Harry. “Did you think I couldn't sense your dreams…the disgusting dreams you had
about this filthy Mudblood? They were repugnant, pathetic… a symbol of everything that is wrong
about our world, but now… you get to watch her die.” He shrugged casually. “And then you will die
too, and the prophecy will be fulfilled. I would say you put up a valiant effort, but…” he trailed
off, his meaning unmistakable.

Harry felt Hermione shifting behind him, and wondered what she was doing, even as he hazily felt
her press something into his hand. It was hard and sharp, and small enough to cup in his palm.

It was slender, with two pieces of hard metal jutting out from the sides, near the top, like the
crossbars of a “T”. He felt blood drip into his palm, as the pointy end of it grazed his skin.

And then all at once, he knew what it was.

Voldemort was standing nearly over them now, looming menacingly, speaking loftily about blood
cleansing and a new order of things. Harry fought to stay conscious, cupping the precious object in
his hand, trying to concentrate on the spell that he would need. His lower back was flush against
Hermione's bent knees, and he felt her arms pressing against his back, helping him stay in an
upright position.

At that moment, Voldemort leaned toward them, and a large red stone swayed out from underneath
his robes, hanging from a heavy gold chain. It looked like the rubies from the hilt of
Gryffindor's sword, and yet did not, as cold fire swirled and roiled in its depths, almost as
if it contained something alive.

Harry concentrated, his brow furrowing, calling up magic from the deepest of his reserves. As
the force welled up within him, he felt the pain from his knees fade into the back of his mind. He
thought fiercely, *Engorgio!*

Voldemort stopped speaking, and looked at him, clearly not liking the sudden determination
shining from Harry's face. He raised his wand.

Harry clenched his hands around the pommel of Godric Gryffindor's sword.

Voldemort aimed carefully at Hermione, who blinked placidly at him, her face calm and unafraid.
Something else was shining from her face as well…something that he did not altogether understand,
and so was uncomfortable with…something that had beamed from Lily Potter's face like a beacon
on that Halloween night so long ago.

“Avada Kedavra!”

With strength he didn't know he still possessed, Harry raised the heavy sword, which shone
oddly in the otherworldly light, and blocked the jet of green light. The sword clanged like a gong
and shivered in Harry's hands. He felt the shockwave from the impact reverberate down into his
arms, and he grunted, feeling the searing pain in his legs beginning to surge back toward him like
a tidal wave.

Voldemort lifted his wand again -

It was as if a curtain had been lifted. Harry could see into his mind.

…he wasn't going to cast the Killing curse again. He was going to blast the sword -

He was afraid of the sword.

He couldn't protect himself from the sword.

The horcrux swung pendulously from its heavy chain, catching Harry's eye again.

Harry struggled to swing the sword higher, his arms trembling with fatigue. He suddenly felt
Hermione's arms go around him, her hands encircle his, and they both surged forward, Hermione
pressing into him from behind, holding him up, driving him forward.

The sword penetrated the amulet with a squelching noise, passed through it and into
Voldemort's breastbone. Red smoke began to hiss from the ruby, as Voldemort's eyes widened
with something like shock. Blood spattered across the floor of the Chamber.

Harry's scar glowed white-hot, and seemed to be branding itself anew into Harry's
forehead. He released the handle, as if it was burning him, and fell backwards onto stone, most of
his weight on top of Hermione. Hermione helped him sit, after a fashion, and pulled herself out
from under him. He felt her fingers thread through his hair gently.

Voldemort staggered backwards from them, the heavy silver sword still protruding from his body,
his eyes fixated with wonder on Harry's forehead. The amulet was hissing violently now, and a
faint, shrill scream issued forth, spiraling up toward the shrouded roof of the Chamber. When the
shriek had died away, there was a loud crack, and the ruby shattered into pieces that clattered
across the floor, rolling into silence. The heavy chain hung loose and empty around Voldemort's
neck.

But the older wizard still had his wand, and was struggling to make his fading body obey
him.

Harry watched him in horror, knowing that he had nothing left. His knees were screaming now in
blind agony, and he pitched forward from his half-kneeling position onto his face. His vision began
to cloud over, as he felt something sticky and warm seep through his shirt, and knew that he had
fallen into Voldemort's blood.

Green light flashed somewhere above his head, and he heard Hermione let out a short shriek that
was suddenly cut off. Rock bounced down around them, obliterating themselves on the damp
paving-stones of the floor.

*Hermione! No!* his mind screamed out, as the ceiling began to rumble, and that rumble
turned into a dull roar. The roof of the Chamber began to cascade downwards. Harry struggled to
lift his head again, saw Voldemort fall at the feet of Salazar Slytherin's statue. He did not
move again.

“Hermione?” he asked, clinging to consciousness with all that he had left. There was no answer.
He pulled himself around, turning himself in the opposite direction, where Hermione had been behind
him, his fingers bleeding from the abrasion with the stone floor. His fingernails were tearing away
from his hands.

He saw her slumped form in the middle of the aisle.

“Hermione?” he asked again, and his heart leaped into his chest, when he thought he saw her stir
ever so slightly.

He dragged himself toward her excruciatingly slowly, the pain making him nauseated and dizzy. He
belatedly realized that some of his difficulty might have been due to the destruction of another
horcrux. The ceiling continued to groan and shift, and every now and then, small pieces of rock and
dustings of powder tumbled down onto Harry's head.

Finally, he reached her side, and feebly shook her shoulder.

“Hermione?” he asked again, in a broken, despairing voice. There was a pool of blood beneath her
head. He wanted to scream, to cry, to demand of Voldemort that he take him too. He was too tired
for sobbing, and tears just leaked weakly out of his eyes, trailing damp dirty tracks down his
filthy face. She had brought him the sword. She had risked her life - perhaps given her life - to
destroy the darkest wizard of all time. He had won…but the victory was bitter as ash in his mouth.
He didn't want to win, if the cost was her life. *You can't ask it of me,* he thought
bitterly, railing at Fate. *The price is too high.*

The beleaguered Chamber finally decided that it had had enough - Harry wondered dimly if it had
anything to do with the death of the last of Slytherin's line - and the ceiling caved in
completely.

Harry pulled on the last of the magical reserves he had, and extended a Protego around Hermione.
He tried to put it over him as well, but wasn't sure he had enough power to do it. He reached
out for Hermione's hand, as the rocks rained down around them, a death knell for an evil place,
an evil man, an evil age.

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly as he gave in to the gathering darkness that had been
waiting to claim him.

**TBC**

**AN:** Please review! I liked this chapter okay, but I have a terrible feeling that I suck
at battle scenes. So if you liked it, let me know. Or if I was right and it did suck, you can tell
me that too, but I can't promise to like that as much.

-->



6. Aftermath
------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART II:** **The Interim**

**Chapter One: Aftermath**

Ron and the rest of the D.A. had fallen back, regrouping with Lupin and the aurors to block the
way to Hogwarts. Hogsmeade was an inferno, and even the Death Eaters were having to emerge from the
flames. Ron looked grim, and dashed blood from a cut across his forehead out of his eyes.

He looked up the path to the dark, abandoned castle, imagining that he could see the light of
the hospital wing. He saw other fighters begin to take positions along the stiles and trees
adjacent to the road. It looked like their last stand would be here.

“Are you all right?” he asked Luna Lovegood, who had been his partner during the battle in
Hogsmeade. Seamus Finnegan had been with them as well, until an injury had forced him back to the
hospital wing.

“I'm okay,” she whispered back, her voice vibrant and intense, with none of the vagueness
that he tended to associate with her. He saw Ernie MacMillan emerge from the forest, and knew that
he had been with the group furthest into Hogsmeade. The Ravenclaw should have been the last one out
of the ruined town. Ron's eyes roved expectantly in the darkness, even he thought Harry and
Hermione had been toward Lupin's end of the line, toward the edge of town, and he still did not
see them.

“Ernie!” Ron hissed, calling him over. “Did you see Harry or Hermione?” Ernie shook his head.
“Did you see any - " He could not bring himself to say it.

“No,” Ernie said, his eyes serious. “They've all been sent back to hospital wing, even the…”
*dead ones*. He trailed off, the words unspoken. Ron ran one hand through damp, dirty hair in
frustration. He questioned everyone coming out of Hogsmeade, and nobody had seen them; no one
remembered them as being among the fallen.

He felt a tug on his arm, and realized that Luna was pulling him toward a low stone wall. They
both crouched behind it.

“Mum's going to be right pissed at me if I end up dead,” he said whimsically. Luna smiled at
him, and her white teeth flashed in the wan light of the crescent moon.

“Maybe we'll meet again on another plane, Ronald,” she said. “I'll be the one with the
necklace made of butterbeer corks.” He couldn't help but grin at her, and realized that
Hermione would have started berating him for finding humor in things that were not funny at
all.

Thinking about Hermione made him worry again. *Where the hell are they?*

And as if they'd been waiting to answer his question, he saw the first Death Eaters moving
stealthily from the roaring town. There was movement to either side too, although he couldn't
identify it, until he realized that there must be others clad in disillusionment charms, trying to
make their way around the flank of the Light.

“There!” he hissed to Luna, putting one hand on her arm, and directing her attention away from
the main avenue of the town. When the Death Eaters stopped advancing, they became utterly
invisible, blending completely into the background.

Ron had a moment of satisfaction, when he saw the flickering movement of a disillusioned Death
Eater crumple, with a groan of pain. He did not rise again, but Ron was left to wonder curiously
who had fired the curse. Soon it seemed that the Death Eaters were dropping like doxies, writhing
and clutching at themselves with hands clawed by pain. The Light had not cast a single spell.

Up and down the line, the D.A., the Order, and the aurors were exchanging bewildered glances.
The fighting slowly stopped, and the Death Eaters still did not continue the attack. No movement
was seen on the field of battle at all. Then there was a low rumble from behind them, and Hogwarts
itself seemed to tremble slightly.

Ron and Luna looked at each other, and Ron thought he saw a spark of comprehension in her
eyes.

“He's done it!” she said triumphantly. “I knew he would! He invited me to a party once, you
know.”

“Harry…?” Ron said in wonderment. But it all made sense. If Voldemort was dead…the Death Eaters
had collapsed as one, clutching their forearms…*the Dark Mark*… He leapt up suddenly, whooping
out loud, and startling Remus Lupin. “He's defeated Voldemort! He's done it. It's
over!”

A cheer spread down the line, and Ron could see Lupin's eyes grow intent, as he put the
facts together and came to the same conclusion. A weary smile spread over the werewolf's face,
but was almost immediately followed by shadows.

“But where is he?” Lupin asked.

The shouts and huzzahs dwindled away, as the aurors quickly moved to restrain the incapacitated
Death Eaters. The D.A. and the Order stood, mostly staring at each other, dumbfounded. Ron
swallowed uncomfortably.

Harry *had* defeated Voldemort. But it did not necessarily follow that Harry had lived.
Desperation surged up in Ron, threatening to choke him, and he began to run toward Hogwarts,
scarcely hearing Lupin's cries for him to wait.

“Harry! Hermione!” he shouted, his hoarse voice being torn away on the wind. Lupin, Luna and the
other members of the D.A. were right on his heels.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Somewhere there was stone scraping…and voices…they were vibrant, echoing, and he could not make
out what they said…there was movement all around him…a hum of voices….there was a rumble and a
small hiss…

*Careful!* Someone said in a cautionary tone.

…there was dust in his mouth…he wanted to swallow… he wanted to open his eyes…A nimbus of light
flared on the other side of his closed eyelids, and he scrunched his face up reflexively…

He wanted the light to stop…it swirled around behind his eyelids, leaving an aura behind it…. It
hurt his head….it made him dizzy….

…he wanted to swallow…where was Hermione? *Hermione!*

*Nothing…*the voices said… *did you look over…oh, Merlin, there's blood…*

Blood…whose blood? Something was sticky…he was thirsty… why couldn't he feel his legs…he
tried to move one leg and was rewarded by dazzling pain that shot all the way through him… the
light drifted away, and he felt sudden panic…

*Don't go!* Did he make a noise? He wasn't sure…but his mouth was as dry as desert
sand. The voices were muffled. *We've got her!* A voice called out. Her? Who?
*Hermione?* He wanted to reach out his hand…he'd been holding her hand. Where had she
gone? *Come back, Hermione, please!*

The light was back.

There was a gasp…the light came up brighter…he wanted to turn his face away. He wanted to move…
*There!* Someone exclaimed.

*Hold on now, son!* A voice said. He was being lifted… he wanted it to stop…it made him
dizzy. Everything hurt….he wanted it to stop hurting… everything was cold and wet down here…where
was he? He took a deep breath, and it echoed raspily in his ears…caused a sudden shooting pain in
his side…someone said *Immobulus*, and the pain abated somewhat.

*Harry!* A voice - a girls' voice - said, strained and full of tears. He felt a warm
hand against his cheek. *Everythi**…* *going* *…**just
fine**...**ll see… get you to…pital wing…*

Who was talking to him? He smiled. *Hermione?*

Suddenly the hand was gone.

The light swirled around him unbearably and the voices grew clamoring and cacophonous. Pain
washed over him, buffeted him, until he was no longer cognizant of anything else.

He let go.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron was waiting pensively in the corridor outside the hospital wing, along with several other
members of the D.A. that had also escaped without major injury. He rubbed the bandage that had been
placed over his forehead wound while it healed. It had not been terribly severe, but had been deep.
The healing charm stung, and the sticking charm holding the bandage in place itched.

Luna sighed with fatigue, and leaned heavily on his shoulder. He let his cheek rest
companionably on top of her head. Ernie MacMillan slouched across the corridor from him, and Dean
sat uneasily on a window sill, drumming his heels against the stone wall. Parvati and Lavender
stood listlessly near each other, their normally chattering natures subdued.

A little way down the hall, Arthur Weasley was talking in low, serious tones to the Minister of
Magic, leonine Rufus Scrimgeour.

McGonagall, Lupin, and Ginny had not been out of the hospital wing since they had brought Harry
and Hermione up. The doors opened, and everyone straightened immediately, focusing their attention
on the person coming out.

It was Hannah Abbott. There were pink glows of healing charms on several minor lacerations, and
she was rubbing her wrist gingerly, where the bones had just been realigned. The D.A. members
slumped back down against the walls.

“How's Seamus?” Dean called out, desperate to know the status of his best mate.

“He was still unconscious,” Hannah answered shyly. “But they had him stable. They think he's
going to be fine.”

“And how about Susan?” someone else said.

“They've sent her on to St. Mungo's,” Hannah said. Her eyes fell and her chin wobbled.
“It doesn't look good.” She tried to control her shaky voice to continue. “There were three
aurors in there…dead…and - and Professor S - Sinistra…and - and Justin…” she started crying in
earnest then, and Parvati Patil came up to her then, and enveloped her in a hug, shushing softly
into her hair. Hannah pulled away from Parvati, as if remembering something. “Padma looked like she
was okay. They had her leg under some kind of glowing charm…restraining it or something. I think it
was hurting her…she was asking for you,” she hiccupped.

Parvati nodded. “Stay with Hannah,” she asked Lavender, who nodded and came to Hannah's
side. With barely a sound, Parvati disappeared inside the hospital wing.

Hannah sniffled, and her eyes fell on Ron, who looked at her with desperation.

“Did you see - " he began, but she shook her head almost immediately.

“I heard Madame Pomfrey arguing with another healer. They need to go to St. Mungo's, but
they aren't stable enough for transfer. They had a curtain around…they wouldn't let anybody
in… not even Ginny…”

Ron blinked back the tears that were stinging his eyes, and ran one hand through his hair in
frustration and despair. He felt Luna's soft touch on his arm, a reassuring caress.

“They're going to be okay,” she whispered softly. “The Hard-shelled Whumblevox fell into the
Rhone River on the first day of summer, and that always means good luck… especially for those that
vanquish evil wizards.”

Ron stared at her disbelievingly for a moment, with a watery, wobbly smile that finally
dissolved into a feeble laugh. “Thanks, Luna,” he said, putting one arm around her, and ruffling
her hair chummily.

The hospital doors opened again, and the tense, waiting stances returned to everybody in the
corridor. It was Professor McGonagall.

“Arthur, Mr. Minister…” she called out, and the two men swiftly came up the hallway,
disappearing inside the hospital doors. Ron watched her face carefully. It seemed etched in stone,
her eyes dark with horrors she wished she'd never seen. She turned to go back into the
infirmary.

“Professor McGonagall, please!” he burst out suddenly. She looked back at him, and sympathy
creased her worn face.

“Come with me, Mr. Weasley. You too, Miss Lovegood,” she added, oddly, her eyes flitting from
Ron to Luna.

Gratefully, they went inside the inner sanctum with their Headmistress.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Inside the hospital wing was constant, but well-ordered bustle and movement. Ron caught a flash
of red hair - his mother, he thought, it looked too short to be Ginny - but it was gone behind
drawn curtains quickly.

Almost every bed was full of injured fighters. Some seemed relatively mild…Padma Patil was
sitting up in her bed, her leg bound in a shimmering restraint. Parvati was on a chair nearby,
talking to her twin sister in a low voice. Then he did see Ginny, further down the ward, applying
burn salve to the face and arms of an auror that he didn't know. His eyes fell on Seamus, who
looked unharmed physically, but lay quite still, his face drawn and pale, even against the
hospital-white sheets.

But it was the head of the room that he was most interested in, the curtains that his mother had
disappeared behind. There were low hushed voices, and occasional glows of wandflash. He took a step
toward the cordoned-off area, but was stopped by Professor McGonagall's voice.

“Mr. Potter and Miss Granger are going to be transported to St. Mungo's,” she said, with a
stern note in her voice.

“But Hannah said they weren't - " Ron began to protest, but stopped at the grey, drawn
look on McGonagall's face.

“I'm afraid we've no other choice,” she said grimly. This brought Ron up short.

“Can we come?” he asked quietly. McGonagall nodded.

“Once they've arrived at St. Mungo's and been stabilized satisfactorily, I'm sure
you'll be allowed to see them. We'll be leaving momentarily. You can use the Floo in my
office.” Ron nodded, his eyes flickering back to the drawn curtains, the pain a mask across his
features. Never before had he felt so lonely, so useless. They had gone off to fight Voldemort
without him, and they were near death…and he - he was fine. He shook his head grimly, and closed
his eyes. He would've given it up in a heartbeat to save either of them. He wished that he
could tell them that.

“Ron?” came a soft voice. Ginny stood at his elbow, blood smeared on her apron, and a empty tin
of salve in her hand. Her hair was twisted up into a knot on top of her head, and held in place
with her wand. Her face was drawn and tired, and there were purple circles under her eyes. She drew
him over into the potions closet and closed the door.

“There's something you ought to know…” she began.

“They're moving Harry and Hermione,” Ron finished for her. “I know. Luna and I are leaving
by Floo in just a moment. Are you coming?”

Ginny shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. She held her face quite still, as if she
were afraid that any movement would shatter it completely. “No,” she said, her voice raw with pain.
“No, I won't be going. They need me here. They…” she trailed off, and looked at him in
bewilderment, as if she had no idea why she had called him in there in the first place.

Ron bent down so he could look fully into her face. “You've been working too hard. You need
a break,” he pronounced with an air of finality, even as she shook her head in the negative. “You
were down there, weren't you? In the Chamber? Looking for him?” He could only imagine how
difficult that had been for her, all her nightmares come to life in one hellish place.

She bit her lips together and nodded, while tears coursed silently down her cheeks.

“The - the ceiling had fallen in on them… they - we had to levitate all - all these huge rocks
out of the way… we - Mum and I - and - McGonagall…I don't know where she came from…and Lupin -
" Ron nodded.

“Lupin wouldn't let any of us down there. Luna, Ernie, and I were busy tying up Malfoy, and
putting him back in the dungeon. Found him stunned in the girls' loo.” He shook his head in
confusion, unable to ponder that particular mystery at the moment.

“A - any - anyway, there was blood everywhere, and then we saw this big scorched place on the
floor, and this pile of robes - and a wand - Lupin snapped it… and the - the sword - it was covered
in blood - and we were looking everywhere…there was a noise…I think some - one of them must have
moved or something…then we saw Hermione…she was - she was almost buried in rock, but it looked like
- " she stifled a sob then, and continued with difficulty. “It looked like Harry - Harry must
have cast a Protego over her, but when - when we saw H - Harry… I don't know how he could have
done it…his wand was on the other- and he - he - he …” and she completely broke down. Ron enfolded
her in his arms, and held her tightly, as she cried.

“Ronald,” came a vague voice from the other side of the door. “They've just left. Professor
McGonagall says it's time to go.”

“All right then,” Ron replied, and looked seriously into his sister's damp eyes. “Are you
going to be okay?” She stiffened and nodded, her face seeming to form itself back into a mask. “Are
you sure you don't want to come with us?”

“I'm needed here,” she said calmly, sniffing a little. “If you talk to - to him, tell him -
tell him that…”

“No, you can tell him yourself, when he wakes up,” Ron said firmly. Ginny sighed a little.

“You'd better go,” she said. He kissed her lightly on the forehead, and left her alone in
the potions closet, alone with the knowledge that Harry had been found holding Hermione's hand,
and that in his delirium, he'd been crying her name.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron and Luna sat in Hermione's hospital room, tension apparent in the very set of their
bodies. Ron was hunched forward in a chair, his chin in his hands. Luna was curled up in the
windowsill, her knees tucked close to her body, staring dreamily through the glass. A copy of the
*Quibbler* was folded up next to her…she'd been reading it sideways.

Hermione had been stabilized first, but had not yet regained consciousness. Ron's heartfelt
pleading had finally persuaded the healer in charge to grudgingly allow them to sit in her
room.

Her chief injury was a head wound that the healers believed she had sustained when the ceiling
began to cave in. They weren't sure how her memory or her ability to perform magic would be
affected when she woke up…if she woke up.

They were still working on Harry. Ron had managed a glimpse of him, as the healers had levitated
him past at breakneck speed, and he still saw the ghastly image whenever he closed his eyes. His
face had been blackened and swollen with bruises, his hands crusted with blood, his fingernails
torn down low in the nail bed. Part of his face seemed sunken in, as well, as if one of the bones
in his cheek had been broken.

Madame Pomfrey had removed Harry's mangled glasses from his face before he left Hogwarts.
Ron held them now, absently twirling the distorted metal through his fingers, the lenses long
gone.

There was a moan from the bed, and Ron sat upright suddenly, his eyes focused intently on the
prone form nearby. He thought at first that he had imagined it, but no…she shifted, moaned again,
and lifted one hand. A healing charm glowed pinkly on the tender skin of her palm, matching the
twin lacerations across her cheek. He saw the faint shadowing of bruises beginning to form on her
arms.

“Hermione - " he started to say, but his words were cut off, by the low, rusty croak of her
voice.

“Harry?” she asked, in a piteous plea. “Harry? Where's Harry?”

Ron stood to his feet, and stepped more closely to her bedside, coming into her field of vision.
“He's alive. He's going to be okay…they're working on him right now,” he said in a low
voice, meant to soothe.

She stared at him, without comprehension, as her eyes filled with tears and they trickled down
her temples into her hair. “My head hurts,” she said finally.

“You got walloped pretty good. The entire Chamber of Secrets fell on you.” Out of the corner of
his eye, he saw Luna tread softly over to the door, and go in search of the healer.

He reached out and stroked the back of her hand. “I'm so glad you're okay,” he said
softly. She continued to look at him, as if she wasn't really sure who he was.

“Voldem - is he - is he - ?” she stammered weakly.

“You got him,” Ron said proudly. “You and Harry.” Hermione shook her head.

“It was Harry. Harry did it. I brought him the sword.” Her sentences were fragmented, and came
out of her mouth in a disconnected fashion.

“He couldn't have done it without you,” Ron said confidently, brushing her hair back from
her forehead with one large hand.

“Harry?” she asked again, as her eyelids started to flutter closed. Her hand groped around on
the bedsheet, but she did not find what she sought. “I want Harry.” Her last words slurred, as she
fell asleep.

Ron was amazed at the stab of jealousy that sliced through him. *This is ridiculous! Of course
she wants Harry. They've just been through this incredible ordeal together. She wants to know
if he's okay. She'll calm down once she's assured herself that he's fine.*

But he continued to look pensively at her, long after the healers had come and examined her, and
had gone again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron was hovering outside the door several hours later, when his mum finally emerged from
Harry's hospital room. She was dabbing tears from her eyes with an old lacy handkerchief, and
Ron's own eyes filled with horror.

“Harry? He's not - ?” he began.

“No, no, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley in a tear-choked voice. “They think he's going to be fine.
It took them this long to get him stable. He'd gone into shock from the pain.” Ron looked
gravely at his mother.

“What happened to him?” Mrs. Weasley looked hesitant, but Ron persisted. “Mum, tell me
please.”

“He had a three broken ribs, a broken jaw, a broken foot, and his legs…” she shook her head in
disbelief. “What that monster did to his legs…” Ron looked at her blankly. “It looks like he used
`Reducto' on both of Harry's knees…probably blew them right out from under him. They're
not even sure they can fix it.”

“And he still managed to kill Voldemort…” Ron breathed, unable to process what he had just
heard. “Hermione said … Hermione said Harry did it.”

“How is she doing?” Mrs. Weasley asked tenderly, laying one hand maternally on Ron's
arm.

“She awakened a few hours ago, mumbled some stuff that didn't make a lot of sense. But she
did ask if Voldemort was dead, and said that Harry had done it, after she brought him the
sword.”

“Those poor dears…” Mrs. Weasley sighed, and then shot a surprisingly sharp look at Ron. “Has
Ginny talked to you yet?”

“A little…back at Hogwart's. She seemed pretty upset, what with having to go into the
Chamber…finding Harry in that condition, and all. She said Harry must have cast a Protego around
Hermione, without his wand.” He shook his head in amazement. Mrs. Weasley watched him
carefully.

“Yes, it looks like that was one of the last things he did. The healers said his magical reserve
has been completely emptied…he must have cast wandlessly more than once, and to do that, under
those conditions! We're not sure when he sustained most of the other injuries; they could have
been caused when the ceiling caved in. But the leg injuries were definitely spell-cast. Did you see
Hogwarts shake when the Chamber caved in? We found Draco Malfoy stunned in the bathroom, and the
door to the Chamber open. So …we went down there.”

“Mum, Voldemort could have been down there!” Ron exclaimed.

“Yes, well,” Mrs. Weasley said, in a “but, he wasn't” sort of way. “Minerva met us in the
corridor, and said that someone had removed Gryffindor's sword. She remembered when it was used
in the Chamber of Secrets last time, and that you three had been looking at it. It was also around
then that Professor Snape was found collapsed at the entrance of a secret passageway into
Hogwart's. Fred and George said it connects to the Shrieking Shack?” This was a question
directed at Ron, but he had fixated on her previous statement, and did not answer her.

“*Snape?*” Ron sounded furious. “What have they done with him?”

“He's been taken into custody at the Ministry. So has Draco Malfoy, I believe. There was
some blood and signs of a struggle in the cellar of the Shrieking Shack.” She pursed her lips
thoughtfully. “Harry and Hermione have a lot of questions to answer when they wake up.”

“Can - can I see him?” Ron asked tentatively.

“I suppose,” his mother answered. “Although I'd check with Healer Munson first.” She
gestured down the hall where a doctor sat at a desk, dictating to a quill that was scrawling notes
rapidly into a file. “I think he's had a good amount of potion pumped into him…to keep him from
feeling anything…” she added warningly.

Ron received reluctant permission from the Healer, and stepped quietly into Harry's room. He
lay utterly motionless, his puffy, disfigured face coated in some kind of healing salve that seemed
to be reducing the discoloration and swelling. His legs were both encased in the same kind of
shimmery restraint that had surrounded Padma Patil's leg in the hospital wing at Hogwart's.
There was some kind of silvery tape across his hand, and at intervals, one of seven different
potions puffed up through a tube and entered his body through the medical tape. Ron watched this
for awhile in some fascination, trying to remain distant from the situation, trying to refrain from
taking in the fact that his best friend lay there, severely injured.

“Harry…” Ron said, and his voice carried a note of chagrin…a “how do you get yourself into these
situations?” tone. “You've done it again, you know. You're a bloody hero. Going to have to
wake up, or the bloody press will beat your door in with bludger bats…while kissing your arse as
the need arises of course.” He stepped closer to Harry's bedside. One of the little machines on
the table by the bed, beeped and whirred, and another potion amphora puffed some of its contents
upwards through the clear tube. “Besides, Hermione's been asking about you, and you know how
*she* gets…” He would have continued in a similar vein, but he paused, thinking he had seen
some kind of response. “You saved Hermione's life, you know. You at least owe her a chance to
say thank you in person.” He stopped again, and realized that he had not imagined it. Harry's
lashes had fluttered.

“Mi - one,” he breathed, his words garbled and barely understandable through the tenderness of
his newly healed jaw. “She - issh….she?” He opened his eyes then, just a little, as if even that
effort was too much for him.

“She's going to be okay. She got a nasty knock on the head, but if you hadn't cast that
Protego…” Ron reassured him, although he was unsure as to how much Harry was really able to
understand. The green eyes peered at him, discerningly, penetratingly.

“Ronnn…” he said, in a tone of recognition.

“Yeah, it's me,” Ron said, trying desperately to sound casual. “I'm fine and Ginny's
fine…”

Something flickered and shadowed in Harry's eyes, when Ron mentioned Ginny's name. Ron
was instantly sorry he'd said anything, knowing he shouldn't be upsetting Harry for any
reason.

“I shouln't….shun't have…I told her…” Harry reached his arm out, trying to grasp at
Ron's sleeve, but failed.

“Harry, it's all right, mate,” Ron replied, growing a little alarmed. “You can tell Ginny
later. I'm sure she'll be by.”

“N - No,” the word tore from Harry unevenly, and his chest rattled when he took another breath.
“Not … not Ginny. Told her… shun't have…shun't have…” Ron took a step back from the bed,
wondering if he should perhaps alert Healer Munson.

“I'm sorry, Harry. I guess I should go and let you rest.”

Harry looked at him with bleak frustration, and dropped his arm back to the mattress weakly. He
tried to shake his head in protest, but was unable to do that either.

“I'll come back later, Harry. I promise. Maybe Luna can come too.” Ron all but fled the room
then, uncertain and a little terrified at this new Harry…this wounded, vulnerable Harry who spoke
in fractured words and whose body could not obey his commands. At the same time, Ron felt a little
disgusted with himself for fleeing. *Where is my vaunted Gryffindor bravery?* he wondered.

As he opened the door, he thought he heard Harry speak softly, although the soft squeak of the
hinges made it difficult to understand.

“Didn't mean to…”

“Healer Munson,” Ron called out as soon as the door shut behind him. “Harry was awake and
talking…sort of…I think he got a little upset. Should you - ?” But the Healer had disappeared
quickly into Harry's room, before Ron even finished his sentence, leaving the third member of
the Trio standing out in the corridor, lost, alone, useless.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Hermione awakened the next morning, her room was empty. The chair in the corner bore a
wrinkled, mashed cushion, so she reckoned that someone had been in here until relatively
recently…most likely, Ron. She lay still as she did a kind of self-inventory, finding only that she
was incredibly stiff and sore, and that she had an unbelievable throbbing ache in her head.

Some of her movement must have activated the wards around her bed, because two healers and a
mediwitch entered her room in short order.

“How are you feeling, Miss Granger?” The wizard whose nametag identified him as Healer Munson
said briskly.

“I'm - I'm okay,” she said hesitantly. “My head hurts.”

“What's the last thing you remember?” he asked gently, as they scanned her with their wands,
and conferred over readouts. Hermione's eyes grew shadowy.

“V - Voldemort cast Avada Kedavra at me, but he missed…he hit the ceiling because Harry had -
Harry stabbed him with the sword…and - and then everything fell…” she trailed off, seeming suddenly
distant. Her eyes then widened frantically, and she clutched at the sheet with one hand.
“Where's Harry? Where is he?”

“Miss Granger,” Healer Munson said in a calm voice. “It is very important that you not excite
yourself. Please stay calm.” Hermione's eyes were darting wildly from one impassive official
face to another.

“Tell me where he is! Is he okay? Is he okay? I want to see him.” Her voice was just this side
of panicky.

“Miss Granger - " Healer Munson began again, but was interrupted by Ron bursting into the
room. The door slammed up against the wall, and bounced closed behind him.

“What's going on?” he asked in a disarming way, considering his noisy entrance.

“Where's Harry? Is he all right? They won't tell me.”

“He's doing as well as can be expected,” Ron said carefully, a guarded look on his face that
Hermione did not miss. Hermione winced, lost in memory, and knotted her fists up into the
bedsheet.

“Voldemort used a reductor curse on his legs. He - he screamed - I've n - never heard
anybody scream like that before. And he still…he pulled himself over to me - put himself in between
me and Voldemort…He was already hurt. Malfoy pushed him down the stairs in the Shrieking Shack…”
she rambled and trailed off, staring at nothing, while a solitary tear wended its way unnoticed
down her cheek.

Ron noticed Healer Munson jotting down a few notes. He knew everyone had questions about what
exactly had occurred in the Chamber. The director of St. Mungo's was nearly at her wits'
end with the throng of reporters camped out in the main lobby of the hospital.

“Shouldn't she be sedated?” Ron asked quietly. “It can't be good for her to be reliving
this stuff.”

“I will *not* be sedated, Ronald Weasley,” Hermione said mutinously, her chin jutting out.
She turned her attention back to the healer, looking at him pleadingly. “Please, can I just see
him…just for a moment?”

“I'm really not comfortable with your being up and out of this bed,” Healer Munson said
slowly. “It hasn't been that long since we fully repaired your skull fracture. You appear to be
without lasting damage, but we cannot be certain…it's too early to - "

“If I carry her in there…for just a moment…just so she can satisfy herself as to his
condition…will that be okay?” Ron cut in to ask. The look Hermione turned to him was radiant,
breathtaking.

“Ron…” she said gratefully. The healer looked from one teenager to the other doubtfully.

“I suppose that would be acceptable. Need I stress that it is to only be for a moment?”

“Only a moment, yes sir,” Ron nodded.

“Miss Granger, please let us know immediately if rising causes you any pain, dizziness, or
nausea,” the healer cautioned, as he exited the room, with the other healer. The mediwitch began
refilling some of Hermione's amphorae.

“You ready?” Ron asked gently, and, at her nod, he scooped her up into his arms, amazed at how
light she felt.

“Do *not* drop me,” she said authoritatively into his shoulder, sounding so much like her
normal self that Ron laughed. If he hadn't been relatively sure that Healer Munson was going to
keep at least one wary eye on them, he might have pretended he was going to drop her, just to make
her yell at him.

“Where's Luna?” she asked curiously, as the mediwitch held the door open for them.

“She went down to the *Quibbler* to talk to her father. The reporters are foaming at the
mouth for information, and he's lucky enough to have an inside source. McGonagall and Lupin
weren't telling them anything at all, until the rumors started going around that Harry was dead
- " Ron stopped abruptly, looking like he wished he hadn't said that. He felt Hermione
tremble a little in his arms.

“Is it - is it really that bad?” she asked vaguely. Ron didn't know if she was talking about
the reporters or about Harry, but he chose to answer as if she were asking about the former.

“The waiting room is mobbed. They actually installed a special floo for Order members, because
people were tired of getting bombarded every time they came in. You and Susan and Harry have been
up here, and the whole floor is guarded by Aurors. Harry's going to bloody well hate it, but
he'll have to give a statement when he…” he trailed off again and sighed slightly.

Hermione looked at him discerningly, as they arrived at Harry's door. “This has been really
hard for you, hasn't it?” Ron looked away from her self-consciously.

“*I* wasn't critically injured. I'm fine. And Luna's been great. She -" he
stopped, and something like guilt danced across his face. He shrugged. “I was a little lost without
the two of you… she's been a big help.”

Hermione looked vaguely troubled, and Ron wondered if she was upset with him for spending time
with Luna. In actuality, she was thinking of Harry, of kissing him in the forest that night, of
what he'd been on the cusp of saying to her, even in front of Snape and Malfoy, and of what
that would mean to them all.

“He looks pretty bad,” Ron said in warning, as he opened the door.

Even with the notice, tears still sprang to Hermione's eyes when she saw him. He looked so
pale and still laying in that bed, with wards whirling and beeping around him.

“Has he…regained consciousness at all?” she asked, as Ron gently stood her on her feet next to
the bed, with a question on his face. She nodded. “I'll be okay,” she replied, looping her
fingers around the metal bedrail for help standing.

“He woke up once, when I was in here,” Ron answered her previous question. “He knew who I was.
Seemed to remember what had happened. He was very worried about you.” Hermione smiled a little, and
looked down at her feet.

“I guess I was unconscious the last time he saw me.” Ron wondered momentarily at the look on her
face. He had seen it before, but where? He couldn't put his finger on it.

“I mentioned Ginny, and he got a little upset, though. He kept saying that he'd told her
something - or hadn't told her something that he meant to - I'm not sure which…but he kept
saying he shouldn't have.” And he watched in amazement as Hermione colored violently.
“Hermione, are you okay?”

“I'm - I'm fine,” she said faintly. “I guess I should go lie down.” She leaned down
toward Harry, and ran her fingers loosely through his hair. “Wake up soon,” she whispered. “We miss
you.” Harry shifted slightly, and his eyes moved blindly beneath their lids, but he did not
wake.

Ron watched, feeling uncomfortable, and feeling ashamed that he was. He watched Harry, lying so
still, looking so different from the agitated Harry he'd seen earlier. *He shouldn't
have… he shouldn't have what?* *Did he say something to upset Ginny? Is that why she
wouldn't come with me?* He shook his head to himself; he was making much of nothing; it was
probably just the ramblings of a battle-weary, pain-fatigued mind.

*Not Ginny*. The thought struck him suddenly like a bolt from the blue. He had mentioned
Ginny, and Harry had corrected him…*not Ginny.* *Then who…?*

Ron's gaze fell on Hermione again, who was leaning over the rail, whispering something to
Harry that he could not hear. And the look on her face…he recognized it suddenly with blinding
clarity. It was the look Harry had gotten whenever Cho was around fourth year. The look Ginny had
for Harry. A shining, yearning look…a look that one gets knowing that love is impossible, and yet
loving someone anyway.

Ron took an involuntary step away from Hermione, as if he could get away from the sudden pain in
his chest. He wanted to be angry, jealous…but how could he be jealous of Harry? He was their hero,
their savior, their best friend, their - his and Hermione's - *Harry.* The most he could
muster up was hurt and … yes, hurt. That was it.

Hermione looked up at him then, and smiled sweetly at him. “I'm ready to go back now. Pretty
tired, actually.” She dashed one hand across her forehead, and laughed a little at herself.
“Don't you dare tell that healer that he was right!”

“My lips are sealed,” Ron said, with a laugh that rang hollowly and falsely to him. He picked
her up again, and the ache in his chest tightened at the feel of her next to him, clinging to him.
He wondered if she even realized it yet. He wondered if she would tell him when she did.

*When* she did…not *if.*

“Bye, Harry,” Hermione whispered, waving a little at her other best friend. She pressed her lips
together in a tight line, willing herself not to cry.

“We'll be back again, mate,” Ron said, in a hearty voice, as if expecting Harry to reply,
“All right? See you then.”

Hermione was silent, troubled, lost in her own thoughts, as Ron carried her back down to her
room. Ron watched her profile, wondering what she was thinking. Was she wondering what she could
have done differently? Was she reliving the nightmare of Voldemort hurting Harry?

“Ron, thank you for…” she nodded her head back toward Harry's room. “I…needed to see him.”
She sighed, and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I hope he's going to be okay.”

“He's getting the best care that the wizarding world has,” Ron said, mustering up a
confident tone.

“I know…” she sighed.again. Ron opened her door, and gently set her back on her bed, tucking the
sheet around her, as tenderly as Molly Weasley could have done.

“You want something to eat? I could nip over to the mediwitch's station and see what they
could bring you.” Hermione smiled at him, and Ron felt again like she was seeing something else
that he could not see.

“That would be nice, Ronald. Thank you.” And she meant more than for just the food. Ron knew it.
He smiled back at her, sitting in her bed, somehow appearing both frail and strong at the same
time. Something protective welled up inside him, and the ache in his chest intensified. *Harry?
And Hermione?* He thought in amazement.

“Anytime, Hermione,” he said. “Be right back.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Three days later, Harry woke up…*really* woke up. And the entire hospital was in an uproar.
Ron had found out on the way back from the cafeteria as he and Luna were carrying a tray back up to
Hermione. They had passed his father, standing in the corridor fending off reporters.

“He *will* give a statement as soon as he is able. Have mercy, you lot! He's only just
awakened.”

Ron and Luna had exchanged glances of amazement and excitement, and had fled upstairs to tell
Hermione. They had run into Lupin on the way up; he was on his way to Harry's room, to be there
when the healers spoke with him.

She was sitting with her bed partially inclined, her hair twisted up on top of her head, with a
book and a roll of parchment on her lap. An ink bottle and quill sat on the table nearby. When her
friends burst into the room, she looked up at them, a smile wreathing her face. Ron stood in the
doorway, something so unexpected and amazing and *right* about Hermione reading and taking
notes that he wanted to hug her on the spot.

“Bloody hell, Hermione. Didn't you know that McGonagall shut down Hogwarts for the next
three weeks?”

“All the more reason not to fall behind,” Hermione said mechanically, but she looked at him a
little slyly and her eyes twinkled. Luna nudged Ron in the side, in a very unsubtle way.

Ron's eyes lit up as he remembered why they had come up there in the first place.

“Harry's awake,” he blurted without preamble. Hermione came alert so quickly that her
parchment coiled up on itself and fluttered off of her bed. She didn't even notice.

“Is he all right?”

“Lupin said he's going to need a lot of work on his legs, and he still hasn't enough
strength to do any magic. But he's going to be okay.”

Hermione let out a shuddering breath, as if she'd been holding it for the past three days.
“Good,” she said in a deliberately understated way. But not before Ron had seen the shining look
flit across her face again, albeit briefly.

He hoped it would get easier to see after a while.

**TBC**

**Thanks for all the great reviews on the previous chapter. I really was unsure about the
battle scene, so the reviews were all read and duly squee-d over.**

**You can leave another review on your way out, if you'd like. I won't mind.**

-->



7. Conferences and Conversations
--------------------------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART II: The Interim**

**Chapter Two: Conferences and Conversations**

“Can I come in?” came a small voice from Harry's doorway. He turned his head toward the
door, without moving anything else, and smiled when he saw who it was.

“As if you even have to ask,” he said, his smile widening even further until he winced. His face
was still a mass of greenish bruises. Her brows wrinkled in concern.

“I could go, if you still need to rest…” she sounded uncertain.

“Don't you dare go! Between the MLE giving me the third degree and the healers lecturing me
on everything I should and shouldn't be doing…I need to see a friendly face. Where's
Ron?”

Hermione inclined her head toward the door. “He's waiting in the corridor. We've been
trying to get in for hours, but it seems others took top priority. At least we got in before any
reporters. And the Minister. That has to say something about our importance.”

“Scrimgeour just wants a photo op,” Harry said darkly, intimating that the Minister could rot
where he was waiting.

“How are you feeling?” she asked gently, as if she wasn't sure that she had the right. Harry
lifted one shoulder in a self-conscious shrug.

“Okay, I guess.” He answered. There was a long pause. “They've got me on…you know, potions
and stuff so I won't feel - my legs are - are pretty messed up, I reckon.”

Hermione sidled a little closer, and propped herself against the bed, leaning one hip on the
mattress. “When he - when he … hurt you, I thought - I thought…” She couldn't articulate the
horrifying feeling that had rushed through her at the sight of his agony, her worry that perhaps
she had caused this, that she should have stayed up there where she promised she would, instead of
stunning Draco and retrieving the sword from McGonagall's office… the incredible fear that
shivered through her and left her trembling that he would die, that she would watch him die, able
to do nothing to save him, and then would be left alone.

He knew what she meant, without her having to say anything, and he slid his hand along the sheet
to lay atop hers, in a gesture of comfort. She looked down at their hands, so she wouldn't have
to look at his face. His were still scarred, pink lines crisscrossing them from where he had torn
them on the rough stone floor of the Chamber, pulling himself toward her, even though half his body
had been broken.

“Harry…” she murmured, using her other hand to caress his poor injured one.

“They look a lot worse than they feel actually,” he said, trying to speak lightly. He tapped one
fingertip that still looked raw. “Protective charm. It'll stay in place until my fingernail
grows back. Like an invisible bandage that won't fall off. Isn't that brilliant?” He had a
tone of amazement in his voice, and Hermione was pleasantly reminded of the Muggle upbringing that
they had in common. She smiled a little, and he smiled back. “That's better,” he said.

There was another silence, as they sat with a million thoughts and memories racing through their
heads. There were things unsaid because they didn't need to be said, and things unsaid because
they were afraid to say them.

“It was my fault…” Hermione began suddenly, wanting to blurt an apology for coming down into the
Chamber.

“If you hadn't brought me the sword…” Harry interrupted, trailing off and shaking his head.
“I was completely outclassed, Hermione. Some Chosen One I turned out to be. If you can't use
Unforgivables on a Dark Wizard who's definitely going to try to use them on you…”

“I'm glad you can't use them!” Hermione said, almost defiantly. Harry smiled at her
tone.

“Anyway, when I told the healers what I did…they said there was no way I should have been able
to push myself up like that on two Reductored legs. If you hadn't been behind me, if - if you
hadn't helped me hold on…” He looked at her a little shyly, and pulled his hand back from where
it had still been resting atop hers. “But then you're always behind me, aren't you? Always
there, just when I need you.”

The look he gave her made her stomach flip and her cheeks flush.

“Harry, about what you said - what you were going to say, in the Shrieking Shack - "
Hermione ventured, but Harry had leaned over toward the table beside his bed and retrieved a glass
of water, taking a sip.

“Oy, Ron!” he called out loudly, appearing not to have heard her at all. “Are you ever going to
come in?”

Hermione saw Harry's eyes flicker towards her, for just a second, and she knew then that he
*had* heard her. She wasn't sure if she wanted to ruffle his hair playfully or slap his
face. Ron poked his head in the door then, and guilt assailed her. Perhaps Harry was right. They
both had personal issues of their own to work out; then, perhaps, they could talk about what was
nearly said that night. Still, she couldn't keep the longing from welling up inside her.

“How're you feeling, mate?” Ron asked jovially.

“All right, I guess,” Harry shrugged. “I'd be a lot worse if I could feel those, I suppose,”
he said, indicating his legs still encased in their force field restraint.

“Well, you look like hell,” Ron replied in a candid way.

“Ronald *Weasley*!” Hermione reprimanded, apparently preparing to lambaste him. Ron winced,
and addressed Harry, chucking his thumb at Hermione.

“You see why they're making her go home today?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“I'll have you know they love me here,” she hissed.

“I can see why!” Harry laughed, going along with the joke, but for some reason, it landed
awkwardly and everyone fell silent.

“Oh…erm, I was going to tell you,” Ron said finally, clearing his throat. “Ginny's
here.”

“She is?” Harry's face was noncommittal. “I was wondering where she was.” This was the
truth, as he'd figured she'd have been with Ron, but Harry felt rather than saw Hermione
wilt a little next to him.

“She was pretty upset that night. Having to go down into the Chamber again and all. She was one
of the people who found you.” Harry's face darkened with real concern.

“She was in the Chamber? That must have been horrific for her.” *A hand cupped his cheek.
Hermione?* The flash of memory startled him. Ginny had been down there.

“Anyway, the reporters are out in the lobby making a huge ruckus about talking to you. Are you
up to doing a press conference?” Ron asked. Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“You're going to have to face them sometime, Harry,” Hermione murmured, and Harry got the
distinct and uncomfortable impression that she meant more than just the reporters. They looked at
each other for a moment.

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “But you're going to be there, right?” Hermione nodded.
Ron said,


“Of course, mate,” as he headed for the door. “I'll just send Ginny in, and go let Dad know
what you said. They'll be getting a conference room ready for you.”

“The MLE wants to talk to us again- together. Did they tell you?” Hermione asked. Harry nodded,
looking glum.

“I wish I could *not* think about it for awhile,” he said in a haunted voice. Hermione
realized that he was playing this off a lot more positively than he actually felt. She watched him
with sympathetic eyes, but Harry's gaze remained steadfastly on the battered hands in his
lap.

“I guess I'd better go get ready…see if I can help Ron,” she said absently.

Hermione started to rise, but Harry stopped her, reaching for her hand, before he checked
himself and put his hand back in his lap. “You can stay,” It was almost a question, in a hopeful,
quiet voice.

Hermione's eyes followed Ron out of the door. “I need to talk to Ron. There are things that
need to be discussed,” she said vaguely.

“Hermione!” Harry protested, knowing what she meant. “Don't do this…Ron really cares about
you.”

“I know he does,” Hermione replied, looking a little sad. “And how do you feel about it, Harry?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, saying nothing. He wouldn't look at her.
“That's what I thought,” she said in a low voice. “I'll see you later, Harry.”

“Hermione, wait!” he called, but she swished out the door, holding it open for Ginny to
enter.

“Hermione in a snit again?” Ginny asked, in a not unkind tone, as she came fully into the
room.

“She - I - she - " Harry said, gesturing toward the door and then dropping his hand back to
the bed in frustration. He flung his head back onto the inclined mattress. Ginny came forward and
sat on the edge of the bed, much as Hermione had.

“How *are* you feeling…really?” she asked. Harry shrugged again.

“Why do people keep asking me that?”

“Because they care about you.”

“Because they want to satisfy their curiosity,” Harry retorted on the heels of Ginny's
statement, and she drew back as if stung. Harry winced and shook his head. “I - I'm sorry, Gin.
I didn't mean that.” He lifted his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. The new frames
felt heavy and made the backs of his ears ache. “I have to do this - this media thing in a little
while.” Ginny nodded that she knew that. “'Harry, Harry! Did Voldemort use Crucio on you? Did
you stick the sword *all the way* through him? Was there a lot of blood? Are you ever going to
walk again? Do you have nightmares? *How are you feeling?*'” Harry spoke rapidly, waving
one hand around like Hermione during Transfiguration class. Sarcasm fairly dripped from his last
question.

Ginny eyed him for a moment. “I know you want to forget it,” she said simply, and he looked at
her with dawning comprehension. Of course she understood how he felt. She and Hermione were the
only people that could understand, the only people that had faced down Voldemort and lived to tell
the tale. “Have you talked to Hermione yet?” she asked, and he wondered briefly if she was reading
his mind.

He sighed and shook his head. “She's dealing with all this too. I don't want to put all
my … issues on her as well. You're a little - a little - "

“More removed from the situation?” Ginny said wryly, and then her smile grew sad. “Or more
removed from you?” She looked like she wished she hadn't said that, and she bit her lips
together and looked away from him.

“Ginny…” Harry said in protest, his brow wrinkling, as he tried to understand. He reached out
with one hand to grab her upper arm, trying to turn her to face him. She refused to look at him,
but when she spoke again, the sound of repressed tears was in her voice.

“I wasn't going to bring this up. I figured it was the last thing you needed to hear today -
on your first day back - the first day of the rest of your life.” She said the last part
sardonically.

“Mention what? What are you talking about?”

“You were calling for her,” Ginny's voice sounded leaden.

“What?” Harry asked, even as color flooded his face. He knew that he must look as guilty as
sin.

“Hermione. When I found you in the Chamber, when we carried you back up to the hospital wing,
you were frantic, delirious, calling for her, *pleading* to know where she was. I touched your
face - do you remember?” Harry's hand had gone up to his own cheek, as if reliving the memory.
“You smiled. It was the most beautiful, breathtaking, *radiant* smile I've ever seen on
your face. And then you said her name.” She smiled a watery smile, and her chin wobbled as she
finally looked back at him.

“I was so thrilled when we found you, and you were alive!” She continued. “I thought maybe this
would be our chance… you know, no Voldemort looming over your head, making you do noble and stupid
things.” Another half-smile took some of the sting out of her words. “I had my entire fairy tale
castle built for about ten seconds.”

“Ginny, I'm *sorry*.” Harry did not know what else to say. “I didn't even - I'd
hardly realized how - how I felt about…about… until just recently. I - maybe it was the whole
facing death thing, I don't know. I know, before, in the common room, I said - "

She laid her fingers over his lips for him to hush. “I know what you said. You said we'd
talk later. And so we have. I also know what I said. I said I wouldn't ask for any more than
what you could give.” She laughed a little bitterly at herself. “Now I know what you can give…at
least to me. And no woman wants to be second choice, Harry.”

“It doesn't matter anyway,” Harry pointed out. “She's with Ron…and you know that is
forbidden territory. He's my best mate.”

“It matters to me,” Ginny said succinctly. “And Ron's not as stupid as he may seem
sometimes,” she added cryptically. Her eyes flickered to the small, square window in the door,
which Harry could not see from his angle at the head of the bed. “He's back. I guess it's
almost time for the conference.”

Harry rolled his eyes and made a grumbling noise under his breath. Ginny rose to leave, smiling
a little self-consciously. She was nearly to the door, when Harry called out suddenly,

“Ginny, don't be a stranger.” He meant it. Ginny searched his face briefly, and must have
seen evidence of his sincerity.

“I won't,” she promised, and tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear, she waved, a
little jut of her hand out from her side, and exited quickly.

“You ready…mate?” Ron said, his voice trailing off as he watched Ginny leave, actually sticking
his head back out of the door to watch her progress down the hall. “What's wrong with her?”

Harry furrowed his brows, trying to ignore the flame of guilt that flared up in his chest. “I
think - I think Ginny and I just broke up.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was another delay before they actually proceeded to the conference room, as they tried to
find some kind of conveyance for Harry. Ron was still sending Harry long, searching looks, and
Harry could tell that Ron was dying to ask what had gone on with him and Ginny. Harry pretending to
be oblivious to the looks, and eventually Ron turned his mind to the task at hand.

“What do they usually use here?” he asked. Ron scratched the back of his head.

“I think they usually just use Immobulus or a full-body bind, and levitate the people around.
You have to be *really* good at levitation charms if you're going to be a mediwitch or a
healer.”

“*You* are not immobilizing me and levitating me anywhere,” Harry said darkly.

“You'd think there'd be a Muggle wheelchair around here somewhere,” Hermione said from
the corner table, where she was writing furiously, having appeared back in the room with Ron.

“What're *you* doing?” Harry asked, craning his neck to peer around Ron at her,
curiously.

“Writing a statement. I figured you could give a statement, and then people could ask
questions.”

“I can write my own statement,” Harry said grumpily, like a defiant child. Hermione just looked
at him, one eyebrow raised, and then continued writing.

“Hey, this bed rolls,” came Ron's muffled voice, but he had disappeared. Harry peered over
the side of his bed, to see Ron on his hands and knees, partially underneath it.

“I'm not rolling to a press conference in a bloody bed!” Harry said. “It'll be poor
ickle Harrykins enough as it is, without adding to it.”

“Well, what would you suggest we do?” Ron asked in a magnanimous voice.

“I want to walk down there on my own two bloody legs!” Harry shouted suddenly. Ron froze.
Hermione's quill stopped scratching on the parchment. They looked stricken, and Harry felt
instantly ashamed of his outburst.

Hermione put her quill down, with a soft plink on the table, and stood up, dusting her hands
together briskly as she reached for her wand. Ron and Harry watched in amazement as she turned to
the chair she'd been sitting in, a rather hard affair, upholstered in a singularly ugly fabric.
She transfigured its four legs into wheels, and lengthened the seat out so that it looked almost
like a chaise. She stood behind it with her hands out momentarily, and then added two handles at
just that height on the back of the chair.

“There,” she said, as if she'd just done something mundane, like bringing in the post. Harry
and Ron exchanged astonished glances. “It's better than a wheelchair, even, since you can't
bend your legs.” Harry gaped at it; it looked like he would be able to sit in it, much like a
hospital bed, with his legs fully extended.

“And if you're pushed up to a table, it'll look like a regular chair,” Ron added.

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said gratefully.

“Don't mention it,” she said, rolling up the parchment she'd been writing on, and
handing it to him. Her tone was still businesslike, impersonal. She went to the small wardrobe, and
pulled something out, tossing it at him over her shoulder. “Put this on.”

It was a shirt, long-sleeved, button-down, light green. “Hermione - ?” he began, holding the
shirt up.

“I thought it would look nice on you,” she said, still in the wardrobe, even though there was
nothing else in there. “Button it over your hospital gown, if you don't want to be poor ickle
Harry. Nobody's going to see your legs, so it won't matter.” She shut the wardrobe door
with a snap, and tossed something else at him. The hairbrush landed in his lap. “And comb your
hair,” she barked.

But her eyes…her eyes were warm and brown, and they glowed at him with a light that he had never
seen before, but that he hoped to see again and often. Something swelled up within him.
*Hermione, I love you so much*, he thought fervently.

She held the shirt up for him to slip his arms into, and fussed over him as he fastened it over
the generic white hospital gown; she was busily smoothing the shoulders, straightening the collar,
and tugging at the sleeves. Ron had a “better you than me” look of pity on his face.

“If she wipes your face with her spit, mate, I'm out of here,” he said with a grin. Harry
tried to suppress a smile, as Hermione whirled to glare holes in Ron's head.

“Are we ready?” Harry asked, after he gave the brush a cursory swipe or two through his unruly
hair.

“Where's your wand?” Hermione asked automatically. Harry shrugged a little
uncomfortably.

“I guess Healer Munson has it, or maybe Lupin…doesn't matter anyway, seeing as how I
can't use it.” His magical reserves were so low that he had been forbidden from doing so much
as a Lumos spell, even if he'd been able to.

Hermione looked at him with compassionate eyes. “I was going to see if your wand would make this
thing move. Is the leg restraint portable?” She asked, as Harry wondered if this meant that she had
forgiven him. Even as she spoke, Healer Munson entered. It was obvious that he did not approve of
his patient gallivanting around the hospital while he was supposed to be convalescing.

“Are you still determined to do this?” the healer asked gruffly. Harry smiled in a disarming
way.

“I've got to do it eventually,” he said. Healer Munson tapped a couple of the wards with his
wand, and one stopped glowing. The shimmery field remained in place around his legs, but was no
longer attached to the bed.

“Your legs are still completely immobilized, but the restraint field itself can be moved, while
still deflecting the pain. I'm going to …” he trailed off as he looked at the distorted chair
sitting in the middle of the room.

“Hermione transfigured me a chair!” Harry pointed out obviously, pride radiating from his voice.
Hermione darted her eyes toward him and then down, her cheeks flushing a little.

“You're going to … ride in that?” Healer Munson asked, his eyebrows at his hairline.

“He doesn't like being levitated long distances,” Ron put in helpfully.

“All right,” the healer said dubiously. “I'll attach the restraint field to this chair.
It'll be just like it was in your bed.” Harry nodded, and the healer levitated him smoothly
from the bed to the chair. He tapped the restraint field with his wand again, murmuring an
incantation, and two ward markers appeared at the foot of the chair, glowing softly.

Hermione got behind the chair and gave an experimental push. When it rolled smoothly, she
couldn't keep a smile from flitting over her face.

“Let's go,” she said triumphantly, as Ron held open the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They reached the conference room through the director's private office, so Harry would not
have to pass by the hordes of reporters to enter the room. The long conference table had been
turned sideways across the front of the room, and was draped with a heavy red cloth that fell in
generous folds to the floor. Chairs lined one side of the table, facing another block of chairs in
the center of the room where the reporters would be seated. Harry eyed the red tablecloth
gratefully; his legs would be completely concealed, and he would look like any other person sitting
at a table.

Hermione pushed him up to a clear spot at the center of the table, and she and Ron pulled out
chairs on either side of him. Lupin and McGonagall entered the room then, with Nymphadora
Tonks.

“Remus!” Harry blurted. “I didn't know you were going to be in here.”

“McGonagall is here to represent the school,” Lupin said, putting one hand on the back of
Harry's chair and leaning down towards him. “And Tonks is representing the Aurors. If there is
any question that you're not sure if you should answer, look to her, and she'll let you
know.”

“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks said with a wink, taking a chair on the other side of Ron.

“And why're you here?” Harry asked.

“Someone's got to look out for you, Harry,” Lupin answered. “You may be of age, but
there's a lot about the wizarding world you still don't know. I'm not about to let a
lot of bloodthirsty reporters exploit you.”

Harry regarded the older man gratefully. Remus had taken on the mantle that had been left behind
with Sirius' death, without even having to be asked. “Thanks,” he said in a low voice.

Arthur Weasley appeared in the doorway then, with a questioning look on his face.

“We're ready,” Lupin nodded at him, taking the seat beyond McGonagall. Healer Munson also
entered, sitting down just before the reporters arrived, to act in Harry's best interests,
medically speaking.

“I reserve the right to shut this down at any time, should I believe that you have done too
much,” the healer said gravely. Harry nodded at him meekly; it might be nice to have an out, if the
questions got to be too intrusive.

The reporters and cameramen filed into the room, in near total silence, and tried not to gawk
too obviously at Harry. There was some bustling as equipment was set up and situated, and reporters
retrieved quills and parchment in readiness for notes.

The two sides of the room gazed at each other in expectant silence. Harry felt Hermione's
hand nudge him under the table, and when he looked at her, she nodded at the piece of paper that
she had prepared for him.

He smoothed the parchment flat on the table, and cleared his throat.

“Before his death, Al - " he began, but was cut off by a polite request from a reporter in
the throng.

“Harry, would you mind using `Sonorus' on your voice, so everyone can hear you?” Harry's
hand went automatically to his hip, before he remembered that, not only did he have no pockets, but
no wand in them either. Not that he could have performed the spell even if he'd had a wand. He
jerked his gaze up to Hermione, slight panic showing on his features.

She calmly pulled out her wand and pointed it at Harry's throat. “*Sonorus!*” she said
softly, and a murmur rose up from the audience of reporters.

Harry figured it was even money that one of the articles written today would be headlined “Boy
Who Lived Reduced To Squib”. He started again.

“Before his death, Albus Dumbledore confided in me the suspicions he had long held that Tom
Marvolo Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, had availed himself of the dark art of making
horcruxes. He believed that Voldemort had split his own soul into seven pieces in an effort at
immortality.” He paused in his reading, and looked questioningly down the table at Tonks, who
nodded at him reassuringly. It felt odd to be speaking so publicly about the horcruxes, after the
months and months of secrecy. “This summer, my friends and I had undertaken a quest to search out
and destroy the horcruxes. We succeeded, and when we returned to Hogwarts last week, all but one
had been destroyed. Hogsmeade was attacked the night after we arrived, and I learned that Voldemort
had come for me.

“I met him in the Chamber of Secrets, and after a duel, I was able to destroy both him and the
red amulet horcrux he was wearing, using the sword that belonged to Godric Gryffindor.” Harry had
read the entire statement in a flat, monotone voice, pausing only to be grateful that Hermione had
used the word `destroy' instead of `kill'. It made him feel better, for some reason. He
wondered why she had edited out her part in it.

Lupin spoke up in the ensuing silence, as the reporters digested this, quills flying. “The panel
will now take any questions you may have,” he said. Hands began waving frantically, much like the
gesture Harry had been aping to Ginny earlier. Lupin pointed to one at random, a young blond witch
with horn-rimmed glasses and an air of Hermione at her very most serious.

“Giselle Fairweather, *Daily Prophet*,” she said, by way of introduction. Harry wondered if
she had taken Rita Skeeter's place. “Mr. Potter,” she began professionally. “What of the rumors
that there was a prophecy concerning you and He Who Must Not-" She stopped at the automatic
moniker for Voldemort, and shrugged at herself. “And Voldemort?” She finished, managing to get the
name out in a fairly natural-sounding way.

Harry darted a look over to Tonks. He was no longer sure what still needed to be kept secret,
and what could be disclosed. She nodded at him surreptitiously.

“There was a prophecy,” he said heavily. Several of the reporters exchanged glances. Quills flew
like mad.

“Can you tell us what it said?” Miss Fairweather asked, as a couple of reporters protested that
she had asked two questions.

“It said that Voldemort would mark me as his equal, and that I would have power that he knows
not. It said that neither one of us could live while the other one survived.” Another murmur
rippled around the room. Some of the more matronly-looking journalists eyed Harry with sympathy.
Harry could practically feel them thinking, *poor boy*.

Lupin indicated another reporter, this one a balding man with a walrus-mustache, clearly charmed
to match his original hair color.

“Felix Grant, *Glasgow* *Mage*,” he said, after some harrumphing and clearing of his
throat. “What was the power he knows not? Was Gryffindor's sword enchanted?”

This question gave Harry pause. He had never really thought about it before. “I don't think
there was any extraordinary enchantment on the sword,” he answered slowly, obviously thinking hard.
Hermione had brought him the sword. “Perhaps it was you,” he said suddenly, looking up at her,
belatedly realizing that his voice was still *sonorus-*ed.

Cameras flashed, and Harry winced, picturing another headline. “The Boy Who Lived, The Girl Who
Helped Him, and Their Star-Crossed Romance.”

“Miss Granger, what *was* your role in the last battle?” A thin and nervous young man
gulped, after introducing himself as being from the *Dublin Quill and Scroll*.

Hermione told how she'd gotten away from Malfoy and hurried to retrieve the sword, then
brought it down to Harry. She told about the shrunken sword, and how Harry had enlarged it without
a wand. Harry interrupted her to highlight parts of her role that she'd glossed over, including
actually stunning Draco Malfoy and unlocking the wards on the display case in the
Headmistress's office, as well as strolling into the Chamber right under Voldemort's
nose.

A brash middle-aged woman with blue-black hair seized on this tidbit of information, and
introduced herself as being from one of the more notable gossip rags. “What did Draco Malfoy do?
Has he been arrested?”

Tonks spoke before Harry could open his mouth. “Draco Malfoy is in custody, but Harry cannot
comment on any cases that may be pending.” Harry smiled apologetically at Brash Lady.

“How severe are your injuries, Mr. Potter? Will you be making a full recovery?” asked another
reporter from the rear of the room.

“I - " Harry began, not sure what to say. It was a variation at least, on the “How are you
feeling?” question, and kinder than “So, we heard you'll never walk again. Is that true?”

“Most of Harry's injuries were relatively minor and have already been corrected,” Healer
Munson spoke up gruffly from the far end of the table. “The others we expect to be able to heal,
given more time.”

“Like his ability to do magic?” someone called.

“Will he walk again?” another asked, giving voice to the rampant rumors that had obviously
leaked everywhere. Harry felt himself begin to shift uncomfortably in his modified chair. He felt
suddenly ill at ease under their predatory gazes. He felt Hermione's hand slide over toward him
under the table, and thread his fingers gently through hers.

“Mr. Potter's medical status is confidential,” Healer Munson said, in a tone that brooked no
argument. “Content yourselves with the fact that he is well enough to speak with you today.”

Harry shot a grateful glance down the table at his healer. He wasn't sure that he would have
been comfortable with the entire wizarding world knowing that he was in a hospital bed unable to
move or do magic. Funny, he hadn't thought that Healer Munson liked him very much. There was a
moment of silence, as some of the more ethical reporters felt properly chastised.

“Mr. Weasley,” another finally spoke up, addressing Ron. “Is it true that you were the leader of
the student fighters in the Battle for Hogsmeade?” Cameras flashed again as Ron detailed his
exploits on the night of the battle, ending with their intended last stand on the road to Hogwarts,
when the Death Eaters began to fall, victims of their allegiance to their master.

More questions flew. McGonagall spoke about the reopening of Hogwarts to all students, and how
she hoped parents would now feel safe in sending their children back there. Tonks spoke in very
vague terms about how the hunt for the Death Eaters was still ongoing, but since most had been at
the very least incapacitated by the fall of Voldemort, it was going well. Ron was asked about
having an entire family fighting for the Order.

Harry was not allowed to speak about either Malfoy or Snape, and he suspected that it had to do
with the fact that the MLE still wasn't quite certain what to do with them yet.

Hermione was queried at length by *Witch Weekly* about how she felt when she entered the
Chamber and faced Voldemort, why she thought she was in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw, and what
her favorite color of lipstick was. Harry smelled a “Girl Power” cover story in the offing.
Hermione looked quite disgusted by the entire thing.

The press conference went on for quite a long time. Harry was asked about the visit from
Scrimgeour that was pending, and he did a poor job of concealing his dislike for the man. He
answered questions about Dumbledore and Sirius, and was beginning to feel as if he'd said the
same things over and over again. He was tired, and there was a dull ache in his legs. He didn't
think he was supposed to feel anything, and wondered exactly what that meant.

He reached up and rubbed his forehead tiredly, with one hand, and Hermione looked at him in
concern. She must have turned and said something to Lupin, because the werewolf stood, after
conferring with Healer Munson, and said there would be one more question.

It was given to Giselle Fairweather of the *Daily Prophet*.

“Do you know for sure that Voldemort is gone?” she asked. Some of the reporters had been putting
quills away and rustling around in preparation to leaving, but at this question, everything in the
room literally stopped and hung suspended, waiting for his answer.

Hermione squeezed her fingers around his reassuringly.

“I saw him die,” Harry said in a steely, yet bewildered voice, as if he could not understand why
she would ask such a thing. “I ran a sword through him, and I lost consciousness in a pool of his
blood.” The reporters murmured to themselves, and Harry wondered if he'd said too much.
Hermione's thumb began to trace a loopy pattern on the skin of his hand, underneath the
table.

Giselle Fairweather was unperturbed.

“What about the horcruxes?”

“We destroyed them,” Harry said evenly. He was starting to miss Rita Skeeter.

“How do you know there were only seven?” she asked smoothly.

“That's enough!” Lupin interjected angrily.

“There were only six horcruxes. The seventh - " Harry looked at Miss Fairweather oddly. The
end of her sentence had seemed warped and distorted, like a phonograph playing at too low of a
speed. The pain in his legs shot up to his hips and began to throb in time with his pulse. His scar
flared suddenly, burning on his forehead like a brand. He blinked. “The seventh piece was in
Voldemort himself. While he was at Hogwarts, Tom Riddle specifically asked about the possibility of
splitting his soul into - he - " He stopped, his eyes sliding closed as he inhaled a
shuddering noisy breath.

“Harry?” he heard Hermione's voice, sounding far away.

The pain in his legs was white-hot.

Cameras flashed, and each flash was like a gunshot in Harry's pounding head. It seemed to be
occurring in slow motion. There was so much pain, from his legs, from his head, that he could no
longer localize where the problem was coming from.

“Something's wrong!” He heard Hermione cry. There were hands on him; the chair was rolled
out from under the table. His leg moved, and something was groaning pitifully and painfully, a
scream with no air in it. He realized with detached amazement that the sounds were coming from
him.

*The locket melted* *into a misshapen lump* *in the beaker of acid. Red smoke
trickled to the ceiling in an unearthly scream. He heaved the contents of his stomach onto the
well-scrubbed kitchen floor.*

“The wards around the restraint field have gone down. He needs a sedative. Somebody get me a
mediwitch and a potions kit,” Healer Munson said, barking orders rapidly. Cameras flashed again;
Harry could see the brilliance through his eyelids.

*He stabbed the weather-beaten book with a long, sharp fang. Ink spurted up, warm and wet,
between his fingers. Ginny was lying on the damp floor, pale as death.*

“Get them out of here *now*!” Lupin roared. The murmuring of the reporters turned to
shouts. There was a scuffle; a chair overturned; a camera flashed.

*The ring's stone had a crack down the center. Dumbledore's wizened* *and*
*ruined hand flung upwards as he plunged over the battlements of the Astronomy Tower.*

“Harry?” It was Hermione again, her voice pleading. He wanted to answer her, he opened his mouth
to reply, but the pain was all-consuming.

*The snake sprang towards Ron, fangs wide, as Ron stumbled backwards, fear apparent in his
eyes. Harry caught the snake in midair with an “Incendio”. It arced downward like a ribbon of
fire.*

Someone tapped him with a wand, and he felt frozen. The waves of pain abated slightly, and he
tried to open his eyes.

*Hufflepuff's cup tinkled out to the floor from a hole in the mouth organ. Snakes hissed
and writhed around it. The closet door rattled, shaken by a hand dripping with rotting, wet
flesh.*

Pain exploded once behind his eyes, as he opened them. Hermione's face swam into view. The
conference room was empty, save for a crowd of medical personnel around his legs.

*The sword pierced the ruby amulet cleanly, disrupting the swirl of fire within its depths*
*with an odd, fluid* *sound**. Blood trickled down the point of the blade protruding
from Voldemort's back. Harry fell forward. The blood was warm and sticky on his hands.*

“Harry,” Hermione was saying in a clear, level voice. Harry could see Lupin hovering concernedly
over her shoulder. “Harry, look at me. Focus on me.” He tried to obey her, but his vision was
blurry and sweat was dripping into his eyes.

“He needs to drink this,” a mediwitch said, holding a vial of lavender potion.

“Take the body-bind off of him!” Hermione snapped. Another healer ended the spell, and
Harry's eyes rolled up in his head as the pain surged back over him, swamping him, catching him
up in its fierce current. His breath was coming in short gasps. The healers were at his feet
working feverishly on the wards of the restraint field.

Hermione was angry. Angry and scared. Harry could see it in the snap of her dark eyes and the
harshness of her breathing, in the way she was tossing frantic glances toward the mass of
healers.

“He's not breathing properly!” She said, supporting his head, as the mediwitch poured the
potion down his throat. He coughed and sputtered a little on the acrid taste, and the slight
movement caused shards of pain to shoot up both legs. It felt as if his knees were being splintered
apart anew. “What the *hell* is taking so long?” She burst out suddenly, and Harry was vaguely
startled, even through the haze of agony.

Then Lupin was back in his field of vision, holding Hermione by the shoulders. “Come on,
Hermione, let's go. Let's let them work on Harry.”

Harry felt his eyelids growing heavy; the potion had been a sedative. But he fought it.

“Hermione!” he mumbled, reaching toward her. His arm felt like it had a lead weight
attached.

“No, let me go!” She said fiercely. “He wants me to stay. He needs me.” Lupin was pulling her
toward the door, but she was fighting him, trying to get out of his grasp.

He was reaching for her, and she was reaching for him, but there was still a meter or more of
space between their hands.

“Don't leave,” he called out, and his voice sounded thick and clumsy to his own ears. There
was something shiny and wet on Hermione's face.

“Damn you, Lupin,” he thought he heard her say. “Let me go!”

And then there was a noise like a smooth whirring sound, and the restraint shimmered into place
around his legs. The pain ebbed away, and Harry felt himself relax. His muscles trembled weakly
where they had been held tensely, fighting against the restraint of the body-bind. His eyes slid
shut in blessed relief.

Lupin let Hermione go, and she rushed back to Harry's side, threading her fingers through
his, and stroking his damp hair away from his clammy forehead. She drew back her fingers a little,
startled. His scar was burning hot, almost as if he had a fever.

The healers dispersed from around his legs, looking more than a little relieved. Healer Munson
came up to Harry's head, and began to scan him with his wand.

“What happened?” Hermione asked the healer, as she clung to Harry's hand.

“The wards came down,” Healer Munson said. “I am at a loss as to explain why they did…but if we
hadn't gotten them back up, the pain alone could have killed him.” Hermione blanched and
swallowed at his dire words.

“Could magic have done this?” she asked.

“Do you mean, could somebody have done this on purpose, to hurt Harry?” he asked, and continued
at her nod. “I don't see how. This kind of magic is highly specialized, attuned to Harry
specifically. That's why it took so long to revamp the wards. If anybody was going to take the
wards down, it would have to be…Harry himself.”

“But - but that's not possible,” Hermione protested, shaking her head quickly. “His magical
reserves…”

“Are still at zero. He shouldn't have been able to do anything,” Healer Munson finished for
her, perusing the readout from his wand.

“Then how…?”

“Miss Granger,” Healer Munson said patiently, and Hermione felt ashamed of her outbursts and
insistent questions. “It might have simply been an accident, a magical failure…one of those things
that just happens.”

“Yes sir,” Hermione said, stroking Harry's hand absent-mindedly between both of hers.
“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - " She looked apologetically toward the restraint field
that they'd been working so frantically on.

Healer Munson's mouth twitched a little. “It is quite understandable.” His next words were
spoken in a businesslike fashion. “He needs to be back in his room, and he needs to rest.” A
mediwitch came to push the chair, exclaiming a little over the entire contraption.

“Please,” Hermione said, as humbly as she knew how. “Please, can I stay with him?”

Healer Munson cocked one eyebrow at her, and then shot a wry glance at Remus Lupin.

“I wouldn't dream of separating you two,” he said dryly.

**TBC**

**Thanks again for all the reviews. I hope everyone is enjoying my story. I had fun writing the
last part of this chapter!**

-->



8. Reality Bites
----------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART II: The Interim**

**Chapter Three: Reality Bites**

Remus spelled the doors open and held them that way, as the mediwitch pushed Harry's chair
out into the director's office, the way they had come.

“Thanks, Remus,” Hermione said, somewhat shyly calling him by his given name. There was an
apologetic and embarrassed note in her voice. He nodded at her, and there was a twinkle in his eye,
even as he tensely watched Harry's face. Hermione knew that Remus knew why she had gotten so
upset, and did not hold her actions or her words against her.

There was a knot of people standing just inside, talking anxiously, Ron among them. He had been
the one to run for a mediwitch when Healer Munson called out, and had not been allowed back into
the room.

His eyes flitted nervously to Harry's still, pale face, and then darted briefly down to
where Harry's and Hermione's hands were threaded together. He looked up at Hermione, a
question in his eyes. She gazed back, her posture rigid, her nostrils flared, her eyes wide and
dark, and traces of drying tears on her cheeks. Something like defiance and apology warred on her
face.

Ron swallowed with difficulty, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

“He okay?” he asked. Hermione pursed her lips and nodded, a short jerky motion of her head.

“We're taking him back to his room. Do you want to come? We could talk.” The last sentence
was offered a little hesitantly. Their eyes met again, and one corner of Ron's mouth curled up
in a mirthless half-smile.

“I guess we should,” he pointed out in a quiet voice. Hermione seemed to freeze for a moment, as
they continued out into the corridor. Their gazes bounced off of each other and skittered away
nervously.

They said nothing more until Harry had been removed from his chair and safely ensconced in his
bed. The mediwitch hooked the restraint field back up to the bed, replaced the silver tape on his
hand, and rearranged the row of potions that would diffuse into his body through the adhesive. She
removed a couple of empty amphorae, and bustled out of the room.

Hermione had parked the chair in the corner by the table, where it would be out of the way, and
curled herself up on it, leaning her cheek against the upholstered back, her arms wrapped around
her knees, imagining that she could still feel Harry's warmth in the rough fabric. Her eyes
drifted over to Harry. He was breathing evenly, his forehead smoothed from pain, although his scar
still stood out on his white skin like a livid weal.

She caught herself suddenly; she was breathing in time with him, and had not even realized she
was doing so. Her cheeks burned, and she looked guiltily at Ron, who was watching her
pensively.

“So…” she began, in what passed for a nonchalant tone, trying to paste a smile on her face, like
this was any ordinary conversation that two chums might be having. Ron was not to be thusly put
off.

“You know what we need to talk about,” he said, and his voice was barely audible. “You were
trying to tell me before the press conference, weren't you?”

“Maybe I should have been in Ravenclaw after all,” she said, trying to smile and failing
miserably.

“When did it happen?” Ron asked, his eyes drifting over her shoulder toward Harry.

“I'm - I'm not sure.” She knew exactly what he meant. “I - I think maybe it's always
been there - and I - I just never realized it before.”

Ron had been standing up to that point, but now leaned heavily against the wall, as if he no
longer had the strength to stand on his own.

“Does he know?” Their eyes met again, and Hermione searched his face for a long moment before
answering.

“If you're asking if we've talked about it yet, the answer is no,” she said slowly. “But
I think he knows.”

“Does he feel the same way?” Ron kept asking questions, in the same tired, resigned,
neutral-sounding voice. It made Hermione want to shriek at him to stop. She felt as if fragments of
their friendship were tumbling down around her ears.

She looked over at Harry. “I - I don't know. I think - I think he might.” She knotted her
hands together in her lap. She looked over at Ron again. His hands were at his sides, clenched into
fists so tightly that his knuckles were white. Even leaning against the wall, every muscle in his
body was rigidly tense.

“He does,” Ron affirmed, somewhat unexpectedly. His voice was laced with bitterness that he was
trying to conceal.

“What?” Hermione gaped. “How do you -?”

“I think he's been in love with you for awhile now…he just didn't see it. Or maybe
didn't want to…because of me,” he trailed off with a sigh.

“But - but Ginny - ?” Hermione stammered stupidly.

“She said he was calling for you when they brought him up from the Chamber.” Hermione colored a
little.

“He begged me not to go in the Chamber,” she said in a faraway voice, gazing into middle
distance. “He told me I would be a liability. He almost said it then, I thought, right in front of
Snape and Malfoy, but he stopped.” She halted abruptly, and looked back at Ron. “I promised I
wouldn't go - and I did anyway.”

Ron snorted, and smiled at her a little. “I don't think he holds it against you,
Hermione.”

She smiled back, and then seemed to suddenly remember what they were talking about.

“Ron - " She began. Her brow was creased with concern, and there was a placating look in
her eyes.

“Hermione, you don't have to -" he tried to ward her off.

“I don't want to hurt you…or Ginny…or anybody. I didn't intend for this to happen.”

“I know you didn't. And neither did Harry. That's what makes it so hard.” He looked at
her as if seeing her for the first time, and something glinted in his eyes. “Harry and Ginny broke
up today,” Ron blurted suddenly, and Hermione looked at him, startled.

“What happened?” Ron shrugged.

“Would *you* want to be in a relationship with someone who was in love with someone else?”
He asked her pointedly.

She blinked at him and pressed her lips together tightly. “Right…” she said faintly.

“Hermione…” he began tentatively, after a moment of silence. “What *was* all that last
year? With us? The canaries and everything?”

A laugh burbled suddenly from Hermione's mouth, and it was more than half sob. “I never have
apologized to you about that. I was just so…angry…and scared.” Ron's expression prodded her to
continue. “You didn't need me.” She murmured so quietly that he wasn't sure he'd heard
her correctly.

“What?” He asked in an incredulous way.

“You didn't need me - neither of you. You had Lavender. And Harry had his Prince book.” She
rolled her eyes in annoyance. “And I was just there - Hermione on the outside looking in…just like
I'd always been, before Hogwarts.”

“Hermione, that's bollocks!” Ron protested. “*You* saw how well the whole thing with
Lavender went! And the potions book too - remember what Harry did to Malfoy? You were right of
course. We'd both be better off if we listened to you more often. We'd have flunked out
five times over if not for you.” He looked at her sympathetically. “We both need you - we'll
always need you. Harry couldn't have done what he did in the Chamber without you. And you
*know* he needs you. I heard you yelling it at Remus.”

Hermione looked down at her feet self-consciously.

“The whole corridor probably heard you,” Ron egged. “Hermione, you were swearing at him -he was
our *teacher!*” He made huge eyes of mock horror, and pointed at her.

“I lost my head,” she mumbled, flushing even though she knew Ron was teasing.

“You've a gift for understatement,” he replied dryly. They looked at each other again, and
Hermione felt her love for him well up inside her. He was her best friend. And if she was
Harry's right arm, then Ron was hers. They were the three sides of a triangle, interconnected
and unbreakable.

“I love you, Ron,” she said suddenly, her voice dropping into the quiet of the room.

“*Now* I'm confused,” he joked, but his eyes were regarding her gravely.

“Are you mad at all…about - " she inclined her head toward Harry. He half-smiled at her, a
little sadly, she thought.

“Haven't got enough energy to be mad with,” he said laconically. “Hurts a little.” After a
contemplative pause, he amended, “Maybe more than a little.” He looked slightly uncomfortable to be
revealing that information. “Ever since I saw you at the Yule Ball fourth year…I - I kept hoping
that we'd stop fighting long enough to - and last year, I figured we'd finally gotten -
" He threw his hands up in the air, and his smile twisted.

“If it'd been anybody else, Hermione…Viktor, Ernie, Seamus, Dean, anybody…I could've
have cheerfully hated them for the rest of my life. But you've got me in a bind.
Harry…how'm I supposed to hate him? It's not like he even went and…seduced you away from me
or anything.” He sank down to the floor, resting his elbow on his knees, and looked at her
earnestly. “Because, really, I'm not sure I ever truly had you at all.” Hermione looked
stricken.

“I used to get jealous of Harry…of the attention he got, of the money he had, the fame… but he
doesn't want any of that. He'd give it all up just to have someone that loves him - a
family…something that I've had all my life, and never really appreciated.” He seemed to be
rambling a little now. “If you can give that to him, how can I begrudge him that? I've gotten
used to it, you know - coming in second to Harry, being the sidekick.” Hermione opened her mouth,
as if to protest, but he hurried on. “It's okay,” he said. “I'd rather be Harry's
sidekick, and be with you and him, than front and center all by myself.”

“He's lucky to have you,” Hermione said rather mistily.

“He's lucky to have *you*,” Ron demurred. “And if he -" he started to say, but
Hermione waved him off.

“Spare me the `protective big brother' spiel, please!” She said, laughing. “I don't need
to be convinced that you would well and truly kick his arse if the need arose.” Ron puffed out his
chest in a “see that you don't forget that” way.

Hermione grew quiet again. “You're - you're sure? That you're okay?”

Ron rolled his eyes at her. “I can grow up too, you know. I'll be fine…after a while.” He
tried to smile at her.

“And the Trio?” she asked tentatively. “Are *we* okay?” Her forehead creased as she
regarded him. She would do almost anything for him, but she didn't know if she'd be able to
give up Harry. She was hoping against hope that he would not ask that of her.

With an uncharacteristically discerning look, Ron appeared to know exactly what she was
thinking. “Our friendship,” he nodded toward her, then at Harry beyond her. “You know I'd
rather die that give that up, right? It's been the … the best thing that's ever happened to
me, running with Harry to save you from that troll in the loo.” He appeared at a loss for words.
“There won't be any problems between us on my account.” He looked solemn, as if taking a vow,
and then watched with alarm, as Hermione's eyes filmed over with tears. “You are *not*
going to pull a Cho!” He said frantically, leaping to his feet comically, evidently deciding that
the serious heart-to-heart stuff had gone on long enough. “I refuse to be a party to it.” He went
to the door, and exclaimed in a loud and grateful voice, “Luna! I was looking for you!” And he was
gone. She wondered absently whether or not Luna had actually been out there…and what was going on
with that anyway? *Maybe he won't be alone too long after all.*

Hermione laughed to herself a little, and wiped at the tears that had spilled down her cheeks
during Ron's flight. Then, she looked over at Harry and her smile died.

*The pain* *alone* *could have killed him*. Healer Munson's words echoed
ominously in her head, and she could not shake the feeling of dread that this had somehow been
*planned.* That someone, with malice aforethought, had deliberately and knowingly deactivated
the wards on Harry's legs, knowing the effect it would have on him.

And had the timing been deliberate as well? At a news conference, so the entire wizarding world
could dissect and discuss the poor Boy Who Lived and his infirmities?

Voldemort was dead, his followers scattered and reeling from his demise, or arrested and in
prison, awaiting trial. Who could hate Harry so much? Who could desire to see him in pain? Hermione
could not get her mind around it, and was reminded by an ache spreading from her temples, how short
a time had actually passed since she had been in a hospital bed herself.

She pushed the wheeled chair over to Harry's bedside, and stretched out in it. She reached
out one hand, and laid it on one of his, taking comfort in the warmth that radiated from it. She
watched his chest rise and fall rhythmically, as the wards glowed softly near his feet.

“I love you, Harry Potter,” she whispered in the near-total silence, as she slipped into
sleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry didn't awaken until the next morning. When he opened his eyes, they felt sandy and
heavy, and his head was throbbing in time with his pulse. He shifted a little in his bed, and
groaned involuntarily, and then stared, as he saw a hand wrapped in his own.

Hermione was asleep in his chair.

He watched her unashamedly for a moment, noted the way her lashes fanned darkly down onto her
cheeks, the way her lips moved slightly as if she were reading, even in her sleep. He slid his hand
from around hers; it had gotten sweaty during the night, and he wiped it absent-mindedly on his
bedsheet.

His movements had attracted a mediwitch, who bustled into the room to check on him. Hermione
stirred and awakened at the noise. She looked at him, concern lining her face.

“How do you feel?” slipped out of her mouth before she remembered how tired he must be of that
question.

“Like I've been run over by the Hogwarts Express,” he said candidly. “What happened?”

Hermione explained how the wards had deactivated, thus failing to keep his legs immobile or keep
him from feeling the pain.

“You - you didn't deactivate them, did you, Harry?” Hermione asked cautiously.

“How could I have done that?” he replied, equally mystified.

“Well, you couldn't have, not with your magical reserves at zero. But you're Harry
Potter…you've done impossible things before.”

“Then, *why* would I have done that? It hurt like hell. You'd have to be spare to do
something like that to yourself. It felt like the reductor was hitting me all over again, and then
my scar flared up a bit, and - I don't remember much after that.” He paused and looked at her,
squinting with concentration. “You were fighting with Remus,” he recalled.

“He was trying to make me leave you,” Hermione said, fixing her steady, dark gaze on him. Harry
felt his stomach leave its customary resting place. *Damn.* They stared at each other for a
moment, as the mediwitch finished fussing over Harry, and left the room, completely unnoticed.

“Hermione, I - " he began, but Hermione interrupted him, having noticed something he'd
said a moment earlier.

“Did you say your scar hurt?” Worry stamped itself across her features. “Did you tell the
Healer?”

“When would I have had the chance to tell the healer?” Harry sounded annoyed. “It's no big
deal. It probably hurt because everything else did.”

“Harry, you know when your scar hurt before…” she started.

“He's dead, Hermione!” Harry rapped out suddenly, his harsh voice startling them both. “It
can't be that because *he's dead*. *I killed him!*” The words rang out in the
room, in stark contrast to the normally hushed atmosphere. Harry was panting as if he'd run a
sprint, and Hermione watched as a tremor shuddered over his body.

*He's afraid*, Hermione thought suddenly, not daring to speak those thoughts aloud.
*He's afraid that it's not true.* And somehow that scared her more than anything else
might have.

“Of course he's dead, Harry,” Hermione said in an automatic way, as one would when soothing
a child. “We saw him die.” She decided that she would speak to Healer Munson about his scar
herself.

Harry eyed her suspiciously. “You're patronizing me. You're thinking of going to tell
the healer yourself.” Hermione froze guiltily, startled at his perception.

“Don't be ridiculous, Harry!” she snapped. He raked her with a lofty gaze, looking at her
superiorly, knowing he was right.

“Did you ever talk to Ron?” he asked suddenly, changing the subject abruptly. She looked a bit
discomposed at the sudden shift.

“We…talked,” she hedged, feeling her pulse rate accelerate rapidly. Why was this making her so
nervous? She twined her fingers around each other in her lap.

“How did it go?” Harry said in an intentionally vague way. His hand picked at a thread on the
sheet. He wasn't looking at her.

“We broke up,” she said suddenly. “If you could even call what we were doing dating.”

“Hermione - " he began, the words “please tell me you didn't do this because of me”
plainly apparent in his tone. He finally settled for saying, “Why?” He was still keeping his gaze
down studiously. She took a deep breath.

“He didn't want to be in a relationship with someone who was… in love with someone else.”
There. She'd said it. She closed her eyes reflexively. When she opened them again, he was
looking at her, and she felt the heat rise in her face. The love shining out of his eyes took her
breath away, and she knew that the same emotion was radiating from her face as well.

“Are you?” Harry asked hoarsely. She nodded her head.

“Yes,” she whispered. He smiled a little, but didn't remove his gaze from hers.

“Me too.” His voice was barely audible. Hermione's hands were cold and her fingers trembled
as she clenched them around the metal railing at the side of the bed. He slid his hand over slowly,
and the tips of his fingers grazed her knuckles. She was intensely aware of every place that their
skin touched.

He leaned toward her, but couldn't go very far with half his body fastened to the bed. His
eyes flickered from her mouth back up to her eyes with uncertainty. She decided to close the
distance between him, her mind shrieking something incoherently like *I'm going to kiss him.
I'm going to kiss Harry.*

“Good morning. How is our patient this morning?” Healer Munson strolled in the door, his face
buried in Harry's chart. Hermione fell back into her chair with a thump, as both teenagers
glowered at the intruder.

“I've been better,” Harry murmured truthfully. *I was better right before you walked
in!*

Healer Munson checked the restraint field, and then began to do the wand-scan, talking to Harry,
but watching the readout. “How did you sleep last night?”

“I slept fine. You sedated me.” Harry grumped. The healer looked at him a little reprovingly,
but was evidently used to patients who waxed moody from time to time. Hermione fought off a sudden,
strong urge to laugh.

“Any pain in your legs?”

“Not really. A little achy, but nothing like yesterday.” He was answering the questions
mechanically, but his eyes kept lingering on Hermione. She could feel the warmth creeping up in her
face.

“Then the restraint field has been working properly. How about your jaw? Ribs?”

“They're fine,” Harry answered distantly. Hermione's hand had snaked through the railing
to caress his; she started drawing a lazy pattern on his wrist with her fingernails.

“Tell him about your scar, Harry,” Hermione drawled, and Harry gave her a dirty look.

“What about your scar?” Healer Munson asked with faint surprise.

“It burned a little yesterday…during the - during the ward breakdown. It's fine now.” He
enunciated the last sentence, glaring sharply at Hermione. She did not withdraw her hand, and
continued stroking his skin.

Healer Munson made a note in the chart, and tucked the quill back into his pocket. “Let me know
if it happens again,” he said authoritatively. “If you're still feeling well tomorrow,
we'll start the regimen to repair your legs.”

“Is it - is it Skele-gro?” Harry asked, wrinkling his nose with distaste.

“Some of it is,” Healer Munson replied, nodding. “Your bones aren't gone, but rather
severely damaged, so it gets a little more complicated. The process probably won't be as
unpleasant as straight Skele-gro, but it won't be much fun. There are tendons and nerves and
muscles to be repaired as well.” He leveled his gaze squarely at Harry. “You're in for a long
rehabilitation with those legs. But I think you could walk again.”

Hermione's hand stilled on Harry's, and squeezed it softly.

“Hogwarts is re-opening in three weeks,” Harry said, a little desperately. “It's my seventh
year. Will I be able to go back?” The healer appeared to mull this over for a moment.

“It depends on your progress. If you're doing well enough, then it's possible that
Madame Pomfrey could monitor your condition as well as I could.”

It wasn't an unequivocal yes, but Harry would take it, under the circumstances. “Thank you,”
he said. Healer Munson nodded, but his expression was guarded, warning Harry not to get his hopes
up.

Soon after the healer left, Ron came in, carrying a tray full of muffins, with one half-eaten in
his hand.

“Goo' mor'ig,” he said through a huge bite. Hermione watched him carefully. He seemed
cheerful enough, but there were large shadows under his eyes. He tossed Harry a muffin, and offered
Hermione the tray, which she declined.

The three of them sat for awhile, not sure what to say, eying each other with wary expressions.
Harry was watching them like Ron was a bludger and Hermione was the Golden Snitch.

“Bloody hell, this is ridiculous!” Ron finally burst out, after swallowing the rest of his
muffin. “I'm not mad at anybody, and I'll be fine. So quit looking at me like I'm some
sort of - "

“Invalid?” Harry said sharply. Ron looked back at him, with something akin to panic in his
eyes.

“Harry, that's not -" he said, but Harry grinned suddenly, taking the sting out of his
retort.

“I was going to say `pathetic loser', you wanker,” Ron muttered, throwing another muffin at
him and laughing.

“Where've you been this morning?” Harry asked presently, in a more natural tone.

“Went home,” Ron said in a muffled voice, stuffing most of another muffin in his mouth.
“Showered, slept a little, thrashed Bill at chess, and came back here.” Hermione was watching him
surreptitiously. *You didn't sleep much*, she thought to herself.

“Bill and Fleur were over?” she asked politely.

“Yeah…” Ron rolled his eyes. “I think I'll like them a lot better once they've been
married for a few years. It's still too much, `No, sit down, sweetheart, *I'll* refill
your glass.' `Oh, isn't he ze most adorable zing you've ever seen?'” He imitated
Fleur's accent, and mimed gagging himself.

“I think it's lovely,” Hermione said vaguely, staring at Harry. Then she stiffened suddenly,
and gasped as if she'd just remembered something. “You went home. I was supposed to go home.
Why didn't my parents ever show up?” She jumped up out of the chair, and scrabbled under it for
her shoes that she'd kicked off at some point during the night. “Something must be wrong. What
if - ?”

“Ease up, Hermione,” Ron called out. “They came by last night. I told them that Harry'd had
a bad go of it, and you were staying with him. That you'd be home tomorrow.”

Hermione paused and straightened up, one shoe dangling from her hand. She looked almost
astonished. “Thank you, Ronald.” Ron read her surprise, and answered in a miffed tone.

“You're welcome, Hermione.” She drew back a little, and lowered her brows at him.

“Why do you say it like that?”

“I didn't say it like anything,” Ron retorted. “You're the one who said thank you, like
you couldn't believe that I would do something considerate. I'll have you know I'm a
very compassionate person.”

“Compassionate?” Hermione snorted. “Is that what Zacharias Smith would call you for hanging him
through a Quidditch hoop and leaving him there on the last day of term last year?”

“He deserved that!” Ron seethed. “You should've heard what he said about Gryffindor.”

“You're a *prefect*, Ron….” Hermione began primly. Harry stopped listening, but leaned
back in the bed, feeling the patter of his friends' bickering washing over him like rain,
strangely content.

“Oy!” Ron shouted suddenly, cutting Hermione off in mid-rant. “I almost forgot.” He darted out
into the hallway, and returned almost immediately with a stack of newspapers and periodicals.
“Brought these for you.”

“Aw, Ron!” Harry protested, eying the stack warily.

“Biggest lot of hippogriff dung *I've* ever seen. But I thought you'd enjoy it.”
Ron said cheerfully.

“You've been my best mate for six years. How is it that you obviously don't know me at
all?” Harry muttered sourly, then looked at his friends sharply. They seemed to be having a
conversation without speaking. “Yes, Hermione,” Harry said in a biting tone. “I'm sure Ron
edited out all the articles that might upset me. They're probably out in the hall for you to
read later.”

Ron and Hermione both eyed him guiltily.

“Damn, Harry!” Ron said, impressed. Harry glowered at them a moment longer, then held out his
hand for the first newspaper.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Healer Munson regarded him so gravely the next morning that Harry was more than a little
unsettled. He had awakened in rather low spirits, which he thought was partially due to the fact
that he and Hermione had not had another chance to be alone together, due to the constant flow of
visitors and well-wishers in and out of his hospital room. He could also faintly remember vague
shreds of a worrisome dream, though he couldn't say what it had been about.

He looked back at the healer and gulped. Hermione had arrived early, and was standing by his
bed, holding his hand. A mediwitch wheeled in a small, metal cart, loaded with various potions.

“Harry,” Healer Munson began. “Our objective is to first repair the damage done by the reductor
spell. The potions should achieve that end, but it will not be pleasant. Once the legs have been
healed, then you will have to deal with the weak muscles and relearn the act of walking.”

“Let me guess…that won't be pleasant either, will it?” Harry asked dryly.

“Many times, we can use the patient's own magical abilities to assist us in the healing
process. To help us in this, since your reserves are at zero, we'll give you an Amplitude
potion, which should start building back your strength, magically speaking.”

“That sounds good,” Harry said amenably. “Why couldn't I take this earlier…through the
tape-stuff?” He held up the hand that was attached to the array of potions above and behind his
bed.

“We don't give it often. It would be preferable for you to build back your magical reserves
at your own pace and under your own power. There are usually side effects.”

“Such as?” Hermione prodded.

“Uncontrolled magical output, nightmares, visual and auditory hallucinations, nausea, vomiting…”
Healer Munson raised his eyebrows in a “shall I continue” manner. Hermione and Harry exchanged
glances of trepidation.

“'Uncontrolled magical output'?” Harry questioned.

“Wandless spells cast accidentally…sometimes quite powerful ones.”

“Great,” Harry said. “So when I'm not losing my lunch, I'm going to be hearing voices or
blowing holes in walls, right?”

“Does he have to do this now? Can't we just slow down?” Hermione asked, anxiously.

“The effects only last a couple of days. It is the quickest and safest way, if he wants to
return to school as soon as possible.” Hermione looked questioningly at Harry, who nodded.

“Think about it, Hermione,” Harry said, and his eyes lit up. “It's seventh year…seventh year
and no Voldemort. Everyone's coming back. There'll be dances and Hogsmeade and Quidditch
and -"

“And N.E.W.T.s…” Hermione said, her eyes growing huge with realization.

“You play Quidditch?” Healer Munson asked in a disarming tone.

“Seeker,” Harry said, smiling a little, thinking of the House teams being reconstituted.
*Seeker…Quidditch Captain…the House Cup…*

“I'm afraid you'll be in no condition to play Quidditch at any time during this school
year.” Harry opened his mouth as if to protest, but the healer continued sympathetically. “I said
you'd probably walk again. That's what I'm working towards. Anything beyond that would
remain to be seen, and may be quite unlikely.”

Harry went stony-faced during the healer's statement, and was thinking morosely. *If I
can't use my legs enough to play Quidditch, then I reckon I can't be an Auror either.*
He felt despair raging within him. *The two things I'm* *good at: Quidditch and Defense
A**gainst Dark Arts, and I can't do either.* *I've defeated Voldemort…to do what
exactly?*

“What am I supposed to do?” he said aloud. Healer Munson misunderstood him.

“Take things one day at a time,” he offered sincerely, if not particularly helpfully. He felt
Hermione's hand on his shoulder, and then fingers threading gently through the hair at the nape
of his neck. For some reason, her touch annoyed him, and he had to fight the urge to shake her
hands away.

*How could she possibly understand? For the first time in my life, I have a chance to have an
actual life, and I'm - I'm broken.* She felt the tension in his neck and shoulders, and
quietly withdrew her hands. He instantly was ashamed.

“Let's get on with it then, shall we?” he said, in a light tone, gesturing toward the array
of potions. Hermione eyed him suspiciously, not fooled by his sudden optimism. The mediwitch began
handing him the vials to be drunk, while Healer Munson fiddled around with the restraint field. A
low-level ache swelled in his knees. “Hey, that hurts,” he protested.

“You're going to have to be weaned off of the restraint field's pain-killing aspects.
I'm only turning it down slightly…there will be a potion available, if the pain becomes
unbearable. It will still keep your legs immobile.”

Harry began to knock back the potions one by one. They all tasted quite vile, and his mouth felt
like it had been rinsed with grit by the time he drank the last one. He rubbed his tongue against
the roof of his mouth and made a noise that sounded like “Fleh.”

“It's important that you refrain from doing any magic today. We'll be able to test your
levels tomorrow, and see if they've risen at all.” Healer Munson said. “The other potions you
took should head off the worst of the nausea and hallucinations, but if you need us, do not
hesitate to let someone know.”

“Are you really okay?” Hermione asked softly, as the healer and the mediwitch left the room.

“I'm fine,” Harry said, more harshly than he intended. His knees were throbbing.

“You were upset when Healer Munson said no Quidditch.” She pointed out, and he glared at
her.

“Is that unreasonable?” He retorted, nearly shouting. “It's seventh year. I'm finally
free of my damn destiny. Hogwarts is going to be back to normal. And you - finally - we - " He
flushed slightly and looked down. “And it's all - it's - *he's* managed to
overshadow everything, to ruin everything he's touched…even after death.”

“We're alive, Harry. *You won*. He hasn't ruined everything he's touched.
You're still you.” She swallowed. “And I love you for it.”

“It's not very fair to you, is it?” he asked with chagrin.

“To - to me?” Hermione seemed a little flabbergasted. “It hasn't anything to do with …
Harry, if you're thinking of being all noble and self-sacrificing again…”

“I just - I - I just - " He dropped his head into his hands and sighed. “This isn't how
I thought it would be.” *No Quidditch. No Auror training. No future…*

“What isn't how you thought it would be?” she asked gently. Her fingers were playing in his
hair.

“I thought I could - " he seemed at a loss for words.

“Pick up where you left off?” she filled in for him, quirking her lips in a sympathetic smile.
“Life doesn't work like that, Harry. What happens to us affects us…and others…and it can't
be undone.”

“I don't want to be a burden… I don't want you to trundle me about like a baby in a
pram.” He said, knowing the words sounded ridiculous, but *feeling* them so deeply that they
came out anyway.

“Harry, Healer Munson said you'd walk again.” There was steel buried under the layers of
Hermione's soft voice. “I believe him. And as for Quidditch…or anything else, for that matter,
well…you're Harry Potter, and you do the impossible on a regular basis.”

“And if not?” he replied in a cynical way that made her heart hurt.

“Then we'll adapt.” She lifted her chin with more confidence than she actually felt.

“You shouldn't have to adapt! We should - you should just be able to - "

“Love *is* adaptation, Harry. Willingness to change…willingness to give things up.”

“Hermione…” he said raggedly. She watched him critically. He looked pale and tired. “You - you -
" He groped desperately for words, but could find none. “You deserve more,” he finally
finished. “I want to be the one to give you more, but instead I'm going to be the one holding
you back.”

“You're not -" she started.

“I *am*!” His voice cracked with the intensity of emotions that rippled through him.
“You're going to be famous, Hermione. Hell, you already *are*!” He gestured toward the
pile of periodicals still on the table. “You're young, beautiful, intelligent, and you helped
save the wizarding world. You could have anything…anybody…”

Something ferocious flickered and snapped in Hermione's eyes like a tongue of dancing
flame.

“I don't appreciate your selling me short, Harry,” she said in a clipped tone. “If you think
- if you think that matters to me *at all*…if you think that my - that I'm that shallow
and - and fickle…and - and - then, then I - I - " She floundered for a moment, and then said
in a tear-clogged voice, “Damn you, Harry Potter.” She wondered vaguely if this is how Ginny felt
when Harry told her he was leaving her behind.

He looked up at her in shock, when he realized she was crying. In a terrible paradox, he knew
that he couldn't stand to watch her cry, even while he was trying to push her away.

“Hermione…” he whispered, his voice a ragged shadow hissing about the corners of the room. He
tried to tip her chin up so she would look at him. “Hermione, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - I
just - I just want you to know that I'm - I'm not holding you to anything.”

“I know you're not. But *I'm* holding myself to something.” She looked at him with
watery, determined eyes. “Do you know how long I've loved you?” He opened his mouth to hazard a
guess, but the question must have been rhetorical, for she breezed on. “You wanted to give me more?
Do *you* love *me*?”

He hesitated.

“Do you love me?” she said again, enunciating every syllable. He briefly considered lying to
her, and then tossed that thought aside, the look in her eyes melting away his resistance, his
noble ideals, his martyrdom.

“I wish you knew how much,” he said in a low, impassioned tone, his words tumbling out over each
other. His eyes were searching her face, and she felt warmth liquefy and slosh around delightfully
in the pit of her stomach.

Her eyes were awash with new tears, and her chin trembled.

“Then you're giving me my dreams, Harry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. She sat down on
the bed beside him, her hip snugly where the bed bent upwards to support Harry's back. He was
startled to find his eyes stinging as well, while she reached up and softly caressed the skin of
his cheek with the backs of her fingers.

He closed his eyes and leaned his cheek into her hand. “Your dreams?” he asked, for lack of
anything better to say, and to get his mind off of the waves of desire that were churning through
him, driven by a gale force. “Which ones?”

“Every dream, all my dreams,” she said softly, and how was it possible for her face to be so
close to his? Her eyes were pools of tawny fire, and he was going to drown in them, and he
didn't care. He felt his heart rate accelerate rapidly, and could see her pulse beat mirroring
his in the smooth column of her neck.

“My only dream,” he whispered back. And then their lips brushed softly, almost accidentally.
They drew back and gazed at each other for a second; Hermione muttered something strangled and
unintelligible, before her lips collided with his again.

Harry's world fell apart, blasted to smithereens by the force of the emotion and desire
surging through him. He felt as if the world had melted away, splintered into prismatic light, and
then calmly reconstructed itself, while he clung desperately to Hermione. He was no longer aware of
anything around him, anything save the soft velvet of her lips, the roaring of his blood in his
ears, and the way her body pressed against his.

“Hermione, I -" he gasped with difficulty, breaking the kiss and breathing heavily. “I love
- " Something moved out of the corner of his eye, and he snapped his head around to look. It
slithered into the shadows under the table.

“Harry, what's wrong?” The shining light in her eyes had been replaced with concern.

“Get your wand out,” he said urgently.

“Harry -?”

“We didn't kill it. Nagini's here…I saw her…” He pointed under the table. “I thought she
was dead. I thought Voldemort was dead…” his voice trailed off as he stared under the table,
transfixed with dread, like one who stops to watch a grisly automobile accident.

*I'm going to kill her. You know that, don't you, boy?* A high, cold voice rang in
his head, and he looked toward the ceiling, his eyes roving desperately in the corners of the room.
Hermione watched him, as he appeared to be searching for something that she could not see.

“No, I won't let you - " he said. *What are you going to do? How can you stop me?
You're helpless…half a person…*

“Harry…” Hermione pleaded, looking at him with anxious eyes. He looked back at her then, and his
eyes were vales of sorrow, clouded with regret.

“I'm sorry, Hermione,” he said wistfully. “We were wrong. He's not dead…I can hear him
talking.”

“No, Harry…it's the potion, the potion Healer Munson gave you. It causes hallucinations,
remember? This isn't real. Nagini isn't here. Voldemort's not talking to you.
Harry…Harry!” she said, speaking more sharply to get his attention.

He was staring at his open hands, laying palm up on the sheet, with something like horror. Blood
was smeared on them, rusty-red and sticky…it was seeping on the sheets, the crimson standing out
starkly, like a mute accusation on the pristine white field. He rubbed them on the sheets, but the
blood was congealing and wouldn't wipe off.

“Oh…Oh God…” he stammered, utterly horrified. *You're a filthy murderer,* the voice
sneered. *We're the same, you and I…we're the same.* “No…no.. I'm not! I'm not
like you!” His voice was frantic and frightened.

Hermione saw him scrubbing desperately at his hands, and began to feel real fear well up inside
of her.

“Harry,” she said in as calm and clear a voice as she could muster. “Harry, look at me.” He
obeyed, his hands still twisting in the sheets. His eyes were shrouded and uncertain. “It's not
real. It's the potion Healer Munson gave you. The Amplitude potion, remember?”

Harry's breath hitched a little in his chest, and his hands stilled in his lap. *That
Mudblood bitch doesn't know who she's dealing with*, the cold voice snarled*.*
Harry closed his eyes tightly, and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, he looked under
the table in the corner. There was no snake.

“Are you real?” he asked her, and the confusion and heartbreak in his voice made her want to
cry.

“I'm real,” she replied seriously, her eyes dark and somber. His eyes darted around
nervously, as if he were still hearing something audible only to him.

“The - the kiss?” A muscle jumped in his jaw. She smiled.

“That was real too.” Her voice was warm, soothing, like balm to his soul.

“V - Vo - Voldemort?”

“He's dead, Harry.”

*She'll realize how wrong she is when I carve her from* *limb to**…*

“Stop it, stop it, *stop it,*” he said frantically, clenching his hands into fists, and
pressing them to his face.

“Harry…” Hermione said desperately, her arms around him, holding him. She could feel the quaver
running through him, even as his shoulders remained tense and rigid.

“Hermione?” Ron poked his head in the door. “What's going on?” Hermione had never been so
glad to see him in her life.

“Get the healer,” Hermione ordered. “He's hallucinating.” Ron bolted from the doorway,
without another word. “Harry, please…”

“It's everywhere. It's everywhere.” Harry mumbled, rubbing his hands into the sheets
again. “I can't get it off. I'm just like him. Just like him.”

“No, you're not. You're a good, decent person. You didn't kill out of pleasure…you
killed out of necessity. This was Voldemort's doing. He instigated it, not you. Harry, listen
to me, please!”

He looked at her again, and swallowed convulsively.

“Hermione?”

“What, love?” she said, her eyes moist with compassion.

“I'm - I'm going to be sick,” he said weakly.

And she brushed his damp hair back from his clammy forehead and held the basin, as the Boy Who
Lived vomited weakly into it. She made soft shushing noises, as he looked at her, and his cheeks
burned red.

“I'm - I'm sorry…” he said quietly, embarrassed that she had witnessed that. Then,
“you're real?” in a tentative, hesitant voice.

“I'm real, Harry,” she said, cradling his head on her shoulder, as she gratefully heard the
commotion of rushing feet out in the corridor. “And I'm not going anywhere.”

**TBC**

**I had some trouble with this chapter, so I hope it meets with approval. The timeline of the
story is probably going to start moving faster now; so far the whole thing has taken up about a
week or so of time. We may be spanning month****s** **in the timeline soon.**

**Enjoy and review!**

-->



9. Quidditch and Conspiracies
-----------------------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART II: The Interim**

**Chapter Four: Quidditch and Conspiracies**

Harry's face turned a brilliant shade of glowing red as the applause swelled and resounded
in the Great Hall, washing over him in a ripple of sound. He exchanged a rueful glance with Ron and
Hermione, who were flanking him on either side, and limped carefully into the large room, his hands
clenched tightly around the crossbars of Muggle crutches. There were narrow silver bands above and
below each knee, powering a portable restraint field, which kept his legs slightly bent and
immobile much like braces would.

It hadn't been three weeks, but over five before he'd been allowed to leave the
hospital, and even then, he was required to return once a week for a therapy session, something
that had resulted in the Gryffindor Head common room being hooked up to the Floo network.
McGonagall had figured that the three of them might as well stay there, and so they had settled
into their private suite eagerly.

The applause continued, punctuated by cheers, shouts, and whistles, as Harry hobbled slowly up
to their normal spots at the Gryffindor table. He handed Ron the crutches, as Hermione helped him
sit. His face was radiant, as the clapping didn't stop, even after he sat down.

He looked around, trying to smile, but looking obviously and incredibly self-conscious. To his
horror, there was a scraping of wood against stone, as his fellow students stood to their feet
almost as one. The teachers at the staff table stood too; he saw Lupin, who, he had been informed
by Hermione and Ron, had taken the D.A.D.A. post, which had remained unfilled up until the
re-opening of Hogwarts. The applause seemed interminable.

“Dear God,” he murmured through clenched teeth to Hermione and Ron, as they smiled innocently at
him, and stood as well, applauding with their classmates.

Somewhere, a camera flashed, leaving Harry starry-eyed. Through the blue spots in his vision, he
could see a wide grin and wildly waving arm. “Hi, Colin,” he said, with a wry look.

At length, the noise dwindled away, and a loud murmur filled the Hall as the students tucked in
to their dinner. Harry could still feel eyes on him, and he knew that the noisy and excited
conversations probably had him as their chief subject.

Hermione and Ron were still grinning giddily at each other, at the success of their triumphal
entry.

“Traitors,” Harry muttered darkly at them, stabbing a piece of chicken and dumping it
unceremoniously on his plate. He could feel Hermione's concerned eyes on him, as he filled his
plate. The Amplitude potion had given him a rough time, not for a couple of days, but for over a
week. She had been alarmed at the rate at which his weight had dropped. Even now, he was pale and
thin, with virtually permanent shadows under his eyes. He looked less like a conquering hero than
someone who was recovering from a protracted and serious illness.

“Come on, Harry!” Ron said, unintimidated. “Would you really have wanted us to sit here all
sulky like Malfoy, instead of standing and cheering for you?” The Slytherin had neither stood nor
applauded with the other students, along with a significant portion of his house.

Harry craned his neck, with interest, toward the Slytherin table. “So they've let him come
back then?”

“He arrived yesterday,” Hermione told him, following his gaze. Draco Malfoy looked more sullenly
arrogant than ever, seated at one end of the table, putting food on his plate without meeting
anyone's gaze. His housemates were seated around him, but he did not seem to be surrounding by
groupies and lackeys, as was his wont.

“He owes it to you,” Ron said, sounding gleeful. “And he knows it…and it totally pisses him
off.”

“He…he didn't really do anything…” Harry drew out slowly. “He couldn't go through with
the plot to kill Dumbledore. He did aid our side at Hogsmeade, by taking me to Voldemort, instead
of letting people continue to fight and die.” He shrugged. “All I did was tell the truth.”

“Do you think Malfoy would have told the truth if he was faced with an opportunity to put
*you* away for good?” Ron asked bluntly. Harry had to admit he had a point.

“My gran was furious,” Neville put in, from where he'd been quietly listening to their
conversation. “She couldn't believe that they let him come back to Hogwarts, after he let Death
Eaters into the school.”

“It was McGonagall's doing. She said Dumbledore would have wanted him to have another
chance. But the board of governors did put him on probation,” Hermione observed. “If he puts one
toe out of line this year…” Ron smiled into his potatoes, evidently picturing what would happen if
Draco got into trouble.

“He never actually became a Death Eater,” Harry continued, uncertain as to exactly why he was
defending Malfoy. “I think it pissed Voldemort off that he - that he - "

“Skived off of his assignment, and Snape had to save his pathetic arse?” Ron finished for him,
stuffing a roll into his mouth theatrically.

“At least they put Snape in Azkaban,” Neville said with some relief, even though the former
professor wouldn't have been present this year to make his life a misery.

“He killed Dumbledore!” Ron said, his voice starting out loudly, but hushing around the former
headmaster's name. “Doesn't matter why he did it. Of course they put him in Azkaban.”

That was exactly what the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot had said, Harry reflected grimly.
*The Wizengamot does not and cannot condone murder.* Harry's testimony had mitigated
Snape's sentence, but it would still be many years before he got out of Azkaban. He shivered as
he remembered the hearings in that dank courtroom in the Ministry basement, as he sat before a row
of venerable and solemn wizards and witches, recounting in every detail what had happened that
night. He wondered if anyone would ever let him forget it.

“Then I should be in Azkaban as well,” Harry said quietly, yet still effectively killing the
conversation. Hermione noted that he was wiping his left hand against the leg of his jeans,
something he had continued to do absent-mindedly, even after the hallucinations had stopped.

“Harry, what you did and what Snape did are not the same thing…*at all*,” Hermione said
firmly, her tone brooking no argument. Ron looked slightly taken aback at Harry's reactions to
his words, and was nodding emphatically along with Hermione's statement.

“I know that, Hermione,” Harry replied, with a somewhat bitter smile. “I'm not actually
*in* Azkaban, now am I?” He shifted at the table, and reached behind him where his crutches
were propped, coming to his feet with more than a little bit of struggling.

Neville watched in disbelief, as Hermione and Ron did not move to help him. He started to stand,
but Hermione put her hand out, and shook her head subtly in warning. Neville complied, but watched
her without comprehension. The first time Hermione and Ron had observed his unaided efforts to
stand, and rushed to help him, he'd sworn a blue streak at them, and pitched a thorough fit.
He'd felt helpless and awkward, and that made him embarrassed, and his embarrassment made him
angry. Some things he didn't mind, such as Hermione's discreet hand on his arm, as they sat
down to dinner, but this would have been a display that he abhorred, and his mood was already
souring.

“Harry, you haven't eaten,” Hermione said softly, looking at his untouched plate. Harry
looked at it too, emotionlessly.

“I'm not hungry,” he said. “I'm going back to the common room.”

“Can you - ” *make it up the stairs?* Hermione was going to ask, but Harry cut her off.

“I'll be fine, Hermione,” Harry said in a tired voice, and limped toward the double doors.
He felt the conversations cease as he passed by, and the stares felt like physical weights pressing
into his back and shoulders. Hermione could see the tense lines of his spine and neck, and knew
that he was trying to keep himself under control.

When the doors thudded shut behind him, Hermione let her head drop briefly into her hands.

“Hermione?” Neville asked, watching curiously, not understanding the undercurrents that were
flowing between the Trio. Hermione let out a long and gusty sigh.

“He's not letting me in again. He lets me close and then pushes me away, walls himself up.”
Ron eyed her sympathetically. They had had this conversation before. As difficult as it was being
the best mate of the Boy Who Lived, Ron couldn't imagine what Hermione was going through.

“He feels guilty,” Ron said succinctly.

“For killing Voldemort?” Neville asked, his tone incredulous.

“For killing *anybody* at all,” Hermione answered. “For being alive, when other people are
dead. For being angry at being handicapped, when he should be grateful he's alive. He thinks
that Ron and I are `taking care of him', and that makes him annoyed and frustrated, and he
feels guilty some more for cramping our style…or some such nonsense. Not to mention that he
*still* thinks I'd be better off without him.” Neville's eyes had been flitting back
and forth from Hermione to Ron during her speech.

“Are - are you and Harry…?” he stammered, gesticulating with one hand. Hermione blushed a
little, and Ron became very interested in his food. She nodded tersely. Neville didn't say
anything else on the subject, but his eyes wandered down the table to where Ginny was sitting,
obvious questions in his eyes.

There was a strained silence at the table, and Neville was left to wonder if he'd said
something wrong. Hermione toyed with her food for a moment, before slamming her fork down in
frustration, and rising noisily from the table.

“I'm going to go find him,” she said shortly. Ron nodded, but did not look up from his
plate, until she'd gone.

When she got out in the Great Hall, she was relieved to find that he had not tried the stairs by
himself after all. The large doors that served as Hogwarts' main entrance were slightly ajar,
and moonlight streamed bluely through the crack. She pushed it open softly, enough to slip between
the doors, and saw him sitting on a stone step, his legs splayed awkwardly out in front of him, as
the restraint fields prevented him from flexing them much. His crutches lay nearby, though far away
enough that she wondered if he'd thrown them down in anger.

Her foot barely made a sound on the stone stairs, but Harry said, “Hermione, go away,” without
turning around. She hesitated, her foot hovering over the next step down.

“I won't,” she said clearly, finishing her step, and continuing down to sit beside him. He
turned abruptly toward her with a frustration born of fury and despair.

“I just want to be left alone. Why can't you leave me alone?” he said. The night was chilly,
and his breath puffed from his mouth and nose in small clouds. He tried not to notice the way the
moon reflected in her eyes.

“Because I love you,” she answered quietly.

“You shouldn't,” he replied, more calmly. “I'm - I'm a wreck, I - "

“Harry, with all you've been through - " she said hastily, trying to placate him.

“*Don't* make excuses for me. I'm tired of everyone making excuses for me. Poor
crippled Harry; he's gone barking mad, you know.”

“You are *not* mad!” Hermione cried, laying one hand on his arm, trying to force him to
look at her. Her chin trembled mutinously. “Please don't ever say that again.”

“What if I am, Hermione?” And he sounded scared. “I still hear him, you know.”

“Harry, the medication's…” she began.

“Side effects wore off weeks ago,” he finished for her. “I'm not talking about the
hallucinations. I can hear his voice, in my head. Telling me I'm not good enough, telling me
that I've failed in every way that really matters, telling me that I'm just like him…a
murderer…telling me that he's going to kill you…and make me watch.” The last words were said so
quietly that Hermione thought she'd heard wrong. His eyes darted over to hers, and she saw real
fear there.

“Harry, it's - " she began, but he headed her off, knowing what she was going to
say.

“If it's not real, then I'm going mad,” he said decisively. He lowered his hands from
his lap to the stairs, bracing himself against them. Hermione noted that his hands were trembling.
She laid one hand on top of his, and even as upset as they both were, the touch still shot through
them both like an electric current.

“Harry, you had a - a link with Voldemort. This could be perfectly normal….an - an aftereffect
of that link, an echo.” He reached his other hand up to absently touch his forehead.

“My scar?” he asked. Hermione shrugged, looking at him with hopeful eyes.

“It's possible,” she replied. Then she bracketed his face with both hands, and turned him to
face her. “You are not crazy, Harry. You've gone through something traumatic, and you
aren't going to come out of it unscathed. But you are not mad.” She enunciated her words
clearly. “You've more baggage than most, perhaps. But that doesn't mean I love you any
less.”

His gaze held hers for a long moment.

“Maybe you're the one who's mad,” he observed; he did not smile, but traces of humor
glinted in his green eyes. “I do love you, Hermione,” he said in a low, meaningful voice. She saw
desperate apology stamped on his face, and she knew that he meant it, that he loved her, even when
he was pushing her away in spite of himself. She felt her eyes slide shut in something like
gratitude, and she shivered when his lips touched hers. “You're cold,” he realized, drawing
away from her.

She shook her head, and pulled him back toward her, lacing her fingers through his hair and
around to the nape of his neck.

“Not when you're here, Harry. Not anymore,” she whispered as he kissed her again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Ron muttered in a foreboding tone. “Have you any idea how
moody he's been lately? I'm afraid to say two words to him.”

“Nonsense,” Ginny said briskly, throwing her Quidditch robes around her shoulders, and fastening
them. “It's a perfectly brilliant idea, Hermione.”

“I still think it might make him feel worse,” Ron muttered, slipping his hands into his
gloves.

“It will make him feel worse if you go around moping like your best mate just died,” Hermione
snapped. “Are you all doing this out of pity? He can*not* think that you're doing this out
of pity.”

“No, Hermione,” Jimmy Peakes said, twiddling his bat around in his hands, nervously. “He was a
great captain… we won the Cup last year, didn't we?”

“After last night…” Ron began, recalling the scene at dinner.

“It has to be now, Ron,” Hermione said insistently. “Gryffindor's first game is next week.
You'll have to have time to practice.”

“It's Slytherin, Hermione,” Ron protested. “Three of their team members have parents in
Azkaban now. And Malfoy isn't exactly winning popularity contests there anymore. They're
bound to be demoralized.”

Hermione opened her mouth for a biting rebuttal, but she whirled toward the locker room entrance
suddenly, her curly hair arcing outward behind her. “He's coming. Is everything ready?”

Ginny had been placing his boots in front of the Quidditch uniform that was draped prominently
over a chair. On the seat of the chair was the black playbook, which had practically been Oliver
Wood's Bible, and had been passed down to every Gryffindor captain since who knew when. She
looked up at Hermione and nodded in satisfaction.

“I'll be right back,” Hermione hissed, and she darted through the doors, flying through them
so quickly that the sunlight was no more than a flash of brilliance that was gone again almost
immediately.

Harry was already in a foul mood.

“Why'd you have me come all the way down here, Hermione?” He had struggled laboriously down
to the pitch on his crutches, and was already hot and tired, even though the day was not overly
warm.

“I thought it'd be a nice change. We could walk round the pitch, and then you could undo the
restraints and exercise your legs. I'll help you.” She kept her voice neutral, and watched him,
wondering if he was going to acquiesce to her suggestion.

He lifted his head toward the brisk breeze that blew around the field and closed his eyes, as it
ruffled his hair. “It *is* nice out here,” he admitted. She watched his eyes open again, and
drift slowly around the pitch, taking in the empty seats, the announcer's booth, and both sets
of hoops. Something a little forlorn flickered behind his eyes.

“The first game is next week, isn't it?” he asked, as his gaze zigzagged over the field,
mentally replaying his flights to the Snitch. Hermione nodded, and he sighed. “I miss
Quidditch.”

“We were hoping you would say that,” came Ron's voice suddenly, and Harry pivoted in the
direction of the locker room, as the Gryffindor Quidditch team spilled out onto the pitch in full
practice regalia. “Your uniform's in there,” he added, inclining his head back toward the door
that they had just exited.

“I can't -” Harry stammered, but Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had already seen the excitement
flare up in his green eyes. His eyes tripped over the faces; there were Coote and Peakes back as
Beaters, Dean Thomas as a chaser, replacing the graduated Katie Bell, along with Demelza and Ginny,
and then… “Dennis?” Harry said incredulously, looking at the impossibly skinny Creevey brother with
ears too big for his head.

“He was wicked fast at trials, Harry,” Ron said, looking a trifle apologetic at having to hold
trials at all, in Harry's absence. “And he flew pretty well with Dean. Ginny's the
Seeker.”

“You might not be able to play,” Ginny said, biting her lip a little shyly, speaking in the
first real conversation she'd had with him since he got out of the hospital. “But there's
nothing in the rule book that says you can't still be our captain.” Harry turned toward
Hermione, a growing look of cautious optimism on his face.

“Really?” he asked. Hermione nodded, and tossed him something small and stretchy that she'd
been holding in her hand.

“Fred and George gave me these,” she said. “They're kind of a version of the Extendable Ear.
If you have one and Ron has the other, you can sit in the stands, and give Ron the plays.”

Harry disentangled the elastic strands from each other, and tossed the second object to Ron.
“Hermione, that's bloody brilliant,” Ron said.

Hermione shrugged. “They're *your* brothers.” Harry slipped one end into his ear, and
the long part swirled around in a prehensile way like it had a mind of its own, finally curving
along the length of his jaw, and settling into place near his mouth. Ron did the same.

“Can you hear me, mate?” Ron asked, and Harry heard his tinny voice through the earpiece. A real
grin spread across Harry's face, and Hermione's heart turned somersaults at the sight of
it.

“Fred and George *are* brilliant.” Harry acknowledged.

“Go on, then,” Ron said, gesturing toward the locker room. Harry thought it was slightly odd to
be hearing Ron in stereo, in real time and through the Extendable Ear. Harry nodded, and Hermione
thought she saw a hint of nervousness return to his eyes, as he began picking his way slowly and
carefully down the ramp to the locker room.

When he returned, Hermione saw that he had not bothered with the uniform pants, instead leaving
on his jeans, and just putting on the jersey, robes, and gloves. He had not bothered with the boots
either. Hermione remembered that he had admitted to her, embarrassed, that Ron had been helping him
put his shoes on every morning, as he could not bend his knees enough to even reach his feet.

Still, he managed to look every inch the Quidditch champion, even on crutches, with his
Gryffindor robes swirling out behind him in red and gold folds and the battered black playbook
tugged snugly under one arm. Hermione felt her cheeks warm just from looking at him.

“I couldn't manage my broom with these,” he admitted, gesturing toward his crutches. Ron
went to retrieve the Firebolt for him, as the smile quickly toppled off of Hermione's face.

“Harry, nobody said anything about flying.” He had put the Extendable Ear carefully into his
pocket.

“I'm not going to fly like I'm *playing*, Hermione,” he replied. “Surely if we
adjust the restraint field, I can at least hover about on a broom, and coach the practice.”

“But - but the Bludgers - ” she protested.

“This will be the perfect test for Peakes and Coote then, won't it?” he asked her blandly,
his eyes going to the two Gryffindor Beaters, who exchanged glances of trepidation. If a Bludger
got by them and walloped the great Harry Potter, then there was no doubt in either of their minds
that Hermione Granger would kill them both…in the most painful manner possible, most likely,
leaving neither evidence nor witnesses.

Hermione stood there, tense and motionless. She didn't like it at all, but was loath to say
so in front of the Gryffindor team. Undermining him now could do even more damage, perhaps
irreparable, to his confidence and their still-fledgling relationship. The other Quidditch players
tried to act like they could not feel the tension crackling between the two seventh years.

After a long appraising look at Hermione, Harry hobbled over to the first row of bleachers,
sitting down carefully to adjust the restraint fields, as Ron returned from the locker room with
the Firebolt.

“You should do something,” Hermione hissed at Ron, as he passed by. Ron eyed her curiously, with
a “who, me?” look on his face.

“He needs to know he can do this,” Ron shot back, *sotto voce*.

“It's just a *game*!” Hermione seethed, and Ron looked quite offended.

“It's *Quidditch*! And he'll be fine.” He approached Harry with the beloved
broomstick, and Hermione watched as Ron directed him to hover, while he realigned the restraint
fields. She watched him wince, as Ron pushed his knees into as bent a position as they could
achieve, and realized she was wincing in tandem with him, while anxiety creased her forehead.

He couldn't very well kick off from the ground, so Ron got ready to give him a hand up.
Hermione appeared to be in battle with herself, but she finally trotted over beside him, laying a
hand on the handle of the Firebolt, in a gesture for Ron to wait.

“Please be careful?” she asked in a questioning tone. He nodded, his lips pressed together, and
spoke quietly.

“Thank you for understanding.” She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, as he turned his head
toward her, and they ended up kissing on the lips. It lingered slightly longer than either of them
meant for it to.

When they looked up, they noticed that most of the team was trying in vain to pretend they
weren't there. Ron's face was a bright shade of scarlet, and Ginny had gone very pale.
Harry's eyes slid shut, and he mentally cursed at himself.

“*Sonorus?*” he asked Hermione, and she complied. His magical reserves had risen
dramatically, but he had still been asked not to perform magic unless absolutely necessary, until
his strength had fully returned. She aimed her wand at his throat and complied.

Within moments, he had the Chasers practicing formations, while Ron guarded the hoops. The
youngest Weasley son seemed a little flustered and out of practice at first, and Harry couldn't
help but wonder if it had been because of the kiss, but Ron soon calmed down and was blocking
nearly everything the Chasers sent at him. Coote and Peakes were amusing each other by playing a
sort of a racquetball game with the bludgers, but Harry figured it was good practice for both their
flying and their aim. Ginny circled the pitch above the rest of the action, looking intently for
the Snitch.

Hermione watched from the stands, her heart swelling with pride, as she watched him make rounds
to all the team members, giving them pointers and suggestions. She watched as the Gryffindor team
drank in his advice thirstily, even Ron, and marveled at what a natural gift he seemed to have for
the captaincy.

Harry grabbed her attention again, as he flew up to join Ginny.

“How's it going?” he asked in a friendly tone.

“The sun's too bright. I keep thinking I see it, but it's the sun reflecting off of
things,” she complained.

“Get a pair of Quidditch goggles and tint them,” Harry suggested with a shrug. “Like the ones I
used in the rain, that Hermione *Impervius*-ed.” Ginny seemed to grow stiff and uncomfortable
with the mention of Hermione.

“Ginny?” Harry said, reaching out and placing a hand on her arm. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine, Harry,” she said in a high-pitched voice, as her gaze darted around nervously.
“Why wouldn't I be?”

“I just wanted to make -” Harry began, but he stopped when Ginny grew suddenly alert. He
followed her gaze, and saw it, glinting brightly in the sunshine, just under the shortest hoop on
the opposite side of the field.

She leaned forward over her broomstick, going into a steep dive, and, without knowing why he did
it, Harry followed. They corkscrewed around each other, each trying to outmaneuver the other, both
accelerating rapidly, as they raced across the field for the elusive golden ball. Harry felt his
knees start to ache, as the restraint fields struggled to fight against the pressure of gravity,
and he finally had to pull up, but was only a meter or two behind Ginny when she closed her fingers
around the Snitch.

Ginny's cheeks were windblown and pink, and she looked amazed when she turned around to find
Harry just behind her.

“Good show, Ginny!” Harry said sincerely.

“That was some impressive flying you did yourself, Potter,” Ginny said, with a jocular note in
her voice.

“I'm out of practice,” Harry said, teasing her back and nudging her in the ribs. “Or I
*would* have beat you.” Ginny cocked one eyebrow at him, as if to say, “Oh, really?” But then
her smile faded, and her gaze drifted over Harry's shoulder.

“Uh oh,” she gulped. Harry turned the Firebolt back towards the pitch, and saw Hermione, clearly
furious, marching out onto the pitch from the stands where she had been sitting.

“Dammit!” Harry swore, and headed down towards her.

“Harry - !” Hermione began, obviously prepared to go on for quite some time about recklessness
and irresponsibility. The other team members were watching curiously, save Ron, Dean, and Ginny,
who looked more than a little discomfited.

“Can - can we - can we please not do this here?” Harry mumbled, beginning to get angry
himself.

“By all means,” Hermione hissed, waving her arm toward the locker room. “Be my guest.” Rather
than gathering up his crutches, Harry simply flew his Firebolt directly into the locker room,
leaving Hermione to retrieve the crutches and follow him, muttering angrily all the way.

“Finish up, will you, Ron?” Harry called out.

“What's going to happen?” Coote asked worriedly.

“Harry's going to get his arse handed to him,” Dean observed in a wise tone. Ginny was
watching the closed locker room carefully.

“She needs to lay off,” Ginny said. “Or she's going to lose him.” Ron did a lazy
loop-the-loop and brought his broom up next to Ginny's.

“I guess it's a good thing we didn't tell Hermione that we had to make him the reserve
Seeker for him to stay Captain.”

Ginny looked grim. “I just won't get hurt.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“What were you thinking, Harry?” Hermione said as soon as the doors closed behind them, in a
voice that managed to be angry and pleading at the same time.

“I wasn't thinking, Hermione!” Harry retorted. “Is that what pisses you off so badly? I was
just having fun.”

“You could've been killed.”

“I could take a bad step off a trick stair and get killed,” Harry said sarcastically, and
Hermione flinched. “If there's one thing I know, it's how to fly. Why do you think Ginny
caught the Snitch? Because I knew when I needed to stop!”

“I - I thought you let her catch it,” she admitted softly, and Harry turned abruptly to look at
her.

“Why are you really angry?” he asked perceptively. Hermione hesitated. She really didn't
want to tell him what seeing him and Ginny flying formation around each other, laughing and racing,
with his mood more buoyant that she'd seen it in quite a while, had done to the pit of her
stomach.

“I'm angry because your foolhardy behavior is going to hamper your recovery,” she said
haughtily, but it did not sound convincing to Harry's ears.

“Why are you really angry?” he repeated again, in a voice that was disarmingly soft. He limped
across the room on one crutch, favoring his right knee visibly, and stored his Firebolt in the
broom locker. He then reached for the other crutch, and picked his way back to her, sitting down on
one of the benches.

Hermione jutted out her jaw mutinously. “What's wrong with wanting you to be careful?
I'm worried about you, Harry. You're not getting better as quickly as you should be. The
Amplitude potion bothered you for a lot longer than Healer Munson said it would. Your reserves
aren't going up as fast as they should. You're still losing weight. And - and you forgot to
put up a silencing charm in your room last night.”

Harry had been mostly rolling his eyes during her speech, but at the last statement he
straightened up, and eyed her warily.

“What did you hear?” he asked evenly.

“Just you thrashing about, and saying `No, no!' a few times. I was about to come in your
room, but you quieted down.” She picked nervously at the sleeve of her robes. “How long have you
been having nightmares?”

His gaze seemed to drift over her shoulder and darken, as he shoved his hands in his pockets. “I
always have them. They've never stopped.”

“Are they still about - about your parents? About Sirius? Or are they - ?”

“About things that are actually happening?” He completed her sentence grimly, as the events from
their fifth year played through their minds. “I don't think so. They're about the Final
Battle - only it doesn't always end…the way it's supposed to.”

He trailed off, not wanting to tell her any details, but the haunted shadows in his green eyes
gave him away.

*The sword slid through the heart of the ruby amulet with a faintly gelatinous noise. Harry
looked up in triumph, as he felt the weapon pierce human flesh as well, and then his gaze filled
with horror.*

*It was Hermione, not Voldemort, standing in front of him, looking down at the sword
protruding from her chest, without comprehension. Her mouth moved, forming the word “Harry”, but
without sound. Her hands groped uselessly at the sword.*

*Harry staggered away from her, eyes wide, muttering, “No…no! It can't b**e -*
*i**t was an accident. No, no…Hermione!”*

*“Harry, what have you done?” Hermione asked, and he looked down to see his hands and arms
stained dark with her blood.*

*Somewhere in the recesses of the shadowy Chamber, a high, thin laugh rang out
maniacally.*

*He stepped backwards, unable to tear his eyes from hers, even as she collapsed. His foot
stepped in something wet, soaking his pants up to his ankles.*

*It was blood. The Chamber of Secrets was awash in it. Even as he stared, it lapped at
Hermione's body. The sword began to hiss and shimmer and fade from sight, almost as if it was
being dissolved by some nefarious means.* *A snake wound itself over Hermione's body,
twining itself up the vanishing blade.*

*“See what you've done,” an unseen voice hissed, dripping with malice. “See what
you've done!”*

Sometimes the dream varied. Sometimes it was Ron on the end of the sword. Sometimes it was as if
he was looking into a mirror when he drove the sword home. Sometimes Voldemort was victorious, and
he had to watch as everyone was killed in front of him, wondering why Voldemort wouldn't just
let him die.

Sometimes he was on the Astronomy tower, watching Dumbledore plunge over the battlements, as he
calmly asked Harry why he did nothing. Or Sirius went through the veil again and again, while Harry
stood by, frozen, an ineffectual failure.

And all the while, the laughter rang in his ears.

“Harry, it's over,” Hermione said gently, forgetting her anger and snapping him out of his
reverie. “You've got to let it go.”

“What about you?” Harry said. “You aren't letting it go either.” Hermione's brow
crinkled with confusion.

“What are you talking about?” she asked. He leaned forward, gripping her arms above the elbows,
pulling her toward him, until she sat on a bench just across from him, their knees nearly
touching.

“Hermione,” he said, in a voice just above a whisper. “I know my limitations. I know how far and
how fast I can and cannot fly. I am seventeen years old.” His face was very close to hers. “And I
don't need a mum.” The last statement was barely audible.

Hermione thought her heart was going to burst out of her ribcage, it was hammering so rapidly in
her chest.

“Harry, I'm not trying to be - ” she began, but he just whispered,

“Good,” as his mouth closed over hers. His hands gripped her upper arms insistently, pulling at
her, until she was no longer sitting on the bench, but kneeling in front of him, between his
knees.

When he broke the kiss, she was breathless, boneless, slumped against his chest, wondering if
she'd ever have the strength to stand again.

“Harry…” she gasped, and he tipped her chin up to look into her eyes.

“I love you, Hermione Granger,” he said, looking as serious as she'd ever seen him. A smile
trembled on her lips.

“I love you too,” she said softly.

“I've been horrible to you these last few weeks. I know that. I don't know why
you've stuck around, but I'm glad you did.” He ran his fingers across her jawline and into
her hair. “I'm going to be better. I want to be your boyfriend…a *real* boyfriend, not
someone you feel you have to babysit.”

“Harry, I don't think - ” she tried to protest.

“Will you let me?” he said, before she could finish.

“I'll let go, if you will,” she promised in a whisper. “But - but Harry, will you tell
someone about the dreams…please? Healer Munson…or Madame Pomfrey?” Harry looked as if he really
didn't want to do anything of the sort, but he sighed and nodded.

“Can we try something first?” he said, seeming ill at ease and nearly stammering. “Will you -
would you - consider staying with me…tonight?”

“In your bed?” Hermione said incredulously, trying to laugh a little, even as the heat flooded
her face.

“Well, yes - no - I mean, not for that, but just - I thought maybe if you were - if you were
there, then I wouldn't have those dreams.” Harry looked as embarrassed as Hermione felt. “It
sounds like I'm just trying to - to - doesn't it?”

Hermione smiled, and the smile was at once impish and tender. “I wouldn't mind if you were,”
she said, almost breathing into his mouth, before kissing him once again. The kiss was long and
lingering and full of promise, and she felt her heart skip a beat, as he gathered her more fully
into his arms.

“Someday I'm going to hold you to that, Hermione Granger,” he whispered.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione flitted up to her room after dinner, as soon as the Trio arrived back in their common
room. Harry's eyes followed her up the stairs almost hungrily, but he said nothing and did not
follow her. Instead, he looked at Ron, who was settling himself into one of the wing chairs by the
fire.

“Ron?” Harry ventured, after a moment, limping over to the sofa, and sitting down.

“You want a game?” Ron asked nonchalantly, gesturing toward the chessboard on a small table
nearby. Harry shrugged.

“I reckon,” he said, neither eagerly nor reluctantly. Ron always beat him anyway, but Harry had
been able to elicit the compliment of at least being good practice for him, recently.

Ron moved the pieces into their starting positions, while Harry's chessmen moaned and wailed
and generally made dark comments about their future. Harry tried to ignore them.

“Ron, I wanted to ask you -” Harry began, while Ron moved his pawn. “I mean, I know you and
Hermione have talked, but - but we haven't - and -”

“You mean, how do I feel about that display on the Quidditch pitch?” Ron asked, genially, his
eyebrows rising into his hair. *If you think that was a display, you should have seen what went
on inside the locker room*, Harry thought, but nodded. Ron shrugged. “It's a little weird.
You two are my best friends…and now you're…snogging.” Ron shook his head as if trying to dispel
a mental image.

“And Ginny?” Harry asked. Ron rolled his eyes.

“Don't ask me to understand her. She was pretty upset, but … I don't know. Did you know
she was going to Hogsmeade this weekend with Dean Thomas?”

“Dean? Again?” Harry was surprised. Ron cocked his head in a “go figure” gesture. Harry's
knight protested as Harry moved him right into the path of Ron's bishop.

“Are you going to Hogsmeade?” Ron asked curiously, as his bishop decimated Harry's
knight.

“I thought we were all going,” Harry said. “I mean, we won't be moving very fast, but…”

“You're not going to go with Hermione?” Ron's face was very bland.

“Well, we certainly wouldn't leave you out, Ron. You know you're always - what the
hell?” Harry said, as he looked at the massacre occurring on the chessboard. He was playing with
even less concentration than normal. He kept thinking of Hermione…upstairs. His other knight shook
his tiny fist at Harry, while the horse whinnied shrilly.

“Well…you don't have to worry about me,” Ron hedged, and Harry looked at him with
suspicion.

“You want to go with someone,” he said with certainty, an almost accusing tone in his voice.

“She asked me!” Ron blurted defensively. Harry couldn't keep a grin from spreading across
his features, even as his queen was smashed to bits.

“Who is it?” he asked with avid curiosity. Ron looked slightly abashed.

“Luna,” he mumbled. “What?” he asked, upon seeing Harry's broad smile.

“Mate, I think it's brilliant.”

“This doesn't mean I - well, I still - Luna's just fun to hang around with, that's
all.”

“You deserve it, Ron,” Harry said, meeting Ron's eyes sincerely.

“Checkmate,” Ron said, looking annoyingly superior. Harry's remaining pawns and lone bishop
shrieked vile insults at him. Harry sighed.

“I'm going to bed,” he said, tiredly, while Ron scraped the debris off of the
chessboard.

“You need any help?” Ron asked off-handedly.

*No, Hermione's up there. Hermione's going to be in my room…in my bed*…Harry
thought, and the idea filled him with anticipation, even though they would be sleeping together in
only the most literal sense of the word.

He hopped up the stairs, and rounded the corner to his room. He could see Hermione's door
already closed. Ron's door was ajar, with a sleeve to a shirt trailing out of the door. He
opened his door, and stopped stock still, shock stamped clearly on his face.

Hermione was sitting on his bed, already dressed in her pajamas, looking uncertain as Harry
stood in the doorway and gaped. He wondered how on earth she could make a knit shirt and flannel
pants look so incredibly sexy.

“What's wrong?” she asked, her hand going self-consciously up to her hair.

“Nothing, you're perfect,” he blurted without thinking, and then flushed when she laughed.
“I guess I'll go get ready for bed,” he said, chucking his thumb toward the bathroom door, but
still watching her. Finally, he was able to wrest his gaze from hers, grab his pajamas, and
disappear behind the door, wondering all the while if this was really such a brilliant idea after
all.

It took him a good amount of time to get ready for bed, but Hermione heard splashing water and
shuffling noises, and figured that he would call if he needed anything. At length, he limped out of
the bathroom, propping his crutches nearby where he could reach them if necessary, sat on the edge
of the bed, and slid himself onto it with his arms. Without being asked, Hermione reached down to
adjust the restraint fields, to allow him to sleep with his legs fully extended.

Hesitantly, she curled up beside him, as he lay back on his pillows, laying her head in the
crook of his shoulder, and smiling shyly at him, as color crept up to her cheeks.

“Thanks for staying…Hermione,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering closed in spite of themselves.
She watched him for a moment almost maternally; she had been a little worried at first, at the
hunger that had flashed ferally into his eyes when he saw her sitting on his bed, but he had been
so badly hurt…and still tired so easily… She snuggled closer to his comforting warmth, and let her
eyes shut as well.

*The Chamber* *was dark and damp, and smelled vaguely and vilely of stagnant water. The
skeleton of the Basilisk was gone; Harry could only assume Dumbledore had somehow had it removed.
His footfalls echoed harshly on the wet stone, scuffing with a slight splashing noise.*

*Suddenly Voldemort stood in front of him, and the ever-present laughter began to resound
shrilly off of the walls and ceiling. Harry wanted to clap his hands over his ears. When
Voldemort's gaze met his, the vertically-slitted eyes seemed to give off a fell red light.
Harry felt a searing pain in his forehead, as if his very skull had split open.*

*He reached up to his head, and to his horror, found that it had split open. Something thick
and sinewy protruded from his head; blood was streaming down his face; he heard something hiss
sibilantly.*

*It was a snake. A snake was coming out of his head. The pain was incredible. Harry dropped to
his knees and vomited onto the damp stone. Voldemort had not stopped laughing, but when he looked
up through the red haze of his vision, it was Hermione standing there in a flowing gown, billowed
by an unfelt wind.*

*The look in her eyes was cold, contemptuous, and Harry felt suddenly ashamed of his ruined
face, the grotesque gaping hol**e* *in his skull. The snake writhed and hissed on the
floor just below him.*

*“You!” she said, and the one word was laden with loathing. He saw something sparkle at the
edge of his vision, and realized that she held the sword of Godric Gryffindor in her hand. She
raised it, and the blade flashed in the dim light.*

*“Hermione, wait!” he said, trying to put up a placating hand. The snake began to wind its way
up his other arm, twining itself around the limb. Harry recoiled, and tried to push the snake away,
but it would not yield.*

*“See the very evil that springs from inside of you,” she said in a ringing, haughty voice.
“You are the birthplace. You must be destroyed.”* *His eyes were round with horror, his mouth
open in a soundless scream for her to stop.*

*She drove the sword into him**, and all the air left his lungs. He looked at the stained
blade protruding from him, wondering why he felt no pain. Then he looked at Hermione, at her cold,
distant eyes, and the pain hit him with all the force of a blow.*

He sat up, suddenly, exhaling forcefully and then gasping, “Hermione!” She was instantly awake,
and her eyes were luminous in the low light streaming in from the window.

“Did you have another dream?” she asked, sounding a little sad that she had not been able to
prevent it. He reached up a trembling hand to his forehead, feeling for a hole that was not
there.

“There was a snake…in my head. It - it - you killed me…” his eyes were vague and troubled. The
dream was slipping away from him; it was as if he were trying to grasp vapor with his hands. “I - I
can't remember - you - and - he was laughing.”

“Ssshhhh,” Hermione soothed, stroking her hands through his ruffled hair. Their gazes locked in
the darkness, and Harry felt his breath hitch in his chest. He brought his hand hesitantly up to
her face, and drew his fingers down her cheek and along her jawline, leaving trails of fire in
their wake.

“I'm glad you're here,” he whispered. She only nodded, her eyes never leaving his, as
his mouth lowered to hers. He gathered her up in his arms, pulling her as close to him as he could,
as they deepened the kiss, and Hermione felt a moan vibrate deep in her throat. Without thinking,
she hooked one leg over his, and then they both froze, staring at each other, becoming aware of the
precipice they were standing on the edge of.

“Hermione…” Harry began, clearing his throat. “I don't - as much as I want - we - I
can't - ” He stammered, gesturing down at his mostly useless legs.

“Do you want this?” she whispered huskily. Her face was so close to his, and he felt his blood
rush away south.

“I want *you*,” he admitted, in a throaty voice that made Hermione's stomach jump.
Without breaking eye contact, she moved so that she was straddling his midsection, bearing most of
her weight on her knees, with one on either side of him. She leaned down to kiss him in a deep,
hungry way that left no doubt as to her intentions.

“I'm sure we can work something out…” she said softly.

**TBC**

**Yeah, I'm not so much for writing of the actual smut, so you may use your imaginations as
you see fit!** **I know nothing much happened in this chapter, but I hope you enjoyed
it.**

**Leave a review on the way out if you like!**

-->



10. Holiday Revelations
-----------------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART II: The Interim**

**Chapter Five:** **Holiday** **Revelations**

When the sunlight finally began to stream through the window, splashing across Hermione's
face, she stirred and awakened, squinting into the light. She scrunched down under the covers, as
she stretched; the heating charms kept the rooms at a comfortable temperature, but the air always
seemed chilly to her first thing in the morning.

Her squirming disturbed Harry, who blinked his green eyes sleepily at her. “Good morning,” he
said in a thick voice. She smiled at him, and kissed him chastely on the mouth, before sliding out
of bed, shrieking a little when her bare feet touched the stone floor.

“Is that all I get?” he mumbled in protest, smothering a smile into his pillow, waiting for the
refrain that had grown very familiar in the last couple of months. Hermione had spent very few
nights in her own bed since that first night, and - even though that's not what they did all
the time - Harry had gotten more adept at the contraceptive charm than he ever thought he would
be.

“Harry, you *really* don't want me to kiss you until I've brushed my teeth, trust
me,” Hermione said authoritatively. Harry muttered something unintelligible that ended in “blasted
daughter of dentists”. Hermione swatted him. “Besides,” she continued. “I need to start packing, if
we're leaving today. I bet you haven't started packing.”

Harry waved his arm around the room in a wide gesture, as if to say “do you see any evidence of
packing in here?”

“You're going to the Burrow,” Hermione said. Harry nodded, even though she hadn't really
phrased it as a question. “Do you think that'll be awkward?”

“You mean, because of us?” Harry shrugged. “I don't think so. I mean, I'm sure the
Weasleys know we're dating by now…and Ron and Ginny are - seem okay. Dean's coming by over
the holidays too.” He said, referring to Ginny and Dean's rekindled relationship. “Luna and her
father will be there as well. And after Ron *saw* you…” he trailed off, with a smirk, and
Hermione blushed.

“I got careless. He's never up that early; it didn't even enter my head that he would
see me leaving your room. I had your shirt on too, and I think that made it worse!” Harry rolled
over in the bed and laughed. He had been awakened that morning to hear Ron calling loudly in the
hallway, “You're not really there. I don't see you at all!” before fleeing into his room.
Hermione had said later that he had his fingers in both ears and his eyes closed. It had taken him
three days to be able to meet their gazes again.

“Remus and Tonks are going to be there too,” Harry said. “I got an owl from him yesterday.”

“I imagine they have news to report,” Hermione said in a bland tone, and she and Harry exchanged
secretive glances. “It'll be a full house at the Burrow.”

“Only right at Christmas. I wish you were going to be there the whole time,” Harry said after a
pause.

“I'll be there Christmas Eve night,” she promised. “But I do need to spend some time with my
parents too.”

“I know,” Harry replied, not wanting to make her feel guilty for leaving him, when she was
already so much a part of his world, rather than her parents' world. He shifted around,
swinging his legs carefully over the edge of the bed. “What have you told your parents? About
me..us?”

“That I'm in love with a wonderful person who loves me as much as I love him,” Hermione
answered with a tender smile, gazing at him limpidly. “As for the other…well, I am eighteen. I
think my parents have a strict `don't ask, don't tell' policy.”

“Are they coming to the Burrow?” Harry asked casually, looking over his shoulder at her.

“They're coming for dinner on Christmas Eve.”

“That'll be nice,” Harry replied vaguely. Hermione eyed him for a moment, and appeared to be
on the verge of saying something, but she let it go. Instead, she asked tenderly,

“How are you feeling?” as she pulled on her robe from where it had been thrown over a chair.

“Okay,” he said, reaching for the silver-headed cane he had taken to using recently. His right
knee, which had evidently taken the brunt of the curse, was still in a restraint, but he had fairly
good use of his left knee. Hermione said the cane gave him a gentlemanly air; Ron said it made his
look like Lucius Malfoy.

“Any dreams?” He watched her brow furrow in concern, and felt his love for her wash over any
annoyance that bubbled up. She *had* gotten better with the whole nagging thing - Harry liked
to think that it was because she enjoyed the shagging so much - but she wouldn't be Hermione if
she didn't worry and fret over him.

“Not last night,” Harry lied, limping toward the bathroom, leaning heavily on the cane. He
couldn't remember the dream, but he had awakened feeling troubled, with a prickling sensation
in his scar.

Hermione had her hand on the doorknob, but turned back to look curiously in his direction. He
was keeping something from her, she was sure. And she thought that Ron knew about it. She had come
into the room several times, when their conversations had stopped abruptly and they both looked
incredibly guilty. They had also spent several evenings closeted up in Harry's room. She bit
her lip, as Harry closed the door behind him, and wondered what was going on that he would tell Ron
but not her.

Harry leaned up against the closed bathroom door and sighed. He wondered if he should tell
Hermione about the recurring dreams. *Why worry her? It's not like she can do anything about
it.* He had the dream where the snake burst from his skull on a regular basis, but most of the
time he could only recall bits and snatches from other dreams.

*There were mountains…he was flying over snow-capped mountains, but he had no broom.*

He started suddenly as the flash of dream-memory came to him, as well as a sudden surge of
wrath. He shook his head to dispel the feeling, and leaned the cane carefully in the corner, as he
took tottery, but unaided, steps in the direction of the shower.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry felt an expansive mood sweep over him as he observed the living room of the Burrow,
several nights later. It was Christmas Eve, Hermione would be here soon, and had there ever been
anything more beautiful than the large and lopsided evergreen tree in the corner, strewn and hung
with strings of popcorn and tatty homemade ornaments? Fairy lights perched on the branches,
blinking in various colors according to the fairy's mood. There were garlands of holly draped
around the room, with the obligatory mistletoe over the door.

He wasn't even aware that he had stopped on the bottom step to take it all in, until he
heard Ron clear his throat behind him.

“Sorry,” he murmured in a befuddled voice.

“So,” Ron ventured, as they settled on the sofa. Mrs. Weasley called out from the kitchen that
the hot cocoa was nearly ready. “You still planning to go through with it?”

“Of course I am,” Harry said, a little defensively. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“She's going to be right pissed at you, you know,” Ron nodded sagely, thumping one of the
fairies that had sidled off of the Christmas tree and settled on Ron's shoulder. She shrieked
at him furiously, as she was propelled across the room, and huffed back to her branch, where she
turned a decidedly ominous greenish-brown. Harry watched the interchange with a bemused expression,
which changed to worry when he registered what Ron had said.

“Why would she be mad? Do you think she - ?”

“Don't get me wrong, mate, she'll love it. But she's going to be pissed when she
finds out what you've been doing behind her back all this time.”

“I think I'm going to throw up,” Harry said, lowering his head to his hands.

The merrily crackling flames in the fireplace dwindled and turned green, signaling that the Floo
connection had been activated. Harry and Ron watched with interest to see who was arriving first.
They heard thumping feet on the stairs, as Ginny, Fred, and George hurtled downstairs as well,
evidently figuring that the party was starting.

A moment later, Bill and Fleur Weasley had stepped out of the fireplace.

“How does she do that?” Ron murmured in an aside to Harry, as Fleur appeared perfectly unruffled
by the Floo trip, without even one smudge of soot on her. Her shiny blond hair was twisted up on
the back of her head.

“Ron, close your mouth,” Harry whispered, nudging his friend discreetly in the side.

“Bill? Fleur?” Mrs. Weasley came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and
engulfing them in hugs. “Why on earth didn't you Apparate?” Bill and Fleur exchanged glances,
and Bill shrugged.

“Fleur didn't feel like Apparating today.” Ginny came up and threw herself into her oldest
brother's arms, while Harry and Ron tried not to stare at his wife.

There were pops heard out in the yard, and only a moment later, the front door swung open wide
to admit Lupin and Tonks. Other people began to pile in - out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw
Ginny craning her neck, he thought, to look for Dean - Remus slapped him on the back, and asked him
how he was doing - Charlie had arrived as well, and Mrs. Weasley was exclaiming over the
barely-healed burns on his hands. Harry's eyes were searching for Hermione, even though he knew
they were coming by Floo, and he would have ample warning of their arrival.

He had been distracted by the dancing flames, waiting for them to turn green, when the room was
suddenly plunged into an awkward silence. Harry looked toward the front door with trepidation, not
really sure what to expect, when he saw Percy standing stiffly and uncertainly on the threshold,
Penelope Clearwater on his arm.

The room was incredibly still, and one could have cut the silence with a `Diffindo' spell.
Harry's gaze drifted over to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, as had just about everyone else's,
waiting for their reaction before reacting themselves. Mrs. Weasley looked totally at a loss; she
was blinking her eyes furiously.

“H - Happy Christmas, Mum,” Percy said, and it wasn't in the pompous tone that Harry had
come to associate with him, but in a quiet, uncertain voice - a lost voice, a little boy's
voice.

Mrs. Weasley's chin trembled, and she managed to choke out, “Percy!” before gathering him to
her like he was only a child, pressing his head down on her shoulder. Penelope stood by, watching
with shining eyes, her lips pressed shyly together and her cheeks pink with expectation. Finally,
she was enfolded in Mrs. Weasley's arms as well. “It's lovely to have you here as well,
Penelope,” the matriarch murmured softly. Harry knew what it was like to feel like you belonged,
especially somewhere that was not technically your home, and wondered if Penelope was feeling that
sort of awe and thankfulness now.

Bill and Charlie both moved to speak to Percy, while Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny looked
slightly less forgiving. Harry turned to look at his best friend.

“Ron, it's Christmas,” he said. Ron looked over at Percy with a mixture of loathing and
resignation. Harry tried again. “He's your brother.” Ron's Adam's apple moved in his
throat, as he swallowed. “Do it for your mum,” Harry finally said, in a low voice.

Ron finally nodded. “All right.” He and the other Weasley siblings, who had been listening to
their quiet interchange, moved forward to shake Percy's hand and wish him Happy Christmas.

Harry's eyes drifted toward the flames again. He missed Hermione. It had been two weeks, and
he had definitely missed her comforting warmth next to him in bed, although that wasn't a
longing that he could exactly share with anyone else.

“There's Luna!” Ron said, excitement tingeing his voice, after he had worked his way back
across the living room to Harry, having spoken politely to Percy and Penelope, and declared to his
best mate that that was the best he could do.

Luna Lovegood was standing uncertainly just outside the front door, eying the sprig of mistletoe
with a decidedly distrustful air. A flaxen-haired man who looked like he'd dressed while
thoroughly distracted stood just behind her, watching the mistletoe as well.

“Luna!” Ron called, waving one arm, and instantly drawing jeers from Fred and George. “Come on
in.” Luna cautiously put one foot across the threshold, ducking her head like she expected the
mistletoe to fly down and attack her without a moment's notice.

“Did you check the mistletoe for Nargles, Ron?”

“Luna, it's fine, really. Come on in,” Ron said again, studiously ignoring Harry. Harry
watched his friend's too-composed features, and felt his own face pulling into a grin. He
struggled to keep the lines of his mouth taut.

“Sweet Merlin, you really did check…didn't you?” Harry asked, his voice quavering with
suppressed laughter. A muscle jerked in Ron's jaw, and the tell-tale Weasley flush began to
creep up his neck and into his ears.

He watched Ron take Luna's hand, placing his other hand on her back, and lead her gently
into the room, assuring her, “I did the spell just like you told me.” Harry's desire to laugh
suddenly ebbed, and he was filled with a warmth that he couldn't explain. Was this Ron Weasley
- the one that Hermione had declared had the emotional range of a teaspoon? The one who had taken
four years to realize their other best friend was, in fact, a girl - although Harry didn't
reckon he had much room to talk on that account.

“Brings a tear to your eye, doesn't it?” George whispered to him, having watched the scene
as well. “Didn't think ickle Ronniekins had it in him.”

Harry's response to George's needling was forgotten, as the dancing flames in the
fireplace died with a green glow. He leaned forward expectantly, and felt his stomach do a
nauseating dance.

A moment later, Hermione had stepped out of the Floo, ash in her hair and on the tip of her
nose, and was giving him a careful hug, mindful of the support he required from his cane.

“I missed you,” he murmured into her hair. She nodded in agreement, squeezing her eyes closed
and hugging him more tightly. He then greeted her parents, who had come through the Floo with
commendable aplomb, especially for Muggles. Harry looked more than a little nervous, and Hermione
figured it was because he found himself on slightly different footing with them now, as a
boyfriend, not just a friend.

Mrs. Weasley was closing the front door, after everyone had entered, and people tumbled into
empty places, spilling into the living room, kitchen, and even up the stairs.

“Is that everyone?” she asked. “Ginny, dear, will you set the table?” But Ginny wasn't
listening; an owl had flapped through the front door at some point in the chaos, and she was
reading the missive it had brought with a set, disappointed face.

“Dean's not coming,” she said quietly. Mrs. Weasley looked at her sympathetically, while
Harry, Hermione, and Ron exchanged glances.

Ginny's face gave nothing away, as she followed her mum into the kitchen.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A short while later, the entire throng was gathered in an expanded Weasley kitchen, at the
enlarged table, and the house rang noisily with conversations and laughter. There were constant
requests to pass one dish or another, and Mrs. Weasley was up and down, refilling drinks and
bringing more food to the table that Harry didn't see how she found time to eat at all.

At length, when the gathering had settled down with pie and tea and coffee and old Ogden's -
Ron and Harry had quailed under Mrs. Weasley's stern stare, and did not try any - Bill cleared
his throat to speak, at the same time as Percy said,

“Well, I have some news.” He and Bill looked at each other.

“Go on, Percy,” Bill said, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Last night, I asked Penelope to marry me…and she's accepted,” Percy said, only just
managing to lift his eyes from his plate. There were whoops and shouts from around the table, and
Fred and George mimed being clapped in irons. Mrs. Weasley's eyes misted over.

“Another of my babies…” she said tearily. Ginny, Hermione, and Fleur were all angling to see
Penelope's ring, and she was holding her hand out daintily for examination.

“Congratulations, Percy,” Harry said sincerely, and Percy smiled and nodded, but didn't
speak. They exchanged knowing glances. Harry had been as annoyed with Percy as anyone in the last
couple of years, but not being family helped him stay a little more removed from it. Ron and Ginny
were going to have more trouble just opening their arms and welcoming him back into the fold.

“What were you going to say, Bill?” Ron asked a moment later, with curiosity. Harry idly watched
Ron sitting next to Luna; he reckoned they were holding hands under the table.

“Well, if - if Mum is going to be forced to keep marrying off her babies,” he looked fondly at
his mother with a smile, “then it's only right that she have a grandchild to show for
it…perhaps late this summer?”

There was a moment of stunned silence. Fleur colored prettily, and leaned her head into
Bill's shoulder. When Mrs. Weasley had recovered the powers of speech and motion, she made her
way quickly around the table and wailed something untelligible at a very high pitch, as she hugged
Bill and Fleur. Congratulations and well-wishes - as well as snide comments from the twins - were
called out so heartily that even Bill began to flush.

“Isn't that lovely?” Hermione whispered to Harry, her hand creeping under the table and
twining with his.

“It is lovely,” Harry agreed, looking into her sparkling dark eyes. They gazed at each other for
a long moment.

“I love you,” Hermione said softly.

“I love you too.” There was commotion at the table, as Mrs. Weasley said,

“Well, your father and I have news as well. This seems as good a time as any to tell everyone.”
Fred and George's eyes grew round with mock horror.

“Mum, don't tell us!”

“Aren't you a bit old?” Mrs. Weasley narrowed her eyes at them, and instructed two spatulas
to whack them sharply upside the head, without missing a beat.

“Your father has been promoted at work!” she announced happily, and everyone cheered again. Mr.
Weasley reddened, though still looking quite pleased with himself, and stood quickly, mumbled
something inaudible, and sat back down.

“What are you going to be doing, Dad?” Charlie called from about two-thirds of the way down the
table.

“I've been transferred to the Muggle Liaison Office,” Mr. Weasley beamed, stammering
slightly. “I'll be the Number Two man there… in charge of twenty-five people in the department.
It's a wonderful opportunity to work more closely with Muggles…they really are fascinating,” he
rambled, and then appeared to remember that he had Muggles at his table that evening. He looked
apologetically at the Grangers, who let it pass graciously. Someone at the table began to applaud,
and everyone else followed suit.

Harry's eyes tripped over the faces and landed on Lupin, who was sitting next to Tonks, with
his arm around her, but still had an increasingly uncomfortable look on his face. His gaze met
Harry's, who made a wordless gesture that Lupin should speak next. Hermione and Harry exchanged
glances, as Lupin cleared his throat, and pushed his chair a little way back from the table.

“It appears that this is a night for news,” Lupin began in a heavy, formal sounding voice.

“Remus, are you and Nymphadora getting married?” Mrs. Weasley asked in delight. Tonks winced at
the use of her given name.

“No, Molly, we are not,” Lupin said politely, and Mrs. Weasley looked more than a little
discomposed. Before she could utter the apology that appeared on the verge of being spoken, he
continued, “Because we already did.” He held up his hand, and Tonks did as well, showing off rings
that had obviously been charmed to be invisible up to that point.

The table was once again shocked speechless. “When?” Mrs. Weasley managed to squeak.

“Last month,” Tonks said, taking the reins of the conversation. “It was just a simple
ceremony…Muggle minister…” Many at the table nodded in understanding - werewolves could not legally
get married in the wizarding world. Harry saw Hermione lean over and whisper an explanation to her
parents. “Nobody else was there, but Harry and Hermione.”

All eyes were instantly on them, and they both flushed under the scrutiny, feeling somehow as if
they had been caught doing something wrong.

“You knew they got married, and you didn't tell me!” Ron said, in a disbelieving tone.

“You get threatened with secrecy or else by a professor - ” Harry began, trying to justify
himself.

“ - in a N.E.W.T. year - ” Hermione interjected.

“What are you going to do?” Harry finished lightly, with a shrug. Everyone laughed.

“I originally wanted to tell only Harry,” Lupin added. “But my… *wife*,” he paused over the
unfamiliar word, and smiled, “wanted another woman there. And since they are finishing each
other's sentences…” here there were more snickers. “I believed that the chances of Harry
keeping his mouth shut were rather small.” Harry sent a mock glower to his professor, whose eyes
were twinkling more merrily than any had seen in a long while.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The gathering next adjourned to the living room, where they draped themselves over any available
piece of furniture. Even so, many of the younger adults - Ginny being the only one there who was
still technically a child - were forced to sit on the floor. Fleur got a place of honor on the
sofa, next to Bill, who was still being met with slaps on the back and handshakes. Mrs. Weasley was
watching them with dreamy, wet eyes.

Mr. Weasley and Charlie began to hand out the presents, and no one was left out. Weasley
sweaters abounded, and Ron was the first to comment, when he received a blue one.

“It isn't maroon!” he said, looking very nearly overcome. Harry laughed, and held up his own
green one to his chest to inspect the fit. Hermione sat nearby, her arms around her knees, watching
him smile. He seemed to be doing so well, lately - if only it weren't for the nagging feeling
that he was keeping something from her. Her gaze darted suspiciously to Ron, who was pulling his
new sweater on over his clothes, declaring loudly that it would be at least five or six years
before he was tired of blue sweaters.

She and her parents had gotten Mr. Weasley a battery-operated alarm clock, and he was examining
it with a very pleased look on his face. She watched with a pleased grin, as her father leaned over
to show him how to set it. There was another outcry of delight as Fred, George, and Ron opened real
dragon-hide gloves from Charlie.

“Obtained painlessly, of course,” Charlie grinned, holding up innocent hands, as Hermione
speared him with a reproving look. “The hide is from dragons that had already molted.”

Hermione suddenly grew very still, as she watched Professor Lupin open the present from her. He
looked at the delicate crystal vial, filled with a glowing red liquid, very carefully, and then
glanced up at her, a question in his eyes.

“It's - it's a - I've been - well, I've been tweaking the Wolfsbane potion…in -
in my spare time, and I - I think it might work even better now, so I - ” Hermione flushed, as the
rustle of wrapping paper and the murmur of voice stilled, and she was the object of everyone's
attention. “I thought you might want to try it.” She twisted her hands in her lap and laughed a
little at herself, as she struggled to maintain her composure. The corners of Remus Lupin's
mouth turned up in a small smile, as moisture glistened in his eyes.

“Thank you, Hermione,” he said, after a moment. “It's the most thoughtful gift I've ever
received.”

“You're welcome,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Thanks a lot, Hermione!” came a voice, along with a throw pillow, hurled across the room,
hitting Hermione in the head. “Show the rest of us up, why don't you?” Tonks' smile belied
her words, and Hermione knew that she was even more pleased about the potion than Remus, if that
were possible.

Hermione was content to observe again, as people were warily opening the gifts tagged as being
from George and Fred. As far as she could tell, nothing had yet exploded. Ron and Luna were sitting
in a corner, almost hidden from her sight by the branches of the Christmas tree, whispering softly
to each other, while Luna untied a ribbon on a clumsily wrapped gift. Ginny sat in the just to the
left of the stairs, looking quite alone and not very happy. Hermione had just decided to go over
and talk to her, when she noticed that Harry was missing.

“Harry?” she murmured, turning around, looking toward the front hall and where the bottom of the
stairs passed on out of her view. She had not notice him leave. “Where's Harry?” she said, a
little more loudly.

“I think he went upstairs,” George said, gesturing toward the staircase.

She had stood up, and was heading for the stairs, when she saw something hurtle down them and
clatter noisily on the floor near her feet.

It was Harry's silver-headed cane. She gazed upward, peering into the shadows at the top of
the stairs.

“Harry?” she asked again, and there was a note of reprimand in her voice. She heard footfalls,
slow and careful, on the steps. When he reached the bottom half of the flight, he came into the
glowing light of the living room, and she could see him walking, completely unaided, his hand
barely skimming along the rail.

She did not make a sound, but tears filled her eyes rapidly, and spilled quickly down her
cheeks. She clasped her hands together over her heart, as a bemused smile wobbled on her face. She
was laughing and crying at the same time, as he slowly crossed the room toward her, his eyes never
leaving hers.

She glanced suddenly over at Ron, who was watching the scene raptly and grinning widely, along
with Luna and everyone else in the room. “You knew about this!” She accused him, in a voice that
would have sounded angry if it wasn't so tear-filled. She was wiping at her cheeks. “That's
the secret you two have been sneaking around with. You were helping him practice walking,
weren't you? Did you think I wouldn't notice?” She turned back to Harry, who was standing
directly in front of her now, and drank in the sight of him, tall, straight, getting healthier and
stronger by the day - and smiling, gazing at her with the most incredible light in his eyes. She
couldn't think of anything that she would have wanted more.

“Is this my present?” she asked him in a soft voice, feeling suddenly shy with all the eyes on
them. Harry smiled at her, and shook his head, mouthing the word “no”. He took her hands in his;
everyone was watching them. Hermione felt her mouth suddenly go dry; her palms were clammy and her
heart was racing.

Slowly, he knelt down.

Hermione's eyes widened in realization, and her hands trembled in his. Her stomach leapt up,
somersaulted into her throat, and then landed back in its correct location. Someone in the room -
probably Fred - whistled shrilly.

“Hermione,” Harry began in a low, tremulous voice. He was managing to keep it fairly level, but
Hermione could see by the sheen of his face how nervous he was. “I love you. You've been one of
the dearest friends I've ever known. And now that it's become something more than that, I
feel like I've always loved you, since the moment I first saw you, even if it took me awhile to
realize.”

“Harry's always been a bit thick,” someone - probably George - called out, and there was
some laughter, under which Hermione could hear Mrs. Weasley's whispered command for the two of
them to act their age.

“You've never abandoned me and never given up on me. You've protected me, stood up for
me, lied for me, and supported me. You faced Voldemort with me, and you saved my life then and…
afterwards as well.” Harry's own eyes were wet now, as Hermione stood above him, tears
trickling unchecked down her face. “I can't imagine my life without you, and I hope I don't
have to. Hermione, will you marry me?”

Hermione swallowed, and had to nod several times before her tear-clogged throat could manage a
raspy “yes”. She watched a tremor of relief and gratitude shudder through Harry, and he began to
try to stand. She quickly and discreetly slid her hands from his, moving them up to his elbows, and
helped him to his feet.

“You didn't have to do that,” she said softly, concern etched on her face. His eyes were
glowing as he looked at her, sliding the ring onto the fourth finger of her left hand.

“Yes, I did,” he whispered back. She looked down at her ring, a marquis-cut diamond in an
antique setting. “It was my mother's.” He answered her unspoken question.

“It's lovely,” she said, running her fingers over the textured metal. “How are your
knees?”

“They hurt like hell,” Harry said, honestly, a rueful smile on his face, but warmth filling his
eyes. “But it was worth it. You said yes.”

“Did you really think I'd say no?”

“Well, we're awfully young - ” Harry began, but Hermione interrupted him.

“We've been through more in our lives than most people three times our age. We may still be
teenagers, but I think we're old souls, don't you? Besides, I'm old enough to know what
I want.”

“Me too,” Harry breathed, and he finally kissed her, lightly but lingeringly, in front of all
the people that they loved most in the world. “What do you think? After graduation?” A radiant
smile lit up Hermione's face.

“Yeah…” she agreed, nodding elatedly, appearing to already be planning it out in her mind.

Slowly they became aware again of the room full of people watching the tableau with eager and
misty eyes. Their smiles became self-conscious, as everyone began to clap. Hermione thought
guiltily of Ron and Ginny, but both were smiling at their friends, Ginny looking only a little
downcast in Dean's absence. Mrs. Weasley was beaming, and Harry thought that if she heard any
more news about matchmaking or babies that she'd probably explode from joy.

“Oy!” Ron called out loudly. “It's about time you made an honest woman out of her, after all
that - ” He seemed to suddenly realize what he was saying and in front of whom.

“Ron! For the love of Merlin!” Harry exclaimed quickly, alarmed. He and his new fiancée flushed
crimson. He was pleased to see, at least, that Ron had reddened as well. Mrs. Weasley stood and
began to rapidly send wrapping paper scraps soaring to the bin, apparently pretending that her
son's prior statement had not happened.

The Grangers approached their daughter - and future son-in-law. Hermione's mum engulfed her
in a long hug.

“Mum? Dad? Are you okay with this?” Hermione asked, her brow creasing nervously. “I know
we're kind of young, but -”

“Harry's already talked to us, sweetie,” her mother cut in. “He asked your father for
permission, and did quite an excellent job selling us on the reasons you could go ahead and be
married.” She smiled at Harry then. “He's really quite persuasive.”

“And he's also able to support you,” her dad said suddenly and rather gruffly, evidently not
forgetting Ron's ill-thought comment.

“Dad!” Hermione said, half-mortified, half-amused. She turned to Harry. “You asked my parents?”
she said in wonderment.

Harry shrugged, a little self-consciously. “It seemed like the thing to do. Is that hopelessly
outdated?”

“No,” Hermione said. “I think it's a very sweet gesture.” He clasped her hand, now bearing
his ring, and kissed her again.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you t - ” she began, and then bent toward him anxiously, as he seemed to suddenly grow
tense. “Harry?” she called out, worry lacing her tone. The concern in her voice caused all other
movement and conversation in the room to cease suddenly. “Harry?”

He was not responding to her; instead, staring blankly ahead, as if seeing something that was
not there. His hands were limp in hers and cold as ice.

“Harry, please answer me.” Pleading cracked her voice.

He looked at her then, his eyes distant and appraising, as if he did not know her. She felt a
shudder run over her frame, without really knowing why. He opened his mouth to speak.

A series of sibilant noises, comprised of syllables like *isss* and *ssshhheh* and
*heth*, flowed fluently from his mouth. Mrs. Weasley gasped audibly, and Ginny dropped her mug
on the floor, where it shattered unheeded.

Lupin, Ron, and Mr. Weasley had rushed to Harry's side. “Dad,” Ron said in a trembling
voice. “Look at his scar.”

It was glowing whitely on his forehead, giving off a light that was very nearly dazzling to the
eyes.

“Ginny,” Tonks ventured in an uncertain tone. “Do you know what he said?” Ginny closed her eyes
momentarily, almost in a gesture of pain, and reached backward into unwelcome memories - blank
spaces in time, blood on her robes, a soothing voice speaking smooth lies in her head, feeding her
fears and insecurities. She opened her eyes, and swallowed convulsively.

“He said `*You cannot hold me here.'*”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Harry awakened, the lurid orange décor notified him that he was in Ron's bed. Mrs.
Weasley sat on a chair nearby, and he could barely make out a shadowy form propped in front of the
closed door in a chair. It appeared to be Bill. He shifted slightly in bed, drawing their
attention.

“What happened?” he asked weakly.

“You passed out,” Mrs. Weasley replied, carefully and rather inaccurately.

“I was talking to Hermione's parents,” Harry remembered out loud. “Then - then it got cold.
I passed out? Why?” A shred of memory presented itself to him, and he spoke without thinking. “Was
there a snake?” He shook his head. *Why did I say that?*

“I don't know, Harry,” Bill said, watching him with probing eyes. “Was there?”

“What are you talking about?” Harry asked, having caught on to the odd tone in Bill's
voice.

“Harry, you went into kind of a trance,” Mrs. Weasley said softly. Harry saw Bill make a kind of
involuntary move forward, as if in protest, but he checked it. “You started speaking
Parseltongue.”

Harry's gaze was one of trepidation. “Does anyone know what I said?” he asked in a hoarse
voice.

*The snake burst from his skull with a searing pain, and the blood pouring from the wound
flooded his eyes, burning and blinding them…*

“Ginny said you said `You cannot hold me here'.”

“`You cannot hold me here,'” Harry repeated. He shook his head without comprehension. “What
does that mean?”

“We were hoping you'd tell us that, Harry,” Bill answered him evenly. Harry cocked one
eyebrow at him.


“Am I being accused of something here?”

“Of course not, Harry. Don't be ridiculous,” Mrs. Weasley spoke quickly, throwing a quelling
glance toward Bill.

“Where's Hermione?”

“Ron's only just come up and made her leave…get something to eat. You've been out for
hours. It'll be nearly dawn now…Christmas Day.” Mrs. Weasley smoothed his damp hair away from
his face maternally. Harry swore under his breath, then winced, but relaxed, when Mrs. Weasley
didn't bat an eyelash at his language.

“I've ruined everything, haven't I?” He asked in a voice of quiet despair.

“My dear silly boy, why ever would you say that?” There was an indulgent note in Molly
Weasley's tone, and it made Harry want to writhe in embarrassment and annoyance.

“I want to see Hermione,” he said, pushing himself upright in the bed, and swinging his legs
over the side. “Where's my cane?”

“Harry - ” Mrs. Weasley tried to stop him, but he gently removed her arm from his, and limped
slowly and painstakingly toward the door, blocked by the chair in which Bill sat.

“Bill, please get out of my way,” Harry said, almost politely.

“Harry,” Bill began, in a “this is for your own good” way. “We're worried about you.”

“Why should you be worried about me?” Harry asked, a little too quickly. “It's only
after-effects…from my encounter with Voldemort. Hermione said so. I've always had bad dreams
and flashes of memories that weren't mine. He gave me the ability to speak Parseltongue when I
was a baby. I'm used to it by now…I'm only sorry it's messed up everyone's
Christmas.”

“Harry,” Bill said again. “Voldemort's dead. He -”

“Of course he's dead,” Harry said emphatically and rapidly, overriding whatever Bill had
been intending to say. His eyes went sharply to Bill's face, where his own scars were palely
visible in the graying dawn. “Do you think Voldemort's possessing me or something?” He did not
wait for Bill to answer. “I watched him die. I impaled him on a sword!” His tone was one of
exasperation, of “how many times do I have to tell you that?”

“Hermione said you heard his voice in your head. In the hospital,” Bill remarked in a soft
voice.

“It was a potion I had to take. It caused hallucinations,” Harry said shortly.

“You were afraid he was still alive,” Bill said, and Harry sucked his breath at the pain of
Hermione's betrayal. Why had she told them that? *Now they all think - they all think -*
his mind was racing in incoherent circles. All he could process was that Bill had voiced his
deepest fear - that he had failed…that somewhere out there was a horcrux that they had missed, and
Voldemort was still alive.

“No,” Harry breathed, in a tone of pure denial, shaking his head vehemently. “No, he's dead.
There were seven horcruxes…six objects and his own body….we got them all. He's dead.” He was
speaking distractedly, almost as if trying to convince himself. “Where's Hermione?”

“Bill, let him go,” Mrs. Weasley said in a tired voice, and Bill reluctantly stood aside,
sliding the chair out of the way with one foot, eliciting a loud scrape.

Harry did not look at either of them, as he retrieved his cane from where it leaned in the
corner, and left the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Burrow was quiet in the pending arrival of morning, and Harry prowled quietly through the
house looking for Hermione. All the evidence of revelry from the night before had been eradicated
as thoroughly as if it never happened, and it gave Harry the uncomfortably impression that he had
slept perhaps for years; the event of the previous night seemed far removed from the angry, bitter,
fearful, worried emotions that were roiling through him now.

He opened the back door softly, and peered out into the dim garden. The grass and shrubbery were
festooned with glittery sprinkles of frost, and Harry shivered as the cold air hit him. He was
about to close the door again, when he stiffened, hearing the soft murmur of voices, but seeing no
one. Closer examination revealed that the people speaking were sitting against the same wall that
the back door opened into, on the other side of a large bush, taller than he was. They were quite
invisible, although their voices drifted to him clearly.

“Hermione, I don't see how you can think that it's true - after just this one instance,”
Ron's voice was disbelieving. Someone - evidently Hermione - sniffled.

“It's not just this one instance. It's dozens of little things. The voices in his head.
The nightmares. He told me one morning after a dream that there was a snake in his head. A
*snake…in* his head! What else could that mean?” Her voice broke a little. “Don't you
remember when we discussed the possibility…that first night at Hogwarts? You didn't want to
believe it then either.”

“If… if it is true, then what does that mean we do?” Ron asked slowly, after a moment of
silence. “Do we tell the Order?”

“I don't know,” she sighed. “What if they - what if - people might be scared of him, if they
knew. And they would - they might…” Harry craned his neck, straining to hear, as Hermione's
voice dropped so low that it was barely a whisper. “What if they took him away?”

“But they can't do that! It's not his fault!” Ron burst out suddenly, his voice loud and
dissonant in the quiet gray garden.

“Some people might not see it like that - not the Order - but other people. They would see the
sacrifice as well worth it if Voldemort were gone for good. Or the Ministry - who knows? They could
lock him up in the Department of Mysteries and - and watch him and test him…like a - like an
experiment or something.”

“Hermione, no…” Ron's tone was one of pure horror.

“Don't you see, Ron? Why we can't tell anybody that Harry's a horcrux?” Harry felt
as if he had sustained a stunning blow to the head. Spots danced before his vision, and his lungs
suddenly seemed incapable of drawing in enough oxygen. His mind whirled….*no, it's not
possible. It's not possible,* even as another more rational voice said *it makes
sense…that's why the destruction of the horcruxes made me sick…another piece of the soul that I
- oh my God - have inside me was being annihilated.* He stepped backwards, groping behind him
for the door, needing something to lean against desperately.

“—don't know anything about horcruxes. How can we do anything?” Ron was saying. Harry had
missed the first part of his statement.

“If I can modify the Wolfsbane potion, I can find out about horcruxes,” Hermione said, in a
determined voice. “There's got to be a way to remove one safely…we just have to find out
how.”

“Oh, is that all? Not even Dumbledore could find out about them. That's why Harry had to
retrieve Slughorn's real memory. Are we just going to march up to the darkest Death Eater we
can find, and ask them politely if we could do a little research?” Ron said sarcastically. “And
you've forgotten another thing, Hermione. What is this piece of soul capable of? Can it make
Harry do things? What if it notifies the Death Eaters and they find out Voldemort's not dead.
They'll - ”

“Come after Harry,” Hermione finished for him in a dead-sounding voice.

“Hermione, Harry's always been in danger. But what if *he's* dangerous now - I
mean, Voldemort through him. What if he hurts you?”

“Harry wouldn't ever hurt me,” Hermione said, in a certain enough tone to bring a little
balm to Harry's heart. “Besides, it's one piece of Voldemort's soul against *all*
of Harry's…”

“Did you see the way he looked at you? Before he started speaking Parseltongue?” Ron asked
insistently, and then his voice grew gentler. “I just want you to be careful.”

“What are we going to do?” she said, in a muffled tone. Harry reckoned she had put her face in
her hands.

“Did you ever think about telling *me* any of this?” He said icily, stepping out from
around the tree, before he even realized he was going to reveal himself.

The look on Ron and Hermione's faces would have been comical if the situation hadn't
been so dangerous and frightening.

“Harry, we were just theorizing - ” Hermione began, and he saw the fear flash into her eyes.
Somehow that made him even angrier.

“And now you're afraid of me? Afraid I'm suddenly going to turn into Lord Bloody
Voldemort himself and *crucio* everyone in sight?” His ire was obvious, but what hurt Hermione
the most was the lost little boy look in his eyes - the boy that had been locked in a cupboard and
told he was a freak by the only family he'd ever known. She hadn't seen that face for quite
some time.

“I'm - I'm not afraid of you, Harry. I know you,” she said calmly, though her chin was
trembling. “You would never hurt me.”

Some of the fight went out of Harry. His limp seemed more pronounced - perhaps brought on by the
stress of the last several hours - and he leaned against the wall near her.

“But you hurt me, Hermione,” he spoke in a calm voice - the calm of despair and apathy, rather
than the calm of peace and serenity. “If you knew back *then* - if you knew that I was a
horcrux…why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't know anything for sure,” she protested. “And when we found the ruby missing from
the sword, I thought I'd been wrong.”

“Dumbledore was wrong,” Harry said dully, staring at nothing. The sky was beginning to lighten,
the horizon becoming pearlescent in the east, the stars beginning to fade out in the west. “There
weren't seven horcruxes. There were seven splits. Eighth…I was the eighth.” He seemed to be
rambling, no longer aware that they were there.

“Harry, we're going to find a way to fix this.” Hermione laid one hand on his arm, looking
up into his face. He did not look back at her; his face was bleak and tired, and he seemed to have
aged rapidly overnight. “I'm sorry I didn't say anything to you first. But I thought I was
wrong.”

“You're hardly ever wrong,” Harry said, without amusement or tenderness in his voice. “And I
can tell you right now how to fix this.”

“Harry, that's not funny -” Ron had remained silent up to this point, but now stood in front
of Harry, looking him in the eyes.

“I'm not laughing,” Harry retorted, biting out the words through gritted teeth. “If - if I
need to - need to - for the greater good - for the safety of the wizarding world….” He looked down
at Hermione suddenly, his eye drawn by the glistening diamond on her hand, as the first rays of
sunlight scattered across the sky. *I was so close…* he thought bitterly, *so close to
happiness, to normalcy, and now…* The lines and planes of Hermione's face appeared harsh
with worry and fatigue, even in the soft light of dawn. Harry sighed. *I love her so
much.*

“Harry, please don't talk like that,” she said, in as matter of fact a voice as she could
muster. “We found the other horcruxes…with nobody's help but our own. We can do this. I love
you. I'm not giving up - *we're* not giving up, not without a fight.”

Harry looked into the resolute faces of his two best friends - of his best friend and his lover,
his fiancée. Somehow their hopeful, determined countenances wearied him, annoyed him. He felt
guilty and angry and betrayed … and tired. His shoulders slumped, and he longed for nothing more
than to go into a room alone, shut the door, sit in the dark, and pretend that none of this was
happening.

*Rage boiled up through him. A high thin voice said, “Crucio”. Someone was screaming.*

“I can't do this right now…I can't talk about this now. It's - it's too
much…”

Hermione and Ron seemed frozen where they stood, the heaviness of Harry's burdens feeling
cumbersome upon their shoulders as well.

Harry limped to the door and slipped inside, slamming it shut behind him.

**TBC**

**AN:** **You got some fluff, so naturally it had to be counter-balanced with a precise
measurement of angst! Hope you enjoyed. You may leave a review on your way out, if you
like.**

**But please not these kind****s** **of reviews… I recently was flamed in my reviews - 5
times in a row - by people saying how much they hated this site, and how stupid H/Hr shippers were,
and how if we'd read HBP, we'd know who was getting together, etc., etc. I found it
extremely annoying, as it was not even about my story in particular. I don't think my story was
even read. If you don't like these pairings, go read fanfiction somewhere else! I have read HBP
and liked it fine, and feel pretty sure what is going to happen in canon. I actually don't have
a problem with it either - my main concern is that Harry not end up alone. That doesn't mean I
can't make stuff up on my own, just for fun. I still like the H/Hr ship. <sigh>**
**Some p****eople are so stupid.**

**That is all. [/end rant]**

-->



11. Turning Point
-----------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART II: The Interim**

**Chapter Six: Turning Point**

Hermione sat at her usual table in the library at Hogwarts, nearly completely hidden by several
stacks of what appeared to be the oldest, dustiest, most ponderous and most obscure books that the
school could offer. The Headmistress had not rescinded her all-access pass to the restricted
section - even though the Trio were technically `normal' students again - and she got the
distinct impression that Madame Pince did not appreciate it at all. Hermione had caught the
librarian's suspicious gaze on her more than once, while trotting back and forth from the
restricted section. It did not help that Hermione was pulling out the darkest tomes she could find,
and really did not want anyone perusing through her selection of titles.

Unfortunately - although Hermione supposed that most of the time it was a good thing - Hogwarts
did not have much to offer in the way of dark research. The information she had gathered on
horcruxes last year had been pitifully scant, and she wasn't unearthing many new facts even
with her newfound freedom in the library.

She sighed heavily, and dust blew off of the cover of the topmost book. She felt a headache
forming in her temples. N.E.W.T.s were rapidly approaching, and while normally, Hermione would feel
panic, she was currently glad. Most of her classmates assumed that she was on some kind of
hysterical studying rampage, and she had never been so grateful for her reputation of being
slightly mental when it came to her marks.

The fact was she'd been sorely neglecting her studies - at least by her standards. For some
reason, N.E.W.T.s didn't really seem terribly important. *For “some” reason*, she thought,
mocking herself.

Harry was avoiding her.

He'd been avoiding everyone really, and Hermione couldn't help but marvel a little at
how adept he seemed to be at it - avoiding people in a school full of them. She looked a little
wistfully at the diamond on her left hand. Harry hadn't asked for it back, hadn't so much
as mentioned it. She almost wished he would; it would mean that she had at least crossed his
mind.

He was angry at her, she knew. She certainly hadn't seen what she'd done as betrayal,
but knew why he had. She'd only had his best interests at heart…she was afraid for him, afraid
of losing him, afraid of what could be required of him…

She pulled another book off of the nearest stack, a large leather-bound volume full of
yellowing, loose leaves, entitled *Deathspells*. There was a grinning skull embossed on the
front, and she looked at it apathetically.

How could he sit near her every day in class and at meals, and speak with her politely, without
really saying anything at all? He was friendly enough in public, but the affection was gone…and
when they arrived back in their common room - or anywhere where frank discussion might be held - he
was gone as quickly as a cast spell, shut in his room or Merlin only knew where else.

Hermione hadn't confronted him about it, even though Ron had said she needed to - more than
once. She couldn't bring herself to do it.

She was the reason he was angry. Well, not the only reason, but *a* reason. Never before
had she been an object of Harry's anger, and never before had her forthrightness and ability to
speak her mind abandoned her.

She opened the front cover of the book, eyes automatically going to the table of contents,
scanning down the list of chapters to see if there was anything that looked promising, before
turning to the index and skimming it as well.

“How's it going?” The statement, though softly spoken, made her jump. Ron settled down into
the empty chair at the end of the table, pushing some of the books out of the way. She held up one
hand in a “see for yourself” gesture. The relationship between her and Ron had been somewhat
strained lately as well, and Hermione could not put her finger on exactly why. He had been spending
most of his spare time with her, so she wouldn't be completely alone, but she also knew he
wanted to be spending time with Luna. She wondered if it was residual guilt that still stood
between them, or just the gigantic specter of possibly losing Harry.

“You've had lunch?” Hermione asked. Ron nodded, looking somber. “How was he?”

Her other best friend shrugged.

“Dean and Seamus were in rare form today. He laughed a bit at them, but it - it didn't
really - it wasn't in his eyes, you know?” Hermione nodded. Harry's eyes were often turned
inward nowadays, seeing horrors that neither Hermione nor Ron could even contemplate, trying - and
failing - to cope with the unbelievable prospect of housing the last surviving fragment of
Voldemort's malicious soul, of being the lone reason that he still existed.

Hermione sighed again.

“You need to talk to him,” Ron said, in the tone of one who has repeated himself times
uncountable.

“Ron, I know. He's just - he's so - he seems unreachable now, and I don't know how
to approach him.”

“You could take off your clothes,” Ron suggested in a whisper. Hermione felt a smile pull at her
unwilling lips.

“Ron, that's not funny,” she said, mustering up a glare. Ron grinned a little cheekily at
her, and then turned serious.

“He's mad at you because you're a convenient target. He knows that he would have told
people too, if your situations were reversed. But who else is he gonna be all pissy at? Dumbledore?
The piece of Voldemort in his head?” Hermione had to admit that Ron had a point. “But both of you,
really - it's the whole letting Voldemort win just by giving up thing again,” Ron needled,
sensing weakness, hoping to win the argument by virtue of sheer repetition; he had harassed her
about it several times.

“You're right, you're right!” Hermione exclaimed, throwing up both hands. “I'll go
talk to him.”

“Now?” Ron asked, giving no quarter.

“Yes, now.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “And *you* can stay here and keep reading.” Ron made
a face of mock disgust. “If I can find him, that is. Where in the world does he go all the
time?”

“Where would you go if you felt like you needed to hide from everyone?” Ron asked rhetorically,
shrugging.

Hermione stopped dead, as if she'd been petrified.

“Hermione?” Ron asked with some alarm.

“If you needed to hide…” she mouthed, almost to herself. “Ron!” she said so suddenly that he
jumped. “That room - that room where Harry hid his potions book. What if other people hid books
there - ones they didn't want to get caught with? Ones about Dark magic?”

Ron raised his eyebrows in admiration, and Hermione guessed that that meant he found the idea
plausible. Before he could say anything, Hermione had grabbed his arm and was pulling him behind
her to the Room of Requirement.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The wall remained blank, and Hermione stamped her foot in frustration. “Why isn't it
working?”

“Are you thinking that you need to hide something, or that you need to find the place where
Harry hid something…or that you need to find the place where someone hid the something that you
want?” Ron said, the words coming out in a tangled mess. Hermione looked at him blankly.

“What?” she said, pausing momentarily, before pacing distractedly in front of the wall again.
Nothing happened.

“I guess the Room knows *you* really don't need to hide anything,” Ron suggested.
“Maybe you need to think more frantic thoughts.”

“If my thoughts get any more frantic, I'll have a coronary!” Hermione said in a biting
tone.

“Now there's something to look forward to,” came a drawl from a voice just out of sight.
Hermione and Ron exchanged glances, and instinctively drew closer together, as Draco Malfoy came
around the corner.

“Come to reminisce, Malfoy?” Ron spat.

“What's stuck up your arse, Weasel? Been working with the house-elves for your tuition?”
Draco sneered. Ron reddened.

“And how are you doing, Malfoy? I assume you're enjoying your position as Has-Been? Not so
much fun being a Malfoy when everyone who used to admire the name is in Azkaban.” Draco's eyes
glittered with loathing. Hermione wondered if Malfoy could sense Ron's contempt; it seemed to
be rolling off of him in waves.

“We were just leaving,” Hermione said, grabbing Ron's arm and steering him in the other
direction.

“Actually,” Malfoy's voice cut in, stopping them both short. “I came because I was wondering
if I could join your little book club. You've left some fascinating leisure-time selections in
the library, Granger.”

Hermione froze, and Ron watched the color drain from her face. It was obvious that she had
forgotten all about the books piled all over the library table. Slowly, they turned back to face
Malfoy, who was almost grinning with satisfaction.

“What's your game, Malfoy?” Ron asked, cutting to the chase. Malfoy shrugged, leaning one
shoulder casually against the wall.

“Just curious as to why Potter's little Mudblood is dabbling in the Dark Arts…” he said
airily.

“Do *not* call her that,” Ron said hotly.

“What? Potter's? He hasn't been paying her a lot of attention lately, for all that
she's wearing that pathetic ring,” Malfoy said cruelly. “Are *you* back together with her
now? Or do you two just share her?”

Hermione drew in a shuddering breath, and two spots of color appeared in each cheek. Ron was
reaching for his wand, but Hermione held out a hand for him to stop.

“You came up here to find us…why? I'm sure it wasn't just to be a complete prick.”
Hermione said in an even voice.

“You don't give me enough credit, Granger,” he said in a low tone.

“Whose blood is that on your robes?” Hermione said, still cool. “Love notes from all your
fair-weather Slytherin friends?” Rusty smears marred Draco's sleeves and cuffs. Ron had not
noticed them until Hermione pointed them out.

“They wouldn't dare touch me,” Malfoy said loftily, but something had flickered briefly in
his face. He and Hermione stared challengingly at each other for a long moment.

“They're trying to kill you, aren't they?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Malfoy snarled. “The blood is from my owl. He just died.”

“Did they kill him?” Hermione continued, in the same politely curious voice. Malfoy pushed off
of the wall suddenly, with an impatient gesture, and approached Hermione, leaning in close to her
face.

“You're not going to find what you're looking for here.”

“What do you know about what I'm looking for?” Hermione said, glaring at him, as they stood
only inches apart.

“You need to be more careful, Granger. And the Weasel needs to turn his volume down.” His eyes
flicked over to Ron and then back to her. “People have not stopped watching you. Or Potter either.
People are asking questions.”

He drew back from her personal space as abruptly as he'd filled it, and had disappeared
around the corner again, without another word.

“What the hell?” Ron said in thorough confusion.

“He knows something,” Hermione said, watching the spot where Draco had disappeared. “But what?
And what is he going to do about it?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione was reading again, when Harry finally entered the common room after dinner. He had not
showed up at the evening meal, and she still did not know where he'd been. She was careful to
keep the spine of the large book spread across her lap hidden, even though she supposed he knew
what she was researching.

He mumbled something that sounded like “'Night,” in her and Ron's general direction,
before heading for the stairs. Hermione did not raise her eyes to him, and turned a page with an
air of nonchalance. She felt Ron spear her with a look, and glanced up to see him leaning his head
in the direction of the staircase.

“You said you were going to talk to him, if you could find him. Now you know where he is, so
go!”

“You're not going to leave me alone until I go, are you?” Hermione grumbled. Ron smiled at
her by way of answering. She closed the book, and laid it on the sofa, heading for the stairs.

Harry's door had at least fourteen different locking charms on it - at least, that's how
many Hermione had disabled on one occasion, before she had gotten annoyed and angry and hurt, and
stopped trying. Tonight, she decided a more direct approach would be in order.

“Reducto!” she said in a soft voice. The door blew open with a loud cracking of wood. Splinters
clattered to the floor, and what was left of the door banged noisily against the wall. Down in the
common room, Ron smothered a grin.

“Bloody hell!” came an exclamation from within. “You could've knocked.” Hermione stepped
inside, her demeanor cold and formal. Harry was across the room, folded up into his window seat,
where he'd been looking out across the rugged countryside.

“You don't answer when I knock.”

“Then you should take a hint,” Harry said rudely. Hermione stood motionlessly for a moment,
trying to figure out exactly what to say next. She absent-mindedly twirled the diamond around her
fourth finger with her thumb. Harry's eyes followed her movement, and fixated on the ring.
Hermione noticed.

“You're wearing it,” he observed.

“Of course I'm wearing it. Do you want it back?” she asked gently. A hint of pain darkened
his eyes at her question.

“Do you want to give it back?” he countered. A glimmer of a mirthless smile crossed her face,
and she shook her head.

“You don't get to answer my questions with questions. Not when you haven't spoken to me
- really *to* me - in weeks. It doesn't work that way.”

“So, how does it work?” Harry asked in a disarming way. “Do I wait until you confide in me, and
then tell everyone what you said, so people think that you're crazy?” He smiled, but his tone
was biting. Hermione stiffened. “Do I discover important things about you, and keep them from you?
Talk about you behind your back?”

“That's not what happened.”

“Then enlighten me,” he said shortly. The smile had fallen off of his face.

“I only wanted to help you, Harry. I was scared that you weren't handling this, that you
were bottling everything up, denying what was going on…”

“No, that was you,” Harry interrupted. “You knew at the beginning of last term that I was a - a
- ” he couldn't even say it. “And you said nothing, you did *nothing*!”

“I didn't really *know* anything,” Hermione said, feeling the feebleness of that old
excuse. “What was I supposed to do?” The question was wrung out of Hermione in a tone of
anguish.

“Be honest with me,” Harry said simply.

“Like you were with me?” Hermione asked. “How many nights per week *do* you have
nightmares, Harry?”

Harry looked at her stonily, and did not answer. She slid the ring from her finger, and laid it
in a shallow dish on his wardrobe, where he often kept loose change. It clinked forlornly against
the ceramic.

“If you can't trust in my love for you, then we've no future at all,” she said, in a
voice bleak with pain.

She strode from the room without looking back.

Her foot was on the top step, when she heard,


“Wait?” It was phrased uncertainly, more like a question than an imperative. Her heart had stopped
beating when the ring left her finger, but it thumped once when he spoke, and resumed a slow,
painful rhythm.

She walked carefully back to the doorway, and stood in it, trying to look indifferent. He was
standing nearby, holding the ring between his fingers and looking like someone had died.

“I'll understand if you want to go…” he began. “But - but please don't go because you
think *I* want you to go.”

“Why not, Harry?” she asked evenly. She needed to hear him say it.

“Because I *don't* want you to go. I should, but I almost feel like you're the last
good thing I have left. I know I - I - I haven't dealt with this well, at - at all, but
it's no excuse for the way I've treated you. I'm sorry.” He looked ragged, haunted. She
wondered how much more weight he'd dropped in the last few weeks.

“Harry, I don't want to go. I can't even imagine how much this must be to deal with. I
don't hold any of it against you, okay? I - I just wish you'd let me help you, let me bear
some of this burden. Ron and I both do. We'll research, we'll listen, whatever you need us
to do.”

“Hermione, it was bad enough when I just thought I was crazy,” he said, a ghost of a smile
glinting over his face. “But now - *now* I'm - I'm a … monster.” He closed his eyes,
as if in pain. “What if Ron was right? What if something happens to me, and I hurt you? I could
never forgive myself.”

“*You* are not a monster. You won't hurt me, Harry,” Hermione replied serenely. “I said
that at Christmas. I believed it then, and I believe it now.”

“You don't deserve - ” he began.

“I know I don't deserve you, but I'm so glad you love me anyway,” Hermione said,
twisting his words around. He held the ring out to her, a question lurking unspoken in his
eyes.

She slid it back onto the finger that it had so recently vacated.

“I missed you,” he whispered hoarsely, pulling her into his arms. She looked at him primly.

“That was your own bloody fault.”

“Hermione, if - if - if worst comes to worst, and I - I - I have to - to…” he stammered. She
placed two fingers over his mouth for him to hush.

“I'm not listening,” she said sweetly, before replacing her fingers with her lips.

“Hermione,” he protested into her mouth, seeming to think and suddenly change his mind, drawing
his chin back and down to try to move away from her. “Maybe - maybe it's best if you not get -
if we - if you're not attached. Since - since - ”

“You said you didn't want me to go,” she observed quietly.

“I - I don't. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't.”

“If I haven't abandoned you before, then I'm certainly not going to start now,” she
replied, looking deeply and meaningfully into his eyes. “Just - just promise me that you won't
- won't go *do* anything without talking to me - to me and Ron first, okay?” There seemed
to be an almost permanent crease between Hermione's brows. “Let that be a last resort….all
right?” Her lips trembled, and she took in a shuddering breath. She couldn't believe that they
were even talking about it at all - about the possibility of suicide.

“You know it might have to be done,” he told her in a gentle voice. She pursed her lips together
tightly.

“I - I just don't understand how - how you can be blasé about all this - about your life.
It's your *life* we're talking about Harry…willingly and knowingly giving it up. That
doesn't upset you at all?”

“Of course it upsets me, Hermione! Why do you think I've been skulking about being an arse
for weeks? It scares me witless. When I heard you and Ron talking at Christmas, I was - I was so
shocked that I thought I might be sick, but then on some level… it was like I had always known. So
many pieces fell into place. And then, well, we'd had to destroy the other horcruxes. Why
wouldn't we have to destroy this one as well? Before…I might not have minded...so much, you
know - it would be noble and brave and very Gryffindor… for the greater good and all. But now…” he
stroked the contours of her cheekbone with one thumb, and she closed her eyes in response. “Now,
life seems worth living - *really* worth living - like I have a hope and a future…and I
don't want to let go.”

She opened her eyes and they were glossy with the sheen of unshed tears. “Then don't,” she
whispered.

“I might not have a choice,” he reminded her.

“Why not?” she stammered, even though she knew the answer. “You've always given everything
you had. You've been a target without deserving it; you've fought in a war that you
didn't start, and you finished it. Why don't you get to live happily ever after? Why
don't I get to be selfish and keep you, and tell everyone else to go to hell?”

“Because I *didn't* finish it,” he said. “I thought I did, and I was wrong. *We*
were wrong. It's *not* finished yet, and I can't leave it incomplete. And you
wouldn't tell everyone to go to hell, because you've a good heart, and you know what's
right.” She bit her lips together, and looked down at her shoes that were blurry through her tears.
He was right, and she knew it.

“I guess if you bailed out before the game was finished, then you wouldn't be the Harry
Potter I love so much,” Hermione admitted. “And I do love you.”

“I love you too. And I'm sorry. I feel like you're being cheated out of something,
somehow,” Harry said apologetically. Hermione wanted to laugh. Here was Harry, calmly discussing
the possibility of killing himself so that the rest of the wizarding world would be safe from the
likes of Voldemort, and he was worried about cheating *her* out of happiness.

“You never promised,” she pointed out, remembering suddenly. “You never promised that you
wouldn't - wouldn't *leave* without saying anything.” It would be just like him to go
off alone, thinking he was being all noble and sparing them.

He looked into her eyes, into her soul, for a long moment, and Hermione thought she would drown
in the sea of emotions that stormed through her.

“I promise,” he said, and the words fell heavily into the room. Hermione gazed back at him,
trying to compose her emotions, wondering frantically if she could find anything, if there
*was* anything to find…and if it would be in time.

“How's the research going?” Harry asked then, seeming to read her mind. There was a little
naked note of hope in his voice, and it broke her heart. *He doesn't want to die. I don't
want him to die. Damn Voldemort and his bloody obsession with immortality!* Hermione was torn
between being devastated and furious. And then the age-old cry of bitter helplessness rang through
her mind. *It's not fair!*

“Slow,” she said. *Non-existent*, a more honest part of her mind sniped.

“Dumbledore didn't know much himself. I'm not sure how much there is to find,” Harry
remarked.

*You're not going to find what you're looking for here*, Draco's words ran
through her mind again. *Here*, he had said. Then did he know where she *could* find the
information she sought? And would he be willing to tell her? Is *that* what he was trying to
tell her? Hermione's mind was racing.

“Just promise me that you'll not do anything to put yourself in danger, while you're
looking. You know what Dark magic horcruxes are, and what sort of people they're likely to
attract,” Harry was saying, and Hermione found herself nodding, almost automatically. “I reckon
you've got time to look, as long as nobody knows what's really going on, but you know, if
they - if they come after me - I'll have to - I'll have to finish it. His followers
can't take me alive, you know that. We can guess what would happen if they did.”

She nodded again, more slowly and gravely this time. She could well guess.

*People have not stopped watching you. Or Potter either*. She heard Malfoy's snarled
words again. A threat? Or a warning?

She looked up into Harry's startlingly green eyes, and smiled serenely into them. It was
more than a little ironic that only a few minutes after worrying that Harry wouldn't trust her,
after assuring him of her love and loyalty, that she was going to lie right to his face.

“If I hear anything, I'll let you know.”

Part of her soul seemed to recoil, as she watched Harry nod and lean closer for a kiss. He
believed her. *Forgive me, Harry. I'm doing this for you.*

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I need to talk to you,” came a muttered voice, uttered low and hastily near his ear. Draco
Malfoy looked up from where he sat at a corner library table, his eyebrows arched in surprise.

“Hallo, Granger,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling up unpleasantly. His gaze traveled
over her body in an insolent way, and she willed herself not to flush. “To what to I owe this
admittedly dubious honor?”

“I'd prefer to talk somewhere where we will not be overheard,” she said in a clipped voice,
standing very stiffly. “Or seen.”

“Trust me when I say that I don't want to be seen with you either,” Malfoy replied, seeming
to instantly know what she wanted to talk about, his eyes darting around the mostly empty library.
“I'll meet you by the Room of Requirement in ten minutes.” His attention returned to the book
he'd been reading. “Now get out of my light.”

Hermione nodded once, tersely, and grabbed a book blindly off the shelf without even looking at
it, giving herself a reason for being in the library. Her heart was racing and her palms were
sweaty. She felt like she might be sick. *What are you doing? What* **are** *you doing,
Hermione?* She strolled out of the library, with as casual a stride as she could muster, and
took a long, roundabout route to the Room of Requirement.

When she arrived on the seventh floor, there was already a door in the wall, and Draco was
lounging indolently against it. He straightened when he saw her, and his eyes darted toward each
end of the corridor in turn.

“Get inside,” he said in a short, urgent voice. Part of her was still shrieking misgivings, but
Hermione squelched the caution firmly, and went inside. The room was nearly empty and looked oddly
desolate. Two plain chairs sat near a roaring fireplace, and constituted the only furniture in the
Room.

“So what did you need to consult me about, Granger?” Malfoy asked, sinking gracefully down into
one of the chairs. Hermione found that she was too keyed up to sit down, and instead started pacing
a little around the room.

“You said that I couldn't find what I was looking for here. What did you mean by that?”

“I meant exactly what I said.”

“If not here, then you must know where.”

Malfoy snorted and gave her a look as if she were crazy. “You are extrapolating an awful lot
from a few words exchanged in a corridor.” Hermione began to wonder if she'd imagined the whole
thing, but pressed on resolutely.

“If there is one thing I have learned about you over the last seven years, Malfoy, it's that
you never say anything without a calculated reason behind it. Why did you say `you're not going
to find what you're looking for *here*?' Where can I find it then?”

“*You're* not going to be able to get any information on horcruxes,” Malfoy finally
said bluntly, looking her straight in the eyes. “You'll have to go somewhere Dark or to someone
Dark, people will recognize you instantly, and they'll report you to - to …well, and you know
what will happen next. Wounded, cornered animals are very dangerous.”

“To who? Bellatrix?” Hermione asked quickly, referring to the most notorious Death Eater that
had thus far eluded capture. Draco's face was like a mask, and he said nothing. “What makes you
think I'm looking for anything on horcruxes?” Hermione asked, her face also disclosing nothing.
Malfoy rolled his eyes.

“Playing coy doesn't suit you, Granger. I'm not an idiot. I've seen the books
you've been digging through, I've heard you and Weasley whispering oh-so-anxiously
together, I've read about the press conference with Potter, and I've heard about his
nightmares. I can put two and two together easily enough. And if I have, so will others.”

“Then why haven't you told your leaders about him?”

“I'm not a Death Eater. There's no Mark on my arm; there never has been. I did no time
in Azkaban. *Harry Potter* testified for me at my trial. The Death Eaters wouldn't trust
me as far as they could hex me, unless I made an extremely extravagant show of loyalty. I'm not
ready to do that just yet.” The last part of his sentence was spoken lightly, as if he were
speaking of redecorating or making a dental appointment.

“That's what happens when you play both ends against the middle, Malfoy,” Hermione said,
biting off her words. “Then neither side trusts you and both would rather see you dead.” He
stiffened slightly at her words, and Hermione noticed.

“I was right, wasn't I? They are trying to kill you, aren't they? Are you having some
house elf taste your food before every meal?” Her words were sarcastic, but a flicker in
Draco's eyes told her how close to the mark she'd been.

“Your concern is endearing, really, but no,” he drawled casually. “There have been no attempts
on my life. Try not to look so disappointed. Someone did kill my owl. Unfortunately, I will have to
make my stand one way or another soon.”

“Ouch, I bet that'll hurt,” Hermione cracked, narrowing her eyes at him. They glowered at
each other for a moment. “So what can you bring me?” she asked in a brisk tone. Draco's
eyebrows soared.

“Excuse me?” he said, as if he'd not heard her correctly.

“About horcruxes,” she enunciated slowly as if he were a dim-witted child. “You said I'd
never be able to go after information. Obviously you intend to.” Draco tucked his tongue into his
cheek, and regarded her silently for a long moment, amusement glinting faintly in his eyes.

“Granger, you have obviously mistaken me for someone who cares at all about the plight of
others, much less Potter,” he finally said. “I don't do anything unless there's some
benefit in it for me.”

“Even now?” Hermione challenged.

“*Especially* now,” Draco retorted. Hermione mulled this over for a moment.

“What do you want?” she asked coolly. He looked at her with derision.

“You've nothing to offer me,” he said haughtily.

“Try me,” she replied, looking deadly serious. He looked on the verge of making some snide
comment, but stopped when he saw the look on her face.

“I want my probation revoked,” he began. “I want the money that the Ministry confiscated from my
father when he went into prison. I want all the monitoring charms removed from Malfoy Manor. And I
want protection. If I do this, my life isn't going to be worth a plug Knut.”

“You don't ask for much, do you?” Hermione said, with one eyebrow arched. “What makes you
think I can get any of this for you?”

“You're the one who told me to try you,” Malfoy sneered. “With your newfound celebrity, I
suppose it's possible. And if you can't, that boyfriend of yours could get it done.
They'll give him anything he wants.”

“But I - ” Hermione blurted, before coming to an abrupt halt and clamping her lips tightly shut.
Malfoy laughed softly.

“Ah, he doesn't know you're here, does he? I reckon this *would* chap his arse,
wouldn't it?”

“He would understand that I'm doing this to save him,” Hermione said stiffly.

“And that's why he doesn't know about it, right?” Malfoy replied, and grinned when
Hermione flinched.

“There's not a lot of time - months, maybe, at the most,” she said urgently, returning to
the matter at hand. “I'll do my best to get you what you want, but in the meantime - ”

“Will I give you what you want on your own recognizance?” he finished for her smoothly, tsk-ing
at her a little. “Granger, that's not very good business.”

“I'm sure it will take time for you to procure it,” Hermione said, trying not to sound
pleading and desperate. “Could you at least begin the process?”

“There will be little to no time or effort required…which is how I like it, of course. My father
had one of the most extensive Dark Arts libraries in this country. It will be as simple as
returning home for a visit - once the monitoring charms are removed.”

“I'll see what I can do,” Hermione said, feeling the ache in the back of her neck, as her
spine slowly began to ease its tension.

“It's probably best if we aren't seen together,” Malfoy continued, rising from his
chair, indicating that their meeting was at an end. “Get someone to use as a go-between. Have them
come up to me with some sort of code phrase - maybe `Why, Draco, how handsome you look
tonight!'”

Hermione snorted, and tried to turn it into a cough. “Can't get it any other way, Malfoy?”
she asked lightly.

Malfoy arched his brows in surprise. “Why, Granger, I didn't know you had it in you.” It
seemed to Hermione that there was grudging respect in his tone.

“If I can have the monitoring charms removed by this weekend, can you get the material to me
next week?” she asked.

He nodded once, brusquely. “I would say it's been a pleasure doing business with you,
Granger, but … ”

“Yeah, you're a real honest bloke, Malfoy. Wouldn't want you to say anything that
wasn't true,” she said with an icy smile, before sweeping in front of him and out of the
door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Ginny! Ginny!”

Ginny Weasley turned as she heard a loud hiss. She could barely make out a shadowy silhouette
with springy hair standing near a suit of armor.

“Hermione?” Ginny asked, as she approached, mystified. The other girl shook her head furiously,
indicating that Ginny be quiet. “What's…going on?” Ginny said softly.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Hermione whispered, looking over her shoulder. The corridor was
quite deserted - it was the lull just before dinnertime - and Ginny wondered how long Hermione had
been hiding there waiting for her.

“Okay,” Ginny said, a little doubtfully. She felt like she and Hermione had begun growing apart
her fifth year - Ginny figured her little comment about Quidditch hadn't really helped matters
any - and their involvement with Harry had caused further decline.

“You can't tell anybody - not even Harry or Ron…no, especially not Harry or Ron,” Hermione
said urgently.

“What are you on about?” Ginny asked, more than a little curious about what the rule-abiding
Hermione Granger was up to.

“Draco Malfoy has something for me. I need you to get it from him, and bring it to me.”

Ginny stared at Hermione for a long moment, and then burst out laughing. Hermione looked around
nervously as the sound rang out in the corridor. “Who put you up to this? Harry or Ron? It had to
be one of them, I know it.”

“Ginny!” Hermione was frantically waving a hand at her for her to hush. “I'm not kidding. I
need you to do this. He cannot be seen with me - and I don't need to be seen with him either.”
Ginny looked at Hermione again.

“You're serious?”

“What does Malfoy have that you could *possibly* need?”

“It's - it's Dark Arts research - for N.E.W.T.s - from his father's library,”
Hermione said. She had thought this lie out beforehand, but her nervousness was making her stammer.
She cursed herself for how guilty she appeared.

“Then, why can't you tell Harry and Ron? And who cares if he's seen giving it to you?”
Ginny drew out slowly.

“They wouldn't like it if they knew I was accepting help from him,” Hermione replied. It
sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears. “And you know how *he* is about his reputation.
Can't be seen with a lousy Muggle-born like me.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded feeble in
the empty hallway.

“I don't know, Hermione. Ron wouldn't be any happier if he saw me talking to Malfoy. And
he might tell Mum, and then she'd get on my case, and I really don't need her on my case
again. She's already signed me up on the `old maid' list, since Dean and I broke up…again.
I don't want to listen to that anymore, but I - ” She stopped, and speared Hermione with a
piercing look. “And why should I go through all that for someone who won't even tell me the
truth?” She finished.

Hermione toyed with a fold in her skirt. “There's a reason I wasn't sorted into
Slytherin,” she said grimly. “Ginny, I can't tell you why. But it's life and death, and
there's no one else I can trust, even this much. Please.”

“Life and death?” Ginny asked, her eyebrows raised. Hermione nodded.

“Harry's?” Another nod.

The silence between the two girls was deafening. Distantly, they were aware of the slow
crescendo of bustle and conversation, as students began to come down to dinner. Nobody seemed to
take any notice of them, standing motionless in the hallway.

*Please, Ginny*, Hermione seemed to be pleading wordlessly. *I don't know what else
to do for him. And he'll be so upset if he finds out, but I want to save him. He's saved
me, saved all of us so many times, and he doesn't deserve this fate. He didn't do anything
to deserve it.* *And… I need him…so much.* *Please, Ginny, help me help him.*

“What do I need to do?” Ginny asked, all business. Hermione let out a relieved sigh, closing her
eyes momentarily.

“It'll be a package, I guess. Books…or maybe papers,” Hermione said, looking uncomfortable
saying even that much. “The Great Hall is too noticeable - everyone will see if you go over to the
Slytherin table. You could wait for him out here before dinner, or maybe follow him out
afterwards?” Hermione lilted the last part of her statement up into a question, not wanting it to
sound too much like she was bossing the younger girl around. “Do you remember the password to our
common room?” Ginny nodded. “Just come up after dinner, but don't let Harry or Ron see you
leave it.”

“All right,” Ginny agreed, her eyes vaguely troubled. Hermione smiled at her tremulously.

“Thank you so much.” Her voice was barely a whisper. Ginny flashed an unreadable look at
her.

“I'd do anything to help Harry, you know that,” she replied. Hermione eyed her with a
mixture of gratitude and sympathy. She could only imagine how she'd feel if Harry were in love
with someone else.

“I know,” Hermione said. She appeared to be on the verge of saying something else, but at that
moment, she saw Harry and Ron coming down the stairs toward the Great Hall. “I better go. See you
after dinner?”

“See you then,” Ginny said, feeling like it was an inane thing to say, after their conversation.
When the Trio passed into the Great Hall, she was still standing in the corridor, like an island in
the midst of a current of people streaming by, pondering what exactly to do next.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Malfoy whirled in the dim corridor, wand instantly out and under the chin of the person
who'd been following him.

“Sweet Merlin, you're paranoid,” the voice said. “Put that thing away before you hurt
somebody.” He maneuvered the person closer to a wall sconce, and saw a glint of shiny ginger
hair.

“What do you want, Weasley? Got some sort of bet on with your pathetic little Gryffindor
friends?” he asked, lowering his wand, but not putting it away.

“Hermione sent me,” Ginny said, twisting her hands together, and trying not to look nervous.
Those three words changed Malfoy's demeanor instantly, as he pulled her into the shadows, and
glanced in all directions to see if they were being watched.

“She told you what's going on?” Malfoy seemed surprised.

“Yes,” Ginny said loftily, with an air of bravado.

“Well, tell her I'm quite impressed that she's keeping her end of the bargain. That
utterly bizarre Auror with the pink hair was up at the Manor disarming the monitoring charms over
the weekend. Who'd have thought that a Mudblood would have so much influence? Sad what our
world is coming to.” He pulled out a small paperbound package from the folds of his robes. Ginny
was busy trying to figure out what was going on, and did not comment on Malfoy's epithet. “Did
she tell Potter anything yet?”

“No, she hasn't told anyone except me,” Ginny said. She felt as if Malfoy could probably
hear her heart pounding loudly and rapidly in her chest.

“Well, here's what I could find at a moment's notice,” Malfoy said, almost pleasantly.
“I know my father has more about horcruxes…probably back in storage, or disguised as other books -
in case of Ministry raids.” Here he looked pointedly at Ginny. “I don't know how much will be
relevant - I'm not sure whether anyone's ever tried to safely extract a horcrux. It may
take some time to locate them. But she's still got to meet all my conditions, as well.”

“I'll make sure she knows,” Ginny said, trying to act natural. *Extracting a
horcrux**?* She thought. *From what? And why is Hermione still worried about
horcruxes…Voldemort is dead, and the horcruxes are destroyed. Why won't she tell Harry?* The
pieces seemed to slide into place with audible clicks, and Ginny looked slowly up at Draco, with
horror dawning in her eyes. She hoped it didn't look terribly obvious, and tried to compose her
features into a more neutral mask. She held out her hand for the package, but Draco seemed frozen
in place, his gaze going over her shoulder. He swore under his breath.

“We've got company,” he said shortly. “Fight me. Make it look good.”

“Wha - ?” Ginny managed to articulate, before Malfoy had grabbed her, turning them around so
that her back was against the wall, and lowering his mouth onto hers. He had pinned her with his
body, and so trapped the package unseen between them. His hands were holding her arms down to her
side. She was squirming wildly, and making angry, protesting noises under his smothering mouth.

She heard a group of people pass by - Slytherins, she assumed, by their unconcern with what was
going on, as well as more than a few uncouth comments that issued forth - and Malfoy continued to
assault her, until she finally got a knee loose, and brought it up between his legs. The murmur of
the Slytherins had faded around the corner.

All the air left Malfoy's lungs with an audible wheeze. Ginny scraped her palm across her
mouth, and rounded on him furiously.

“What the *hell* was that?” she muttered in a low, angry voice.

“I was saving you, you little blood traitor bitch,” Malfoy gasped from where he was slumped
against the wall, nearly doubled over.

“That's rich,” Ginny rolled her eyes. Her mouth felt hot, and her lips stung where he had
kissed her. “You weren't saving anything but your own sorry arse, Malfoy. Don't expect me
to believe otherwise.”

“Self-preservation is a commendable quality,” he rasped, trying to straighten up.

“Good,” Ginny smiled falsely. “Then you can't be mad at me for damaging your bits.
Self-preservation, you see.” She pulled the package from his limp and unprotesting hand. “If you
ever touch me again, you'll get worse, Malfoy. And that's a promise.”

Her hair whipped out behind her in an arc of red-gold flame, as she turned and proceeded down
the corridor, striding quickly out of sight.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry soared high above the Quidditch pitch, the roars of the crowd resounding pleasantly in his
ears. The pennants were whipping in the wind, and the sun shone brilliantly in the cloudless sky.
It was as perfect an example of spring weather as one could ask for or dream up.

And Harry was playing Quidditch.

He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. It was the last game of the season,
Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw for the Quidditch Cup. Ginny had suddenly come down with some kind of
stomach bug that supposedly left her retching in the girls' loo. Ron's face had flushed
oddly when he was telling Harry this, and Harry strongly suspected that both Weasleys were lying.
He also doubted that Ginny was still up at the castle, and thought instead that she was probably
hiding under the bleachers, watching the game.

He couldn't be angry at them though, not when they wanted to let him play in the
championship game during his last year at Hogwarts. He wished he could say the same about Hermione,
who'd been livid when he'd said he'd play.

*“It's for the cup, Hermione! You can't honestly expect me to turn that down. When
will I have this opportunity again? I certainly won't be playing professional Quidditch with
these knees.”*

*“You shouldn't be playing amateur Quidditch with those knees. The Healer said so,”
Hermione had said icily.*

*“One game isn't going to hurt anything. I'll put my right knee in a restraint again,
if it'll make you feel better.” Hermione glowered that it would not, in fact, make her feel
better* *at all.*

*“I'm not going to watch you do this, Harry,” she said softly. He drew back, genuinely
hurt.*

*“Hermione, it's the last game - we - I - please come and watch,” he'd pleaded, but
she'd been relentless.*

*“I need to be doing some research anyway. Have you been studying? N.E.W.T.s are - ”*

*“I know when N.E.W.T.s are,” Harry* *had* *interrupted grumpily. “I want you to
come to the game.”*

Another roar went up from the crowd, as Demelza scored again, with an assist from Dean. The
Ravenclaw team was looking surly, and one of their Beaters hit a Bludger that only barely missed
Ron. Harry lapped the pitch again, his eyes straining for any glimpse of the elusive, glittering
Snitch.

Suddenly, out beyond the pitch, he saw two tiny figures talking on the green. Familiar bushy,
brown hair streamed out from the head of one like a banner in the wind. He smiled. *She's
coming after all!* He thought gladly, but then suddenly drew his broom up short, coming to a
nearly complete halt.

The person that Hermione was talking to had pale gold hair; it glinted in the sun, looking
almost white in the full light. Harry leaned down on his broom, squinting for a better view. *Why
the hell is Hermione talking to Malfoy?*

“Harry, watch out!!” came Ron's hoarse yell, and Harry whipped his broom around, just in
time to barely miss being clobbered by a Bludger. Dennis Creevey scored while the Ravenclaw Keeper
was busy laughing.

Harry righted his broom, and looked out to the field where the two people had been standing.
They were gone. Harry swore violently, and had half a mind to go flying off the pitch right then,
in an effort to catch up with them. *Think about your team. It's the Cup at stake,* he
tried to calm himself down. If he vacated the pitch, the team would be penalized, and he
wouldn't be able to return to the game.

He tried to look for the Snitch again, but his mind was whirling. *Hermione. Hermione.
Hermione and Malfoy. What are they doing? What's going on?* He had thought that Hermione had
been unusually evasive about the research, and he'd caught her looking somewhat guiltily at him
from time to time. *There's no way Hermione would … with Malfoy… but something's going
on. She lied to me. She looked right at me, and lied.* *How long has she been lying?* He
felt the heat fill his face, as his anger built.

Then he saw it, golden and fluttering, almost tauntingly, near ground level below Ron's
position. He jerked the Firebolt around sharply, and made a beeline for the Snitch. The crowd noise
grew even louder, until it all but drowned out Luna's commentary - which may not have
necessarily been a bad thing. There was a rush of air behind him, and he knew the Ravenclaw Seeker
had also taken up the chase.

The Snitch hummed merrily, darting back and forth lightning-quick, when it suddenly took off,
soaring upward when it sensed pursuit. Harry stretched out over the length of his broom; his knee
ached, and the other Seeker was catching up. It had been a long time since he had done this.
*Please don't le**t me lose it* *for the team,* he pleaded to some higher
power.

He reached out, extending his fingers as far as he could, edging ahead of the Ravenclaw Seeker.
The wings of the Snitch beat against his hand. The crowd was nearly delirious, and the noise was
deafening.

And…Harry overbalanced. Even as he enfolded the Snitch into his palm, the broomstick nosed
downward, and Harry was flung over the front of his broom, which began tumbling end over end, while
he plunged at least twenty feet to the ground. He heard a metallic crack, and something crunched
noisily and painfully in his knee. His hand closed tightly around the golden Snitch - *do not let
go­,* he thought fiercely - and the last thing he heard as he lost consciousness was the
cheering of the crowd dwindling to throbbing silence.

**TBC**

**AN:** Hmmmm… I am interested to see what y'all think of this chapter. I'm not too
sure about it. Draco and Ginny demanded to be let into the story more, and I gave in, just to get
some peace! I wouldn't get all hyped up about a romance - because really, D/G squicks me out a
little, but I would like to have them learn how to see past their preconceptions of each other.

I really wanted to have the after-the-Quidditch game part in here too, and then move on to
after-graduation in the next chapter, but it was already getting long - and chapter 10 got longer
than I meant for it to, as well, so…. Well, anyway, chapter 12 might jump around a bit.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I love all reviews, and especially like the long, meaty,
analytical ones. Also, thanks for all the support regarding the flamers. I suppose I should've
deleted them, but I was really close to 200 reviews then, and hey - they did up my numbers, so I
suppose they served some purpose.

You may leave a review on the way out, if you like.

-->



12. Era's End
-------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART III: The Beginning of the End**

**Chapter One:** **Era's End**

The first thing that Harry was aware of when his eyes fluttered open was that he couldn't
feel his knee at all. The second thing was that there was something large, gold, and quite shiny
very close to his face. It was almost too close for him to focus on without crossing his eyes, so
he drew his head away from it.

“The Cup?” he said, in a voice of wonder.

“You caught the Snitch, Harry. Right before you fell off your broom like an ickle firstie.
Don't you remember?” came the teasing voice of his best mate. “Can't imagine where you got
the reputation for being an incredible flyer!”

A tired grin creased Harry's face. “Sod off, Ron,” he said amiably, and tried to push
himself up higher in the bed.

He groaned as he saw the ward blinking at the foot of the bed. His knee was in the restraint
field attached to the bed again. “Aw, dammit!”

“Yeah,” Ron nodded. “Healer Munson's going to be right pissed at you! After all the hard
work he did fixing your knee.” That reminded Harry of someone else who was going to be
*beyond* pissed at him, and a look of trepidation spread across his face.

“Where's Hermione?” Ron's eyes widened, and he leaned closer to speak in a confidential
tone.

“She was so mad that she stormed out… as soon as she found out you weren't going to die, of
course.”

“Figures,” Harry rolled his eyes. “Might've saved everyone a load of trouble if I had,
though.”

“Harry…” Ron gave him a look that belayed all need for comment. “Besides, she did come to the
game, even though she said she wouldn't. She was one of the first people down on the field,
after you fell.”

Something teased at the corners of Harry's memory. “But she *wasn't* there…at
least, not until the end.” He said, almost like he was thinking aloud. “I saw her out on the
green…talking to Malfoy… that's when the Bludger nearly got me.”

“Talking to *Malfoy*? Harry, are you sure? From that distance- ” Ron began, then suddenly
stopped. “Unless…” he pondered, thinking of their meeting with Malfoy in the corridor outside the
Room of Requirement.

“Unless what?” Harry eyed him warily.

“Malfoy ran into Hermione and me outside the Room of Requirement a while back. He got up in her
face a little, said some things about her…and you - just his normal dragon load. But he kind of
made some threats too, said people were watching you both. I didn't really understand what he
was getting at, but Hermione seemed to think he was trying to tell her something.”

“That must have been the night we made up. I *told* her to let me know if … She told me she
wouldn't -” He stopped abruptly and changed tack. “So she's been lying to me…ever since.
But I don't understand why she thought she...” He looked at Ron with worried eyes, his jaw
starting to set in anger.

Ron did not get to reply, as the door to the hospital wing creaked open, and they both eyed the
door in an awkward silence. Hermione stepped into the room, and Harry could tell by the thin set of
her lips that she had not come for a tearful reunion.

“Howler Time,” Ron whispered, as she approached Harry's bedside.

“What the *hell* were you thinking, Harry James Potter?” Hermione seethed. Ron was right,
Harry mused, she did sound kind of like Mrs. Weasley in one of Ron's glorious exploding red
letters. “You've completely undone everything Healer Munson did to your knee, and you'll be
lucky if you ever walk again without a limp!”

“It's not a total loss, Hermione,” Ron said lightly, and Harry was pathetically grateful to
him for taking his life in his own hands by speaking up. “Gryffindor won the C - ”

“Sod Gryffindor!!” Hermione yelled, and both boys flinched.

“Well, now that was uncalled for,” Ron said in an offended voice.

“'S a shame I'm still alive, actually,” Harry said in an off-handed tone that fooled no
one. “A little red smoke, sound like a tea kettle boiling over, and all our problems would be
solved.”

Hermione's eyes were filled with furious tears. “Harry, if you weren't so eager to die,
I'd kill you myself! But as it is, I'll not give you the satisfaction.” She watched as
Harry and Ron exchanged glances, trying to figure out exactly what she meant by what she'd just
said.

“Hermione…were you *joking*?” Ron tried tentatively.

“I never joke, Ronald,” Hermione said primly. “Most especially not when my idiot boyfriend tries
to kill himself playing a stupid game!”

“I thought he was your idiot fiancé,” Ron supplied, quirking a smile at her. She did not smile
back. Harry sat silently, trying to find the exact moment to bring up what he'd seen during the
match.

“It's *not* funny,” Hermione insisted. “I know you said you don't need a mum, but
who's going to look after you, when you keep doing such boneheaded things, without even
*thinking*. You could have been killed. You're lucky you didn't do more damage to
yourself than you did. You haven't flown competitively in *ages*, yet you still tried to
chase the Snitch like you do it everyday. It was incredibly dangerous and incredibly stupid! And
for what? A cup?” She threw a scathing look toward the Cup by Harry's bed.

“It's the *Quidditch* Cup, Hermione, not some old water goblet,” Ron said, casting a
look of anxiety at Harry, who was watching Hermione with an extremely thoughtful expression on his
face.

“Are you looking after Malfoy too then, Hermione?” Harry asked, in a tone that was carefully
bland. Ron swallowed noisily, with an *oh shit* look on his face. Hermione stiffened
noticeably.

“What are you talking about, Harry?” she asked in a neutral tone. Ron's attention was drawn
to how tightly how her hands were wound in her lap.

“I saw you today, during the game, talking to him out on the grounds,” Harry said, his voice
still level. “What on earth could you have to say to Malfoy?”

“It was about the classwork Flitwick gave us,” Hermione said, forgetting in her anxiety to call
her teacher by his title.

“Liar,” Harry said, and the label hung heavily in the room, upping the tension considerably.
Hermione paled.

“It's none of your business,” she bit back, looking him directly in the eye. Ron was looking
back and forth between the two of them with genuine fear.

“Hermione, you - you and Malfoy aren't - aren't - er - you know?” Ron said, gesturing
uncertainly with his hands.

“Don't be ridiculous, Ron!” Harry and Hermione snapped in unison. Hermione looked at Harry
with a little surprise. *At least he doesn't think* **that** *of me,* she thought.
Ron watched the two of them for a long moment; they seemed to be talking to each other without
speaking. Finally, Hermione broke the stare and looked down into her lap.

“You said you wanted me to trust you again, Hermione? How can I, when you continue to keep
secrets from me?” Harry said, his voice steely and his eyes shuttered.

“I kept a secret, because I knew you'd overreact. You always do.” Harry eyed her
suspiciously.

“Only when you're putting yourself in danger. So, what dangerous things are you doing,
Hermione?” Harry asked in a polite voice that fooled no one. “Meeting Malfoy privately? Who knows
what he could do? Or where he could take you?” His eyes went momentarily distant, as he thought of
unexpected portkeys to dangerous places. “There are plenty of Death Eaters still out there who
would *love* to get their hands on *you*!”

“*You* can lecture *me* about putting myself in danger? When you go darting about on a
broom with a bum knee that - ” Hermione finished her sentence with an angry sigh, flaring out her
nostrils. She didn't really have a leg to stand on; she knew it, and Harry knew it.

“Tell me now,” Harry said shortly, and in another situation, Hermione might have taken issue
with his perfunctory tone.

“Malfoy knows about your being the last horcrux,” Hermione said in a terse voice. “He figured it
out, by watching us, seeing what I was reading. He said I'd never find anything here. I figured
he must know where I *could* find something.” Ron was gaping at her, with a look that clearly
said “is *that* what he meant?”

“So I met with him up in the Room of Requirement, and struck a deal with him. He's been
bringing me information on horcruxes from his father's library ever since.” Hermione finished
with her head held high, and looked at them with defiance, but her eyes flickered with
uncertainty.

“What were his terms?” Harry asked, in a low serious voice. Hermione began to feel a little
quiver of fear in her stomach. She had never seen him so angry…to the point where he wasn't
really acting angry. She outlined what Malfoy had requested of her.

“And Tonks *did* it?” Harry said in a tone of disbelief.

“I asked her to; I - I told her that Malfoy was working for you now, and that the charms needed
to be disabled so Malfoy could retrieve things from his home without being monitored. I said - I
said that you had built a rapport with him after testifying at his trial, and you thought you could
get him to name other Death Eaters,” Hermione said, with a slight hitch in her voice. Heat slowly
filled Harry's face, and his eyes seemed to darken until they were nearly black. He
couldn't remember the last time he'd been this upset.

“So you lied to other people *and* me *and* used my name to get what you wanted,”
Harry said, and Hermione made a strangled noise in her throat. Ron was watching them like one would
watch a train wreck. Harry looked suddenly more sad than angry. “I never thought you'd be one
to use me as a means to an end. I thought I knew you, and you're just like everybody else.”

Hermione's chin trembled, but she did not drop her gaze from his. His last sentence went
straight to her heart, and Hermione wanted to cry from the pain of it. “I did it for you,” she said
quietly. “I was wrong about keeping it a secret, and I should have told you, but I'm not sorry
I made a deal with Draco Malfoy. I'd do it again, if it means we have a fighting chance to keep
you alive.”

“I don't care about Malfoy,” Harry said, angrily. “I care that you evidently think so little
of me that you have to lie to me and about me. Trying to protect me from myself, like I'm a
child. I'm nearly eighteen years old, and - and you wanted to marry me.” Hermione shifted a
little at his use of the past tense. “Why? So you could fret over me all day, every day?” He was
gathering up a full head of steam now, and Hermione could only stand motionless under the assault,
feeling as if she deserved every word. “You used to treat me like a person - you were practically
the only one who did. You never saw the scar, the dead parents, the hateful Muggle relatives, the
`future' of the wizarding world… you just saw Harry.”

“I still d - ” Hermione tried to say.

“No. No, you don't!” Harry interrupted. “You see Harry, the poor pitiable bloke with the
world on his shoulders, the horcrux in his head, and the hexed knees. But I'm still the same
person I always was. And I am *not* a project for you to finish or a problem for you to
solve!!” His voice had risen until he was all but shouting.

The room rang with silence. Hermione was obviously biting back tears. Ron looked as if he would
like to leave, but wouldn't know what to do or where to go once he had.

“We used to take on things like this together, remember?” Harry continued, a little more
quietly. “All three of us. What happened? When did we become less than inadequate?” He gestured a
hand between himself and Ron.

“You're *not* - ” Hermione choked out.

“Is this what I can expect, Hermione?” Harry said, very softly. “Are you always going to pass
summary judgment on what *you* think I can and cannot handle? Can I expect lies any time you
think you're `doing what's best'?”

“I was only - ” Hermione heard the pleading note in her voice, and instinctively hated it. But
she also had a dreadful feeling that perhaps this time, she had gone too far, and had altered
things between them irrevocably.

“You should have told me. We could have all talked to Malfoy. We could have figured this out
together…like we did the Sorceror's Stone or the horcruxes.” *Should have, could have*,
Hermione's mind whirled. *It all sounds so final.*

“Harry - ” she stopped, as if she expected to get interrupted again, but he said nothing.
“Harry, I'm sorry.” The words sounded weak, lame, inadequate. Ron was sitting in the chair at
Harry's bedside, looking for all the world like he'd been petrified. “I thought you'd
be angry, that you wouldn't be able to handle it. You've handled so much more than a person
ought… I wanted to - I wanted to spare you some of that. I thought I was doing what was best for
you.”

“Maybe you don't know me either, then,” Harry almost whispered. “And maybe this was a bad
idea.” Hermione knew instantly what he was talking about, and her face set like stone. She began to
toy with the ring on her finger.

Harry held up one hand in a gesture for her to stop. “Keep it,” he said with a glum shrug. “I
don't want it.” He sounded so tired.

She would have said something else - she didn't really know what - but he made a quick
movement with his raised hand that caused the door to the wing to fly open, so quickly that it
banged noisily up against the wall.

She turned to go, but at the door, she pivoted on one foot to face her two best friends again.
“All of it - ” she began chokingly, then stopped and started again. “I can't bear to see you
keep getting hurt. And now I'm the one hurting you. You can't possibly hate me any more
than I hate myself right now.”

“I don't … hate you,” Harry said slowly. Hermione's face twisted into a bitter,
distorted smile.

“You can barely say it,” she observed, and slipped from the room like a wraith, without another
word.

Harry swore violently, colorfully, and lengthily. Ron sat in silence, having arisen only to save
the Quidditch Cup from being hurled across the room. He wasn't sure what to say, and he
wondered if this is how Hermione had felt when he and Harry were fighting fourth year. Ron cleared
his throat hesitantly.

“Harry…I'm - I'm sure this will all blow over,” he began in an uncharacteristically
timid tone.

“She looked me right in the eyes,” Harry said, nearly to himself. “Looked me right in the eyes,
and *smiled*, and lied. Without even blinking.” He sounded like he could not believe it.

“Well, that should have been your first clue,” Ron said lightly, without thinking. Harry gave
him a dark look, and Ron winced, shaking his head rapidly. “Sorry, mate. Time and place, I
know.”

Harry resumed watching the door, still hanging ajar from where he had wandlessly thrown it. “I
thought - I thought - ” he lowered his head into his heads, his fingers threading into his
disheveled hair. “I can't believe that she didn't trust me, that she didn't believe in
me enough to tell me what she was doing. Can you imagine how much that hurts?”

“No, mate. I'm sorry,” Ron ventured sympathetically. “But I'm sure Hermione realizes
that she made a mistake, and she -”

“Were you not listening, Ron? She said she'd have done it all again, even though she knew it
was wrong.”

“She was just trying to help you. She only wants to see you safe, healthy, and happy. She loves
you. People do stupid things for the people they love,” Ron protested, and Harry looked at him with
an air of betrayal.

“Whose side are you on?”

“Harry, you are not going to put me on a side,” he said in a warning tone. “Or I'll walk out
of here right now. I don't necessarily agree with what she did, but I understand why she did
it, and I'm still her friend.” Harry snorted air out of his nostrils in a bitter approximation
of a laugh.

“Friends…” he said, trailing off. “I guess we've imploded the Golden Trio, now haven't
we? Almost made it to graduation too.”

“Harry…it's not over.”

“It's over,” Harry said, with an air of gloomy certainty. “Did you see her try to give back
the ring?”

“Well, you certainly didn't try to disabuse her of that notion,” Ron pointed out.

“How could I *marry* someone who acts like that?”

“She's not the only one to ever keep secrets from you! Dumbledore did on more than one
occasion, Sirius did, my parents did. People were just looking out for you - and their intentions
were *good*. It's not that anybody thought you didn't deserve to know, they just
wanted to protect you from it - give you a normal life.”

“I'm obviously not meant for a normal life,” Harry sighed. “Besides, Hermione's
different,” he added softly.

“How is she different?” Ron demanded.

“Because I'm in love with her.” Harry stared unhappily into middle distance, his eyes
seeming to reflect endless vistas of sorrow.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione was sitting by the lake, staring blindly as the sunlight split into a million rays
reflecting off of the wavy surface. It was as if the lake was sprinkled with jewels. The sky still
shone a brilliant blue above, and warm wind wafted through her hair. The only sensations that
Hermione was cognizant of were the salty tears on her face and the tight, painful clog in her
throat. She was angry and ashamed and devastated and scared and…

*You've messed up royally this time, Hermione.*

*I wanted to help him. Why can't he see that?*

*He's had people lying to him and shielding him and babying him his entire life.* *He
expected more from you**.*

*I didn't do anything wrong!*

*Except lie to the man you love.*

*Except that…but I've apologized. What else can I do?*

*Being apologized to doesn't mean you automatically forget the anger and pain inflicted on
you.* *He needs time.*

*If he* *ever intended* *to forgive me, why did he break up with me?*

*You were the one who tried to give his ring back…again.*

*He didn't even want it.* *He doesn't want me.* She thought of the way that
the door had banged against the wall, driven by the powerful emotions behind Harry's wandless
magic. *He couldn't stand the sight of me any longer.*

*He loves you.*

*He hates me.* *And* *I hate him.*

*No, you don't.*

*Yes I do!*

She stood, suddenly and fiercely, pulling the ring from her finger, and hurling it toward the
lake with all her might. Even as it flew from her hand, she was running after it, shocked and
horrified at what she'd done.

Without even being aware of what she was doing, she was on her knees at the water's edge,
scrabbling around frantically in the reeds. “It didn't go in the water. It didn't go in the
water. Please let it not have gone into the water,” she was pleading in a low, trembling voice, as
she pushed the grasses aside.

The swamping relief she felt when she saw it, perched against a clump of grass that was
practically growing out over the water, nearly overwhelmed her. She clasped her shaky fingers
tightly around the ring, as if fearful that someone would come and physically rip it from her
hands.

*Those are really the actions of someone who hates the person who gave her that ring,
Hermione*, a snide voice said in her head.

*I can't give it up,* she thought frenetically, feverishly. *I can't give*
**him** *up. What am I going to do?*

*Help him. Help him live.*

*He won't accept help from me…not now.*

*Help him anyway. Don't ask for permission.* *Continue* *your research, without
asking anything in return.*

“Hermione?” came a voice behind her. Hermione whirled, clutching her ring to her chest, her eyes
wide like those of a startled animal. Ginny was standing behind her. “How's Harry?” Ginny
asked. “I was going to go up and see him, but Neville and Seamus were waiting to go in, and I
didn't want Madame Pomfrey to have a stroke.”

“He's - he's okay. Messed up his knee again, though,” Hermione said vaguely, and Ginny
looked at her with concern.

“Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she replied, even as tears trembled on her eyelashes, to her horror.

“Hey, it's okay,” Ginny said sympathetically, completely misunderstanding why Hermione was
crying. “He's had a setback, but he'll come back from that too, just like he always does.
And as for the other…well, you'll figure it out, won't you? I'm going to help.”

“We broke up,” Hermione blurted suddenly, and looked moderately surprised at herself. *Why did
I say that?*

“What?” Ginny looked astonished, her mouth hanging open. “Why?”

“He saw me - and Malfoy - talking, during the game. I guess Ron had told him what happened at
our first meeting. Anyway, he's completely furious with me for lying - and I don't guess I
really blame him. I - I treated him just like everybody always treats him.”

“You were trying to save his life,” Ginny protested.

“I lied,” Hermione finished bleakly, remembering suddenly that she was still holding the ring
tightly in her sweaty palm. She replaced it on her finger.

“You still have your ring,” Ginny pointed out, rather obviously.

“He didn't even want it back,” she said dully, the tears spilling over again, in spite of
her best efforts.

“What are you going to do?” Hermione shrugged.

“What else can I do?” The glimmer of determination began to return to her eyes. “I'm going
to figure this horcrux thing out. Whether he ever forgives me or not.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Thank Merlin, that's over!” Ron said in a tone of distinct relief, pulling his tie
cock-eyed to loosen it, and throwing his robes in an untidy pile through the open door of his own
room. He followed Harry into his room instead. “Who knew graduation ceremonies were so boring?”

“Don't tell me you haven't ever been to one!” Harry said, leaning the crutches up
against the bed, and sinking onto its soft surface, rubbing his knee absent-mindedly.

“Well, you know Fred and George didn't graduate. And I think I got sent outside at
Charlie's, after I made Ginny throw up. I think it was from something Fred and George gave
me…It got all over this snotty witch's designer dress robes. Mum was so mad! Don't remember
much about Bill's.” Harry was shaking his head with a wry smile on his face. “Anyway, it was
bloody boring - except for Hermione's speech, that is.”

“She was brilliant, wasn't she?” Harry said, a little wistfully. Ron looked at him
knowingly.

“And you were not bad yourself, Potter,” he teased. “Limping across the stage, crutches thumping
on the floor, look at me - Hero for the Light, wounded in the line of duty, what? Oh my goodness,”
he mimed an expression of surprise. “A standing ovation? Whatever for?”

“Shut it, Ron,” Harry said, flushing crimson. He didn't know when he'd ever been so
embarrassed. Ron chortled, while Harry dumped his robes into his trunk, and started looking around
half-heartedly for anything he'd left behind. Ron noticed his look.

“Last night at Hogwarts,” he observed.

“Yeah,” Harry said distantly. The room already looked barren. He couldn't imagine loading up
on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow morning, knowing he was never coming back … never coming back. He
felt a little ambivalent about it. Hogwarts had been the first truly happy home he'd ever
known, but it had also been the site of unbelievable horrors as well.

“Flat'll be nice, though,” Ron remarked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Yeah,” Harry repeated. He and Ron had let a flat together just off of Diagon Alley, one of
Ron's first major purchases with his signing bonus.

“You know what you're going to do yet?” Ron asked, trying to pry information out of his
friend.

“Not yet,” he said glumly. The job offers had poured in, but Harry had been extremely leery of a
majority of them - thinking correctly that most just wanted a piece of the Boy Who Lived. “I
can't be an Auror, and I can't play Quidditch…” His thoughts were decidedly morose. *No
Quidditch, no Auror training, no Hermione…hell, I don't even have* *my bloody*
*destiny to fall back on anymore.*

“I could put in a good word for you at the Cannons,” Ron offered helpfully. Harry shot him a
look. Ron had been over the moon when he had gotten the offer to join the team as Reserve Keeper.
Evidently the scouts had been watching Ron this season and had been suitably impressed. “You
*were* the youngest Seeker in a century.” Harry waved a crutch at him, trying to smile.

“New and not improved, now with a game leg!” he said in an announcer's voice. “Thanks Ron,
but no team would ever take me now.”

“Well, I'm not going to let you mooch off me forever, you know,” Ron said in a lofty voice.
“You'll have to stand on your own two feet eventually,” he teased, and then blanched as he
realized what he'd said. “Er…” he began again, uneasily.

But Harry was smiling. “Prat,” he said, slinging a pillow at his best mate. Ron looked
relieved.

“You're just jealous…I'll be getting *paid* for playing Quidditch…and the girls - I
reckon the girls will be besotted with a hot prospect like myself.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Ron,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and smothering a grin.

“And Hermione thought I'd never amount to anything.”

“She'd still think playing professional Quidditch wasn't really amounting to anything…”
Harry said, and then slowly trailed off as the smile wavered uncertainly on his face. For a moment,
he appeared to be very far away.

“You should talk to her,” Ron prodded, and Harry suddenly snapped back to full attention.

“I can't. You know that.”

“Actually I don't,” Ron said coolly. “I've been very good up to this point, playing your
bloody go-between, sitting calmly in the common room during your stiff silences, trying to act like
nothing's wrong. I think I've gone above and beyond, myself, and I'm really quite
bloody sick of the whole drama.”

“Ron, she threw my name around to get what she wanted. She lied - ” Harry said, annoyed, and
really not wanting to dredge this up before the party, on their last day at school.

“Boo-sodding-hoo,” Ron intoned, rolling his eyes. “She also apologized. Either go talk to her,
or move on. I'm tired of seeing you moping about. You're enjoying it too much, and it's
getting on my nerves.”

“Enjoying it?” Harry was dumbfounded. “Are you mad?”

“For putting up with the two of you? Yes, I reckon I'm bloody certifiable. She misses you,
you know?”

“She puts on a damn good show, then,” Harry sighed, narrowing his eyes and looking away. Ron
threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

“Well, you're on your own tonight, Potter. I'm taking Luna to the party, and a bunch of
us are going to Hogsmeade after…but I'm not babysitting you. Wallow in a corner, if you like.”
He went into his room, and Harry heard the door shut rather decisively.

A few moments later, he heard soft footfalls in the hallway. They paused uncertainly by his
door, and Harry waited with baited breath, wondering if she would come in. There was a moment of
absolute silence, broken only by Ron shuffling and thumping around in his room, probably
packing.

The footfalls went on by, and he heard a creak and a click as her door opened and shut. The
disappointment sat heavily in his gut like an indigestible meal. His shoulders slumped.

*Hermione, what happened to us?* he wondered, bleakly.

He peered out of his door, and saw no one, but noticed a large package wrapped in brown paper
and tied with twine. He picked it up, and was amazed at the heft of it. Curiously, he carried it
over to his desk, and slit the twine with his wand, then crumpling the paper and throwing it aside
carelessly.

It was a ream of paper, filled with notes, jottings, duplicated pages from books. Parts of it
had arrows or underlines highlighting something in particular. Harry lifted a few of the pages,
flipping through them with wonder. He noticed a few headers “Making a Horcrux”, “What Happened to
Aurelius Fitzosborne”. Then he noticed the handwriting…scribbles in the margins like *what if you
added powdered asphodel?* and *extraction versus destruction*.

*Hermione.* These were her notes. She'd obviously not stopped collecting them, and now
she was giving them to him. *What for?* He wondered. Then, *maybe it really is over.*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A couple of hours later found Ron and Harry descending to the Great Hall, ensconced in their
dress robes.

“Luna said she'd meet us down here,” Ron said, looking a little nervous, tugging at his new
robes uncertainly.

“Ron, you look fine,” Harry reassured him, looking comfortable in the dark green color that he
tended to favor.

“I wish I hadn't let you talk me out of the orange ones,” Ron said.

“You can't be serious,” Harry said, deadpan. Ron had wanted totally orange dress robes, in
honor of his new contract with the Chudley Cannons. Harry had managed to talk him down to black
robes, with only an orange vest underneath.

“What's wrong with orange?” Ron protested.

“There's Luna!” Harry pointed, feeling very glad to see her.

“She looks great, doesn't she?” Ron said, looking wistfully at Luna in a wispy silver dress.
Harry wondered if he was seeing things, or if there actually were purple feathers on it as
well.

Harry felt more and more useless as Ron gallantly took Luna's arm and escorted her into the
Great Hall. Professor Flitwick had outdone himself, putting the entire Hall in the likeness of an
exotic tropical locale. There was a waterfall in one corner, and the walls fairly dripped with
vines, orchids, hibiscus, and other tropical flowers. The sky was inky black and studded with
stars, and the moon looked somehow closer than it seemed to in England.

“This is bloody brilliant,” he heard Ron say.

*Maybe I shouldn't have come*, Harry thought, looking idly for a corner to wallow in,
as Ron had said.

Then he saw her.

She was wearing a frothy green one-shouldered dress shot through with silver that set off her
hair and eyes perfectly. Her hair was swirled up on top of her head, and he could see silver
sparkly things twinkling amidst the curls. She was a vision. He felt all the blood drain from his
face, headed - he thought - for his stomach, as he suddenly became very queasy.

Her eyes darted toward him and then quickly away. Harry was amazed at how much even that brief
glance affected him, knocking him for a loop. It had to have been Ron's mentioning it earlier,
he concluded. He had seen her in class, and seen her at meals, and seen her in their common room,
and he hadn't reeled like he was reeling now in quite some time.

*Of course, it could also be that dress…* he thought, swallowing hard. Memories sprang back
unbidden, of her walking into the veritable mouth of the dragon, carrying the sword of Gryffindor,
of her warmth curled next to him in bed, of her crying and wringing her hands as he knelt down in
front of her. *Hermione…*

“Are you going to take my advice and talk to her, or just stare at her all night like some sort
of creepy stalker?” Ron said, his voice suddenly jarring into Harry's consciousness.

“Creepy Stalkers aren't usually found this far south until late autumn,” Luna said, somewhat
battily, and Ron was momentarily distracted, looking at her with fondness.

“You really ought to -” Ron continued, turning back toward Harry, but he was gone.

Harry was halfway across the Great Hall before he even comprehended what he was doing, and by
then, it was too late to stop. He had discarded the crutches in favor of the cane, thinking that
they went better with dress robes, but the ache in his knee was already making him regret it. He
halted in front of Hermione expectantly, but said nothing, unable to find any vocabulary to fit the
situation.

Hermione had felt her heart backflip into her throat when she saw him walking carefully toward
her. She looked at him with arched, questioning eyebrows, and managed to say in a cool voice,

“Can I help you, Harry?”

“I was - I wanted - ” he stammered, and then grew frustrated. Her composure was disarming, and
he swore under his breath. “Never mind.”

“Walking away again?” Hermione said, blurting out the first thing that came to her mind.
*Anything to get him to stay*. It worked; he whirled on her, his eyes narrowed irately.

“You're the one who walked away last time,” he hissed.

“You opened the door for me,” she reminded him, her jaw thrust forward mutinously.

“You didn't have to go through it.”

“Oh, didn't I?” Hermione sounded as furious as he felt. “You gave me a hell of a lot of
choice!”

“You lied to me. I was angry!”

“That seems to be a natural state for you lately.”

“No thanks to you,” he muttered, feeling churlish and petty.

“I said I was sorry. What more do you want?”

“I want - I - ” What did he want? His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Why had he even come
over here? “Why did you give me those notes?” he sounded fatigued, and was leaning heavily on his
cane.

“I thought you could use them,” she said.

“So you're not -” he struggled. “So, that's it then?” She looked at him with the cool
politeness that smacked of *if you're quite finished, will you please go?* Inwardly, she
was writhing. “Well, er…thanks, I - I - ” He looked at her helplessly as he abruptly broke off, and
headed back in the direction from which he'd come.

Hermione felt limp, as the tension and anger drained slowly away, leaving only despair in their
wake. She reached over with her thumb to feel the reassuring weight of the engagement ring, charmed
to be invisible, resting on her fourth finger. She wasn't sure why she continued to wear it,
especially when he made special effort to make it clear how much he despised her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Many eyes had wandered to the bickering couple, and more still were dancing energetically as the
music ramped up to a higher tempo. Ginny Weasley had taken the opportunity to slip through the
crowd, while her escort for the evening, one Neville Longbottom, was getting them both some
punch.

“I'm not in the habit of waiting on people, Weasley,” Malfoy observed acidly, when she
finally drew near to the shadowy corner where he waited.

“I'm sure you're not in the habit of doing anything that would even remotely
inconvenience you. Hermione and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts,” she replied, her words
dripping copiously with sarcasm.

“This had several masking and concealment charms on it,” Draco warned, passing her a package. “I
couldn't break the last one, but I'd wager Potter's inheritance that it pertains to
horcruxes.”

“Maybe this will be what Hermione's been looking for, finally,” Ginny said, shrinking the
package and tucking it into her tiny handbag.

“*If* she can disable the last charm,” Malfoy pointed out, “without ending up in the
hospital wing. Although I do rather feel like celebrating!”

“As you should,” Ginny said with mock seriousness. “Graduated from Hogwarts without getting put
in Azkaban, and now you have all your father's ill-gotten gain to enjoy…thanks to
Hermione.”

“Granger wouldn't have done it, if she hadn't needed something from me herself.
She's not really very different from me. Don't pretend that she is doing this because of
her stellar moral fiber.”

“She's doing it because she loves Harry. Something you wouldn't be able to understand,
since you've never loved anyone but yourself.”

“What more worthy candidate could I find?” Draco said, shrugging, with a casual smile.

“How long have you got?” Ginny asked dryly, and Malfoy just glared at her.

“Just tell Granger about the charm. We wouldn't want any…accidents.”

“I'd put faith in Hermione's ability to break a charm any day,” Ginny said, smiling
winningly at him just to irritate him further, before she vanished back into the crowd.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry was halfway back to where Ron and Luna were standing, when he was suddenly buttonholed by
a familiar face.

“Oliver!” he said with genuine surprise. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too, Harry,” Oliver Wood said, shaking hands with his former teammate.

“How's Puddlemere treating you?”

“Can't complain, can't complain,” Wood said contentedly. “But you! You're just the
person I wanted to see. In fact, *you* are the reason I am here.”

“Me?” Harry said. “But why -?”

“You haven't already taken a job, have you, Harry?” Harry shook his head, deflating a
little. Most of his classmates already had jobs lined up or some kind of future plan.

“Good!” Oliver said, with a grin. “I made them wait, because I really wanted to bring the news
to you myself. Unfortunately, this is the soonest I could get away.”

“What are you on about, Oliver?” Harry asked curiously.

“Puddlemere wants to offer you a job!” Oliver said, as if it had been completely obvious all
along.

“A job? But I - I can't - ” Harry said, clenching his cane more tightly in his hand.

“Not playing Quidditch, *coaching* Quidditch.” Harry looked at his former schoolmate as if
he'd lost his mind.

“Excuse me?” Harry asked.

“The manager is retiring, and the assistant manager is taking over. The owners saw what you did
with Gryffindor's team this year, even though you couldn't play, and they liked it. They
know the Cannons got Ron Weasley. And they want *you*,” Oliver looked inordinately smug, “to
be the new assistant manager. We've had three players retire this year, and we've got to
play a Reserve Chaser because Mitchell got hurt. We could use you.”

“Assistant manager…of Puddlemere United?” Harry wheezed, as if he could not get enough air in
his lungs. “You've - you've got to be joking.”

“I assure you, it's no joke,” Oliver slapped him on the back. “Pay's not extravagant,”
he said, naming a sum that still made Harry's eyes widen.

“I'd love to see what the real manager makes,” he managed to say.

“You ought to see what the *players* make,” Oliver laughed. “The owners and the new manager
- his name's Reginald Bitewater - want to meet you in a couple of weeks, if that's okay.”
Harry nodded, still looking like he'd been bludgeoned. “Shall I tell them you'll be there,
then?”

“Yeah….yeah, sure,” he said, trying to recover his command of the English language.

“I'll owl you with the date and time. Where are you going to be living?”

“Near Diagon Alley, in a flat with Ron,” Harry said.

“Oliver!!” Ron called out, coming up beside him. “What brings you here tonight?”

“Just offering your mate here a job.” Wood was still looking as pleased as if he'd landed
the job himself. Ron looked at Harry curiously.

“They want me to be assistant manager at Puddlemere United,” Harry told Ron in a shell-shocked
monotone. Ron's eyes widened to previously unseen levels, and he let out a piercing whoop.

“That's bloody brilliant!” he said. Harry met his friend's gaze then, and they both
began to laugh, as Ron slapped him on the back.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was a raucous and noisy group of seventh years that made their way into the Three Broomsticks
later that evening. It was a tradition to come down here on their last night of Hogwarts, and the
teachers tended to look the other way, since seventh years had graduated and weren't
technically students any longer. Ginny and Luna had managed to wrangle special dispensations and
were present as well.

Hermione and Harry had drifted along with the crowd, careful to stay as far apart as possible.
Harry looked distracted, though not as gloomy as he had at the beginning of the evening. He was
quickly pulled up to the front of the knot of people, and excited voices and shouts broke out, as
Ron related some kind of news that obviously pertained to Harry.

“Harry, no way! That's bloody fantastic!” Someone shouted. Hermione wondered what they were
talking about, and remembered fondly a time when she would have been one of the first people he
told.

Harry piled into a booth with Ginny, Ron, Luna, Neville, Dean and Seamus, who loudly and
exuberantly ordered butterbeers all around.

“Oy, Hermione!” Ron called, waving one arm, toward his other best friend, who was shifting her
weight uncertainly from foot to foot, looking from their booth to a table where the other seventh
year girls were sitting. Her eyes darted again to Harry, before she seemed to make up her mind and
move to sit with them. She slid into the end of the booth, next to Harry, who looked extremely
discomfited.

“Assistant manager for Puddlemere United!” Seamus said in a tone of disbelief, raising his
tankard to Harry. “Aren't you a lucky bastard?”

“I know, it's not a football team, Dean,” Ron needled. “But it's still rather
brilliant.”

“I didn't say it wasn't,” Dean offered companionably, raising his tankard as well. There
were noisy cheers and whistles from not only their booth, but around the pub as well.

Hermione looked up at Harry from under her lashes. *He's going to get a Quidditch
job…something he always wanted. Thank Merlin.*

“Do you remember,” Seamus was saying, as the drinks arrived, “Neville's first flight on a
broom?” Neville rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath, while the other boys made
noises like “oh-ho!”

“What about Ron's?” Dean called.

“I know how to fly a broom!” Ron protested.

“Was that before or after your broomstick broke your nose?” Harry spoke, and the table broke out
into gales of laughter.

“Well, look at Harry's first flight….Youngest Seeker in a Century,” Seamus said, enunciating
so clearly that they could all virtually hear the capital letters.

“Well, if we're bringing Harry-memories into this contest, no one else has a chance,” Ron
snarked.

“I dunno, Ron,” Neville piped up. “You *both* crashed the car into the Whomping
Willow.”

“Ron was driving,” Harry pointed out quickly.

“But it was your fault we couldn't get through the barrier at King's Cross,” Ron said,
speaking over Harry's last word.

“That wasn't your year, was it Harry? What about when Professor Lockhart deboned your arm?”
Dean said. There were some groans and shudders.

“That just wasn't right,” Ron said with a grimace. “That man was a menace!”

“Hermione liked him though,” Ginny grinned. Hermione glared at her.

“So did you.”

“Maybe our judgment isn't the best,” Ginny admitted, but then her eyes fell on Harry, and
she froze. Hermione went very still, and there was a moment of awkward silence.

“So, how many nights *have* you spent in the hospital wing, Harry?” Dean asked quickly,
returning to their previous topic.

“I have *no* idea,” Harry said, going along with the spirit of the conversation, trying not
to notice Hermione in his peripheral vision.

“He can't count that high,” Ron grinned gleefully.

“Twenty-seven,” Hermione spoke suddenly, her words dropping into deafening silence. Harry turned
then, and really looked at her, for the first time since she'd sat at the table.

“Twenty-seven?” he asked her, sounding bewildered. She shrugged one shoulder, looking
self-conscious.

“Twenty-seven,” she repeated simply.

There was a moment of silence before Seamus and Dean went off into another spate of
do-you-remembers. Harry and Hermione eyed each other uncertainly.

“You *really* know how many nights I've spent in the hospital wing?” he said in a low
tone, meant only for her ears.

“You've been my best friend for seven years, Harry,” Hermione mumbled, trying to make it
sound like it was no big deal.

“Hermione, I - ” he started, but was cut off by a shriek from another table. Lavender and
Parvati were drawing their feet up into their chairs, as several little brown field mice scurried
across the floor. The girls at Harry and Ron's table looked more than a little nonplussed
themselves.

“Oh, ew!” Ginny exclaimed.

“You had six older brothers, and you're scared of mice?” Seamus asked in a disbelieving
tone. “I'm sure they've set worse on you than that!” A bartender stepped around the bar,
and began stunning the mice as he saw them, levitating them out through an unseen back door.

“Mice in a place where you eat food *is* gross,” Hermione agreed. “And unsanitary.”

Madame Rosmerta looked apologetically at her patrons. “Sorry!” she called out. “We've had a
bit of an infestation lately. We've had all the food and drink under charms though; they're
okay.” Dean and Seamus exchanged ecstatic glances.

“Let's go get another round,” Seamus said, nudging his best mates.

“It's still gr -” Ginny began, as the two boys made their way over to the bar, when she
looked oddly at Harry. “Harry, what's wrong?” she teased. “Don't tell me that mice make -”
she stopped speaking, and nudged Ron urgently. “Harry?” she said again.

Hermione turned toward him with concern. *Please not again, not again, not again,* she
thought frantically, but to no avail, as the harsh rasping tones of Parseltongue began to issue
from Harry's mouth, made audible by Harry's voice. His scar was glowing white again, and
Hermione thought she saw something glint redly deep in his eyes.

“What the hell?” Ron felt instantly grateful that the commotion with the mice was distracting
the other students. Nobody appeared to notice what was ongoing in their corner.

“Ginny - ” Hermione began in a low voice.

“I know what I said,” Harry said suddenly, looking like he'd been awake for days, but with
clear eyes. “I - *he* - I -” He looked worriedly at Neville, who shook his head solemnly.

“I won't say a word, Harry,” he promised.

“I said - he said `The *Readunatio Animae* ends all hope. They will come.'” He looked
grim.

“*Readunatio Animae*?” Ginny said quizzically.

“It means `reunion of the soul,'” Hermione said thoughtfully. Neville just looked at them,
mostly forgotten.

“You really know how to kill a mood, Harry,” Ron snarked, but his eyes were sympathetic. Harry
felt Hermione's hand snake into his own, her fingers twining with his.

“Who's they?” Neville asked, sounding a little nervous. Hermione looked helplessly at all of
them, and shook her head.

“I don't know.”

“But what does the other mean?” Ron asked. “Reunion of the soul. What - ?” he stopped suddenly.
“Oh.”

“It means,” Harry said grimly, “that my time is nearly up.” He got up and limped from the
tavern, leaning on his cane, with the others trailing close behind, dodging the occasional mouse.
Hermione walked beside him, saying nothing, but tucking her arm firmly into the crook of his.

As they vacated the booth, a particularly large, bright-eyed rodent specimen scurried out from
under the table, ran along the wall, and disappeared into the shadows at the back of the
tavern.

**TBC**

**AN: Some notes….**

**One reviewer asked about the Trio's living arrangements post-Voldemort. They are still in
the Gryffindor Head suites, where McGonagall allowed them to stay. I forgot that at the beginning I
had** **Ron and Harry sharing the Head Boy room. I conveniently gave them all their own rooms
when the whole shagging began. I will probably get around to fixing that eventually, and just give
them all their own rooms from the beginning.**

**Secondly: Some very bright reader pointed out that Draco Malfoy would know who Tonks was,
being a cousin of his, and would not have referred to her as “that auror”. I could say that I was
just having Malfoy be as contemptuous as possible, but the truth is that I just really forgot**
**they were cousins. I suppose that with Malfoy being the way he is,** **the line still makes
sense, but I just wanted to come clean.**

**As for the number of nights Harry has spent in the hospital wing, I completely pulled that
number out of my … well, anyway, don't swear on it or anything. Totally made it up.**

**Also wanted to remind everyone that I don't intend to have D/G in this story, never did.
I just found I really liked their spunky interaction with each other.**

**Thanks for reading. I got this chapter under a more manageable length this time. You may
leave a review on your way out, if you like. It would be thoroughly appreciated!**

-->



13. New Awakenings
------------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART III: The Beginning of the End**

**Chapter Two:** **New Awakenings**

Hermione pushed away from her desk and rubbed her eyes tiredly. She let out a long, gusty sigh,
and looked over at the two boys.

“I suppose we should go to bed. The Express leaves early in the morning.”

“You mean it leaves early today,” Ron said blearily, looking like he wanted to drop where he
sat. Hermione turned back to the small package with renewed frustration. It looked merely like a
lumpy nondescript object; its true nature indiscernible under its last masking charm.

“There has got to be something I'm missing. This is going to have what we need; I'm sure
of it. Otherwise, why would it have so many charms on it?”

“Because Lucius Malfoy wants to make our lives miserable?” Ron suggested, while Hermione's
glower showed what she thought of his attempt at levity.

Harry was sitting at his desk, his bad leg propped up in another chair, flipping intently
through the pile of notes that Hermione had left at his door earlier. His hair was falling forward
in his eyes, and he kept brushing it back distractedly.

Hermione laid her quill down on her desk, and watched him for a moment, but said nothing. Ron
watched her watch him, and wondered silently to himself when his best friends would get it
together.

“Well, I'm going to bed,” Ron said, standing with a rather exaggerated stretch and yawn.
“I've got to make sure I get up in time to pack before the train arrives.”

“You haven't *packed*?” Hermione said, her voice rising in pitch with disbelief. She
turned to look at Ron, only to see him grinning at her.

“Yeah, I'm going to miss winding you up like that,” he said, as her eyes narrowed. He walked
to the bottom of the stairs, but turned before he mounted them.

“What are *you* going to do, Hermione?” Ron asked suddenly. They had talked about this
before, but, with a sudden glance at Harry, Hermione realized that Ron was asking for their other
friend's benefit. Harry was still holding his quill to parchment, but it wasn't moving.

“Going back home,” Hermione said, speaking softly and lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “The
Ravenclaw Foundation hired me as a potions and charms researcher. The money is horrid, but it's
a prestigious position. Not many people get hired straight out of school.”

“We've got a third bedroom at our flat,” Ron blurted, hoping Harry wouldn't kill him
later. “You could always stay with us.”

Hermione smiled, but shook her head. She had been watching Harry, as Ron spoke, and had seen the
way his spine stiffened when Ron made his offer.

“I haven't really lived at home for a long time, it feels like,” she replied. “I miss my
parents, but thank you, Ron.”

“You can crash there, anytime,” Ron said, drifting slowly up a couple of stairs.

“I'll hold you to it,” Hermione murmured, as her eyes floated over to Harry again. He had
resumed writing.

“'Night,” Ron said, with a jaunty little wave. Hermione waved back.

“See you in the morning, Ron,” Harry called, without looking up. For a long time, the only sound
in the room was the shuffling of paper and the scratch of Harry's quill. After awhile, Harry
could hear Hermione occasionally muttering Latin words, as she tried in vain to break the last
charm on the package Draco Malfoy had delivered via Ginny earlier that evening.

Suddenly there was a blue flash of light and a soft pop, like an arc of electric current. “Ow!”
Hermione cried, as her wand dropped from her grasp. Harry looked up; Hermione was wringing her hand
like she had just been the victim of a stinging hex.

“Are you okay?” he asked with mild concern.

“This thing bit me,” she answered, with a note of reproach in her voice. “But I'm fine.”
There was a moment of silence, as they stared around each other awkwardly. “It's going to be
weird tomorrow, isn't it? Leaving Hogwarts for good?”

“Yeah, it is,” Harry managed in a strained voice, clearing his throat halfway through.
“Congratulations on that research job though, Hermione. That's brilliant.” He caught a hint of
sparkle in her eyes, as she looked up at him quickly, and then dropped her gaze again.

“And look at you!” Hermione mustered up a jovial tone, after another pause. “Not playing
Quidditch, but coaching it! That's really impressive. I always - ” she stopped abruptly, and
looked toward the fire.

“You always what?”

“When I - when I watched you practice and run Gryffindor through their formations and
everything…I - ” she colored a little. “I always thought - you seemed to have such a patient way
about you, always explaining things or showing people what to do, and they just all ate it up
really… even Ron.” She hunched her shoulders a little. “It seems like a great job for you,
that's all.”

Harry slanted a sideways look at her. “Thanks,” he said simply. “That's a nice thing to
say.”

“You're welcome,” she said, with an odd note in her voice. “I meant it.” There was another
strained silence. Harry toyed with the quill that now sat idle in his hands. “So, you and Ron are
going to be roommates?”

“Reckon we're used to each other by now,” Harry answered laconically.

“That flat's going to look like a disaster, isn't it?” She asked, a hint of teasing in
her eyes. Harry finally smiled.

“Probably,” he admitted. “But I *can* cook, as you know…so we aren't going to be
totally helpless. It'll be nice, finally being completely out on my own, being responsible for
myself.” His words hit too close to home for both of them, considering the reasons their
relationship had fallen apart, and they once again were reduced to heavy silence. Harry wondered if
everything had worked out, if they would have been the ones searching for a flat, with the wedding
pending.

“I - I think you'll do well,” Hermione finally said, in a quiet, tentative voice. Harry
turned to look at her.

“Do you really?” he asked, seeming honestly surprised.

Hermione managed to wear an expression that was a combination of affront and sadness. “Harry, of
course I do. I've always thought that you could do whatever you set your mind to.”

“Then why - ?” he started, but she raised a weary hand.

“Harry, it's three o'clock in the morning.” She looked like she was trying not to cry.
Resolutely, she turned back to the package and murmured another incantation at it. Light flashed
again, and caused her to drop her wand. “Dammit,” she swore softly, clenching and unclenching her
fingers, her voice wobbly with tears.

“What's that on your hand?” Harry asked suddenly, looking acutely interested. He thought he
had seen a glimpse of something, very briefly, when the failed charm had shocked Hermione.

“What are you talking about?” Hermione said hastily, looking very self-conscious.

“You're still wearing the ring. You've made it invisible, haven't you?” Harry had an
almost accusatory tone in his voice.

“I tried to give it back,” Hermione felt defensive. “You shouldn't be able to see it
anyway.”

“I told you I didn't want it back. And I saw it when the charm shocked you. Why are you
still wearing it?”

“I'm wearing it on my right hand. So you don't have anything to worry about,” Hermione
said, a trifle snappishly.

“That's not why I asked. If you don't - if we - I - I just wondered why you'd still
want to…wear it, I mean,” he finally got out.

“Because I still love you,” Hermione said softly. Harry didn't know exactly what to say to
that.

“I love you too,” he finally answered, and something lit up in her face. “But every time I think
about - about us, then I think about what you did, what you said, and I - I just can't get past
it, Hermione. I have to wonder if you really love me at all, or if I'm just - just - something
broken that you feel the need to repair.”

“Tonight, when - when we were all down here together, working together to solve something, I - I
thought - I thought maybe everything was going to be okay,” she admitted, biting her lip.

“You just said it. Working together, solving something,” Harry's voice was pure
exasperation. “Do you even know how to be in a relationship with me, out of the context of helping
me solve something, fight something, win something, finish something? If you're not helping me
battle evil wizards, you're proofreading my essays… ” He stammered a bit, and then sighed.
“There should be more to it than that…shouldn't there?”

“Well, there was - before, I mean, wasn't there?” She ventured, blushing at the thought of
their sojourns together in his bed. Suddenly that seemed like a very long time ago.

“Yes, but that still wasn't enough to - enough to - ” *keep us together*, he thought
wistfully.

“Harry, I want to help you past this. I want to help you defeat him once and for all,” Hermione
spoke, with an entreating look on her face. “And *not* just because I think you're a
really nifty experiment or something. Because I love you, because I want you to be around for a
long time - with me. I made a mistake. I know that, and I'm profoundly sorry. If you can't
let me back into your heart, will you at least let me help save your life? Please?”

“Hermione, you're still my best friend. I don't want that to disappear. And I do love
you - I never stopped loving you. I just - I just need time.” His mouth twisted into a bitter smile
as he spoke the last word. “Time? The one thing I don't have an abundance of.”

Hermione left her seat, and knelt down beside him, leaning on the arm of his chair. “I'm not
giving up on this. We'll make time. We'll figure this out. I promise.” She tried to smile.
“Otherwise, how will I make it up to you? Couldn't we try again - take it slowly? I don't
want to lose you.”

He looked down at her, and softly brushed a strand of hair back away from her cheek, as she
closed her eyes, and seemed to lean into the caress. “Hermione - ” he began hoarsely.

“Bloody hell, I've got it!!” came an exuberant Ron, as he bounded noisily down the stairs.
Hermione backpedaled away from Harry, landing unceremoniously in her chair, as Ron stopped short at
the bottom of the staircase, realizing he had interrupted…something. “Er…sorry,” he said, looking a
little nonplussed.

“What is it that you've got, Ron?” Harry said, trying to use a normal-sounding voice.

“How to undo that charm. I was laying in bed thinking about it, and I reckon Hermione's
tried nearly every unlocking or revealing charm known to wizardkind, except…”

“Except what?” Hermione said, managing to sound curious and skeptical at the same time.

“Except that you weren't raised as a wizard, and neither were you, Harry. So why would you
think to try this?” He padded over to the package lying on Hermione's desk, and held his wand
over it.

“*I guard at gates and keep chests shut tight*

*I protect people's homes at night.*

*I keep safe that which you prize,*

*But t**ell me where power o'er me lies”*

“It's obviously talking about a … a lock.” Hermione said, thinking aloud. “So we want what
has power over a lock.” Hermione said, not really understanding what Ron was getting at.

“What can defeat a lock? A key?” Harry said, sounding like he was guessing

“Exactly,” Ron said. “A key. It's a wizarding children's rhyme. It's how little
girls lock up their diaries, or whatever. Fred and George used to use it to hide my stuff.
There's no reason either of you would have known it. And Malfoy probably figures himself to be
above that sort of thing. It probably never even entered his head.”

“A key. So we…what?” Hermione said, and then her eyes lit up. She leaned across Ron and tapped
the package with her wand, saying “*Clavis*,” in a clear voice. The package shimmered, and the
illusion fell away, revealing an untidy stack of very old papers, tucked into some sort of battered
leather portfolio, tied off with an elastic band.

“Sweet Merlin, Ron! You did it,” Harry said, admiration evident in his voice. Ron looked
extremely pleased with himself. Hermione was paging through the loose leaves, scanning for any
words that might stand out. She stopped short, clutching a sheaf of paper in one hand, and sighed
in frustration.

“What's wrong?” Harry asked, with a note of worry in his voice.

“It's written all in runes,” Hermione said with chagrin. “It'll have to be translated
first.”

“But - but you can do that, can't you?” Ron asked, not seeing what the problem was.

“Of course I can. It'll just - it'll just take - ”

“Time,” Harry finished for her, looking grim.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hey!” Harry said, his eyes lighting up, almost in spite of himself, as he opened the door to
see Hermione, soaking wet, dripping on their mat. “You're drenched! What happened?”

She entered his and Ron's flat, her jaw quivering from the chill of being wet through, and
gave him a withering look. “It rained,” she deadpanned.

“Ha-ha,” Harry responded, lighting a fire in the fireplace and casting a drying charm on her,
with empty hands. “I've got tea on. You want some?” Hermione nodded, and stood closer to the
fire gratefully, until she stopped shivering. “I meant, why didn't you - you know, do the water
repellant spell?”

“My wand was in my purse,” Hermione said. “I figured it'd be faster to just run. Have you
been working on your wandless magic?” Harry looked back at her, and then looked at his hands.

“Oh. Yeah, Remus has been running me through my paces with it. I still seem to do better when
I'm not really thinking about it though. Doesn't say much for my ability to perform under
pressure.”

“I think you perform very well under pressure,” Hermione said absently, thinking of the wandless
magic he'd cast during the battle with Voldemort, and realizing too late the unintentional
double entendre in what she'd said.

Harry cast a quick look at her, and disappeared into the kitchen. Hermione could hear him
clattering around, and turned toward the fire, so the heat could explain away her red face.
“Where's Ron?” she called.

“He's in his room,” Harry said, coming back into the kitchen with two cups of steaming tea.
“*Sulking!!*” he shouted the last word toward the hallway where the bedrooms were.

“I am not!” came a heated reply.

“What's going on?” Hermione asked, looking a little amused.

“He came to practice today,” Harry said, apologetically.

“I'll tell you what happened,” Ron suddenly came harrumphing down the hall into the small
living room. “*He* made me leave.”

“They made me make you leave,” Harry countered.

“Excuse me, but aren't *you* supposed to tell *them* what to do?” Ron looked
injured.

“Look, I told them that I would just go home and tell you everything we did anyway, but they
wouldn't listen. They kept saying you were spying for the Cannons, and it was distracting them
from practice. They know we're flatmates, but it was still bothering them.” Harry said, with
the air of one who has said it before.

Ron muttered something that sounded like “you still could have stuck up for your best mate.”

“I don't see why they were so worried. It's not like the Cannons would play Puddlemere
until the play-offs anyway, and - ”

“And the Cannons aren't going to make it that far? Is that what you were going to say?” Ron
demanded.

“No, that is *not* what I was going to say, as a matter of fact,” Harry threw up his hands
in exasperation. Hermione saw his lips twitch, and figured that that had been exactly what he was
going to say.

“How is Harry at practice?” Hermione asked Ron quickly, to defuse the situation.

“Well, for the *short time* I was there,” Ron said, still looking annoyed, “he looked -
well, really in charge. It was bloody hilarious!” Harry gave him a dirty look over the rim of his
cup. “I mean, he has a whistle and everything!”

“Is it fun?” Hermione asked, drawing her knees up, and tucking her feet under her in the chair.
Harry couldn't help but notice how the firelight turned the wild strands of her newly dried
hair golden and reflected in her eyes. “I mean, do they listen to you at all? You're younger
than most of them, aren't you?”

“There are a couple of reserves that they signed straight out of school,” Harry said, “but most
of `em are older than I am. The first couple of weeks they gave me a hard time, but this is one
time where being - well, *me* - has helped out. Coach Bitewater was beside himself when I went
on the recruiting trips with him before practice started back.”

“Everyone wants to play for the Boy Who Lived?” Hermione said lightly, her eyes twinkling.

“It's giving Puddlemere an unfair advantage, if you ask me,” Ron said, with mock
loftiness.

“Ron, I'm not sure even *I* could help Chudley out,” Harry teased, and got a throw
pillow upside his head for his efforts.

“I can go anywhere and get insulted,” Ron muttered, stalking into the kitchen to examine the
contents of the refrigerator. There was a thump and a muffled exclamation. “Your cooling
charm's worn off again, Harry!” he called.

“That would have been yours, Ron!” Harry said, with a long-suffering air. “Is the milk sour
yet?” Hermione looked into her teacup with trepidation.

“Well, if you wouldn't keep it so bloody hot in here…it is bloody August, you know!”

“Hermione got wet, and she was cold!” Harry said defensively. Hermione laughed suddenly, and
Harry glanced her way. “What?”

“You two - you sound like an old married couple,” she blurted before she thought. Harry suddenly
looked uncomfortable, and the smile vanished from her face. There was a tense silence.

“Do you - do you ever think about it? I mean, that we might have been married by now?” Hermione
asked him tentatively, looking into the fire, instead of at him.

“I think about it all the time,” he said softly, and his answer caused her to look up at him
suddenly. Their gazes caught and held.

“Harry - ” Hermione began, but was interrupted by Ron, who stalked back through the living room,
with his mouth full of something. He headed back down the hall to his bedroom, muttering something
completely unintelligible. Hermione let a nervous laugh escape; it sounded high and false in the
silence that followed.

“How's the translation going?” Harry asked quickly, before Hermione could fill in the gap
with any other awkward questions.

“Pretty good. Some of it's really obscure though, and whoever wrote it anagrammed some of
the words too, so once they're translated, the letters are still out of order. It's a mess.
Somebody really didn't want anyone else reading it.” Hermione shook her head, as if unable to
fathom that someone would want to willfully withhold knowledge.

“Anything useful yet?” Harry asked, staring into his mostly empty teacup, as if it held the
secrets of the universe.

“There have been several references to a silver knife, but nothing more specific than that,”
Hermione said with regret. “And the `Readunatio Animae' has been referred to, but I still
can't even figure out what spell that is.” She paused for a moment. “What about you? How have
you been?”

“Okay, I guess,” Harry shrugged. “No more Parseltongue or anything, but…” he trailed off.

“But what?” Hermione prodded.

“Sometimes I feel - I feel a feeling that doesn't feel like mine,” he said hesitantly,
rolling his eyes at his awkward word choice. “Like it's there, and I'm experiencing it, but
I'm not the one making it happen.”

“What kinds of feelings?” she asked softly.

“Mostly unbelievable rage…sometimes just frustration or impatience,” Harry sighed. “Do you think
that means he's getting stronger?”

“I don't know, Harry,” Hermione said helplessly. “I still think it's your entire soul
versus only a fraction of his. I don't think he's any match for you.”

“Yet,” Harry finished darkly. “Until someone casts that spell, or until `they' come - the
Death Eaters,” he recalled what he had said the night of graduation.

“Harry, we don't even know who you were talking about,” Hermione corrected gently. “We
don't even know who `they' are or what that spell is - where are you going?” she said, as
Ron came back down the hall, in a fresh shirt, with his hair newly combed.

“I've got a date,” he said shortly.

“With Luna?” Hermione asked.

“Who else?” Ron answered with a happy-go-lucky shrug.

“This is from the bloke who couldn't wait to play professional Quidditch because of all the
`besotted' girls,” Harry said, chucking his thumb at Ron, with a conspiratorial smile at
Hermione. “Guess he couldn't get any after all!”

“Hey, just because it's fun to have girls besotted with you*,* doesn't mean you
have to be besotted back. What's wrong with wanting to be appreciated?” Ron managed a smile
that seemed more smirk than anything else. “You two kids behave.” There was unmistakable
insinuation in his voice. “I'll see you later.” Hermione waved as Ron went out the door, and
then turned back to a furiously flushing Harry.

“What's the matter?” she asked Harry, in a bewildered voice.

“I wish he wouldn't say things like that - when he - when he knows -” he blundered to a
stop.

“When he knows that you don't feel that way about me anymore,” Hermione supplied.

“When he knows how I still feel about you,” Harry corrected.

“And how is that, Harry?” She asked, in a near whisper. Harry looked at her blankly, and ran one
hand through his untidy hair.

“It's complicated, Hermione. You know that.”

“Explain it to me,” she said, her voice suddenly sounding deep and throaty and full of promises.
Harry took his wand from where it sat on the mantle, and lowered the fire, cursing to himself that
it suddenly felt too warm in here.

He stood in a sudden jerky motion, automatically reaching for his cane, and still very awkwardly
favoring his right leg. He held out his hand to her, and said, in a clipped voice, “Come flying
with me.”

A thousand initial responses flew through Hermione's head in an instant. *In the rain?
Whatever for?* *Right now? It's getting late.* *I have work tomorrow. Do you really
think you should fly in these conditions with that leg? Don't you have to get up early in the
morning? My parents will wonder where I am.*

She looked up at him uncertainly, and saw the blazing look that radiated from his green eyes.
His arm remained extended, his hand out, palm up. *This is a test*, she thought suddenly, sure
that she was right. And she was startled to realize that she was not angry at being tested, but
merely grateful for the chance.

She laid her small hand softly in the palm of his. “Okay,” she whispered. A flicker of surprise
flared up suddenly in his eyes, but he tamped it down quickly and tightened his hand around
hers.

They walked slowly and carefully to the roof, where Ron's and Harry's brooms were safely
housed in a storage locker. Harry leaned his cane against the hinge of the door, cast the water
repellant spell around them both, and boarded his broom, holding out a hand to lift Hermione up
behind him.

The kickoff was a little wobbly, since Harry could only use one leg, but he was obviously
accustomed to that because he corrected for it almost immediately. Hermione felt as if her stomach
had been left behind on the rooftop, as they launched into the air, and she bit back a shriek as
her arms tightened around his chest. She felt his chest vibrate beneath her clenched hands.

“You're laughing at me, aren't you?” she accused.

“Never,” he said in a voice quavering with suppressed mirth. She hit him on the shoulder with an
open hand, and he purposely sent the broom into a dive.

“Okay, okay, I apologize!” she said hastily.

“I can't believe you're afraid of this,” Harry remarked, though not in an unkind way.
“You're not afraid of anything.”

“Harry, I'm afraid of loads of things,” she answered. *I'm afraid of losing you.*
There was a moment of silence. Hermione leaned her cheek against his back, and felt the steady,
reassuring thump of his heart underneath her hands. She admired the shimmery halo around the lights
of London, creating by the falling rain.

Harry felt her warmth close to him, and knew that she had sighed, when he felt her press against
him momentarily. He hoped rather irrationally that it had been a sigh of contentment.

“I've missed you,” she said suddenly, in a quiet wistful voice. Instead of answering, he
lifted one hand from the broomstick, and took one of her hands in his, pulling it up to his lips
and kissing it softly. She felt as if her bones had turned to water, and scolded herself inwardly.
*He kissed your hand, Hermione. What are you going to do if he does anything else? Combust?*
She abruptly realized that she was hoping against hope that he *would* do something else.

Suddenly she sputtered, as a spray of water hit her in the face. “Harry, I think your spell has
a hole in it.” More water wet her, and she became aware of the rain that was now streaming down her
face, pouring in rivulets from the ends of her hair.

“No, I took it down,” Harry said, as if it were a completely understandable thing to do. She
heard him mutter something, and knew that he had cast *Impervius* on his glasses. “The
repellant charm keeps out too much of the wind too. What's the fun of flying if you can't
feel the wind in your hair?”

*Oh yes, what's the fun in that?* She thought sarcastically. Hermione could now feel
the effects of the air rushing past her at frightening velocities, and held even more tightly onto
Harry. Every now and then, she could feel warmth on her fingers, and realized that he was laying
light kisses on each fingertip. She felt a shudder convulse her body.

“You're cold,” Harry said, with a note of self-reproach.

She shook her head, even though he couldn't see her. “I'm not cold, Harry,” she replied.
*Not anymore, Harry. Not when you're here,* she thought of her words from that night on
the front steps of Hogwarts, and it seemed so long ago, when they had taken pleasure from each
other and assuaged one another's pain.

He leaned to one side, and brought the broom around in a wide, lazy turn. “Guess we should head
back.”

Hermione thought crazily that she didn't want it to end. She was wet and shivering again,
and she was on a broom in the dark…but she was with Harry, sitting close to Harry, and it was
making her feel things that she didn't want to feel again. *No*, she corrected herself, it
was making her feel things that she *did* want to feel again, but that she had gotten used to
not feeling - or just ignoring.

He descended toward the roof of his building with dizzying speed, suddenly throwing them into a
loop that made a shriek rip from Hermione's throat, rising and falling on the breeze. She heard
him laugh, and hit him again.

Then…just like that, they were down. He was still laughing, as she scrambled gratefully down for
solid ground, and he stowed the broom back in the locker. They were both soaking wet, and Hermione
thought suddenly how beautiful he looked, his dark hair shining in the city lights, reflective with
crystalline raindrops.

“You prat! You scared me to death!” she said, stamping her foot childishly at him, as he
struggled to quell his laughter.

“You know I wouldn't let anything happen to you, don't you, Hermione?” he said, as he
slowly grew serious, though there remained a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

Her eyes suddenly grew solemn as well, and she nodded, wide-eyed, unconsciously licking the
rainwater from her wet lips. Hermione saw his gaze drop suddenly to her mouth, and she felt her
insides liquefy.

With one dripping hand, he slowly brushed her sodden locks away from her face, and his touch
left trails of fire in its wake, in delightful contrast to the pelting rain.

“Harry - ” she said, in an uncertain tone. He shook his head wordlessly, his eyes boring into
hers. *No more excuses, no more secrets, no more lies, no more separation**.* Hermione
was breathless with anticipation, feeling as if they'd exchanged sacred vows in that moment of
shared gazes.

Slowly, reverently, with no more pressure than the raindrops that caressed her skin, his lips
touched hers, as sincerely as a benediction. He drew back and looked at her, his wet bangs dripping
down the sides of his face, and seemed to be asking her a question.

She wound her arms around his neck, and answered him. *Never again*, *Harry*. And then
their lips collided again.

So they stood there, on the rain-slick rooftop, wrapped in each other's arms, mouths gently
dancing, as the soft fall of the rain hushed the noise of Diagon Alley, giving even that bustling
place all the solemnity of a sanctuary.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron staggered into the kitchen the next morning, fists scrubbing at bleary eyes, as his mouth
opened in a jaw-popping yawn.

“What are you doing up so early -” he said in a fuzzy voice, and then opened his eyes. “Bloody
hell, Hermione!” He shouted when he saw who was sitting at the little table. She was wearing one of
Harry's pajama tops, and he could see the edge of boxer shorts under the long tail of the
shirt. Her feet were bare, and her hair was disheveled; she still somehow managed to look
breathtaking.

“Good morning to you too, Ron,” Hermione said casually, even though high color rose in her
cheeks. “You call this early? This is having a lie-in.”

“Aren't you supposed to be at work?” Ron said, trying to recover from his shock.

“I'm thinking about skiving off today,” she said, in what she hoped sounded like an airy
voice. Ron looked at her suspiciously.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione?” he asked, delving into the refrigerator,
which had been once again been cooled. “Or should I say,” he added impishly, drinking straight from
the carton of orange juice. “What has *Harry* done with Hermione?”

“You're an arse, you know,” Hermione said. “And it's none of your business. Do both of
you do that?” she asked, wrinkling her nose, distracted by his treatment of the carton of
juice.

“No, Harry is a perfect gentleman and always gets a glass,” Ron said sarcastically. He looked at
her again, but she was leaning intently over their copy of the *Prophet*, trying to act like
she was unaware of his gaze.

“How was your date last night?” Hermione asked, still perusing the paper, obviously hoping to
distract him.

“Not as good as yours, apparently,” Ron snorted. Hermione slammed down the paper on the table in
frustration.

“Ron!” she half-yelled. Her face was brilliant. “What happened to the bloke who stuck his
fingers in his ears, and pretended I wasn't actually in the hallway at all? I think I liked him
better.”

“Oh, so that *is* what happened last ni - Hey, what's that?” Ron said, leaning over to
look at the front page with interest.

“Some artifact was stolen from the Wizarding Museum in Athens,” Hermione said, her eyes sparking
with interest. “It was some kind of amphora supposedly used in ancient rituals, and it was very
old. It's really a shame.” Ron was waving one hand dismissively.

“I wasn't talking about that,” he said, pointing past the front page article, to a blurb in
a side column. “They've got Southampton favored to win over the Cannons!” His voice had an air
of betrayal. “Southampton hasn't won a match in five years! That's just insulting!”

“Southampton has some brilliant new Seeker from Corsica,” Harry said in a sleepy voice, as he
stumbled into the kitchen and collapsed into the remaining chair. He leaned over and kissed
Hermione on the cheek, his eyes barely half-open.

“Is that all you two ever talk about?” Hermione said in a growly tone.

“Yes,” they both said in unison.

“Reckon he wasn't talking about Quidditch last night,” Ron needled. Harry forced his eyes
open farther in order to properly give Ron a disgruntled look.

“He's been saying things like that since he first saw me,” Hermione said, in an aside to
Harry.

“Ron, leave her alone, or I'll tell her what you and Luna got caught doing in Flourish and
Blotts!” Harry grinned, Ron reddened, and Hermione looked horrified.

“In a bookshop?!” Hermione's voice was a breathy wheeze of indignation.

“All right, I yield,” Ron said good-naturedly, lifting both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I
definitely do not want a lecture on what is and is not considered proper behavior in bookshops.” He
grabbed a package of biscuits, and headed back to his room to get dressed. “I've got
practice.”

“That's what you're eating for breakfast?” Hermione said, in a disbelieving tone. Ron
turned at the end of the short hallway, and waved the package at her.

“I've missed you, Hermione!” he called out cheekily, before disappearing into his room.

“You want some breakfast?” Harry asked, rising slowly from the table, and stretching.

“Only if you're fixing yourself some,” Hermione said, watching him maneuver carefully around
the tiny kitchen, hobbling, but without his cane. She wanted to say something about how well he
seemed to be doing with his therapy, but did not want to upset the delicate balance they had
achieved. “What does Ron do at practice? Isn't he the back-up?”

“The Reserve,” Harry corrected her, and she stuck out her tongue at him. “He plays for the scout
team.”

“What is that?” She asked curiously. Harry pulled out eggs, cheese, and an onion, and began
whipping up an omelet.

“He plays against the starting team, so they can practice actual games.” Harry answered as he
placed a skillet on the stove, and turned on the heat. “When do you have to be at work?”

“I actually thought I'd skive off today,” she said, in much the same tone as she had
disclosed to Ron. Harry blinked at her, startled.

“I've got practice in a couple of hours,” he said apologetically.

“Maybe I could come with you,” she said, looking hopeful.

“Hermione - ” he sighed, and her face fell.

“Okay, if - if you - if - that's okay,” she assured him quickly.

“No, that's not what I - I would love for you to come with me. I just meant - I - you
don't have to do this.”

“Do what?” she blinked at him, genuinely confused. He poured the liquid mixture into the pan,
and soon the hiss of sizzling eggs filled the kitchen.

“Act a certain way…skip work…come to a Quidditch practice…because you think I want you to.” He
smiled at her a little, and she blanched at being read so easily.

“So the flying thing last night - what was that?” she asked, feeling foolish.

“I wanted you to come flying with me,” he said in a matter of fact tone, shrugging as if to say
that it was just that and nothing more. He sprinkled shredded cheese and chopped onion over the top
of the cooking eggs, and pulled up the edge of the omelet with a spatula to check its progress. He
flipped half the mixture over onto itself. “I didn't think you would.”

“Harry, I love you,” she said softly, padding over next to him. “I thought I - I thought my
chances with you were over. You asked me to go flying with you. How could I say no?” She looked
into his eyes, and said as sincerely as she knew how, “I may not like flying, but I knew that you
would keep me safe.”

“I love you too,” he answered back, leaning down to touch his forehead to hers. “I'm glad
you were here last night,” he whispered, and she wondered to what exactly he was referring.

“So'm I,” she said softly.

“The eggs are burning,” Ron's voice blared out of nowhere, and they heard the front door
slam shut behind him, as Harry removed the omelet from heat, cursing softly to himself. Hermione
laughed a little, as she watched him struggle to save the omelet. Her mind drifted slowly to the
events of last night, and a dreamy smile covered her face.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asked, watching her beatific expression.

“What do you think?” she said, slanting a look at him.

“I think it's the same thing I've been thinking about all morning,” he admitted, halving
the omelet, and putting it onto two plates. They began to eat in a companionable silence.

“Has Professor Lupin made any headway with the Unspeakables?” Hermione asked, after a moment.
She had given Remus a few sheets from that last binder retrieved from the Malfoy library, the one
that she was still working on translating.

“Not yet,” Harry said, grinning at the way she still called him Professor Lupin. “The
Unspeakables are so careful about how they operate, it took seven owls back and forth, before Lupin
even got to give them the pages, much less tell them what he wanted from them.”

“I hated to give those to anybody else,” Hermione said, “but I suppose every set of eyes helps.
I just hope that they know something about the `Readunatio Animae'. I can find no reference of
that spell anywhere.”

“I told Lupin,” Harry blurted suddenly. Hermione looked at him blankly.

“Told him what?”

“About the horcrux in my head,” Harry answered. Hermione looked askance at him, as if she wanted
to question why he had done so, but she said nothing. “I - I just - I didn't want to lie to him
about where we got those pages, and if we told him Malfoy gave them to us, then he'd want to
know why, and then we'd - I - I just didn't want to do it.” There was a moment of stillness
where Hermione regarded him compassionately.

“Then I guess Tonks knows that - that I lied to her about the monitoring charms,” she ventured
after a moment, looking shamefaced.

“Yeah, she knows,” Harry said with difficulty. “She wasn't mad though. Said she understood
why you did it.” He added the last part in an “I'll never understand women” tone.

“Harry, I am sor - ” Hermione began once again, but Harry held up one hand to stop her.

“I forgive you, Hermione.” He took in a deep, shuddering breath, and let it out. “And I'm
sorry for taking so long to do it. Please, you don't have to mention it anymore.” She pressed
her lips together tightly and nodded.

They continued eating their breakfast, and Hermione's heart soared at this rare and much
longed for time with Harry, but she couldn't help thinking that he had the demeanor of a man
putting his affairs in order. *The clock is ticking,* she thought, *Somehow he knows it, he
feels it.* And she wondered bleakly if anything they did would be of any use at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Harry! Harry! *Harry!*” came the screeching voice of a very excited Ron Weasley. Harry
turned from where he'd been hovering on his broom near both Puddlemere Seekers; he and the
first-team Seeker had been showing the Reserve how to drill with the Snitch, letting it get further
and further away gradually, and trying to grab it with relatively little additional time
elapsed.

“What is *he* doing here?” One of the Chasers muttered under his breath, but Harry heard
him and shot him a dirty look.

“Watch it, Clarke,” Harry warned him. “Tell everyone to take a break,” he called over his
shoulder, as he flew to meet Ron, who was practically dancing in place on the far end of the
pitch.

“What the hell's going on, Ron?” Harry said, eying his friend with some amusement. It
obviously wasn't anything bad, but Ron was so worked up that he could barely speak.

“It's Fleur. She's in labor! Can you believe it? Mum's in a right state. Anyway, the
whole family's meeting at St. Mungo's, and I thought you'd want to know.”

Harry's face lit up, all thoughts of Bill's behavior at Christmas dismissed and
forgotten. It was at moments like these, when he got to experience the intimate nuances of being in
a family, when he was the most grateful to the Weasleys for wholeheartedly embracing him. He
amplified his voice, and said, without further hesitation,

“We're done for today, guys. I've got a family situation. See you tomorrow!”

Once Harry had taken a lightening-quick shower and changed clothes, he and Ron Apparated
directly to St. Mungo's, inquiring of the haughty witch at the front desk where Maternity
was.

It was easy to see that they had found the place, for when they arrived on the floor, there were
Weasleys piled all about the waiting area, looking dangerously close to spilling out into the
corridor. They were nearly to the glass doors when Harry stopped suddenly.

“I should've contacted Hermione. She ended up going on in to work,” he said with
chagrin.

“Already done, mate. I owled her and told her; she said she'd try to leave early. I
can't believe it took you this long to mention it.”

“I - I guess I'm just not used to her being back around again,” Harry admitted.

“So is she? Back around again, I mean?” Ron asked him, obviously enjoying his friend's
discomfiture. “Am I going to be treated to more surprise guest appearances at breakfast?”

“Ron, be quiet!” Harry hissed, as Ron opened the door.

“What?” Ron grinned. “You think nobody knows that you and Hermione shag?” He had really only
been teasing Harry, and had had no intention of anyone overhearing him, but the last four words of
his sentence fell into an unfortunate lull in the conversation. Fred and George went into paroxysms
of laughter, while the others merely stared at them, frozen. Harry and Ron both turned bright
red.

“How's Fleur?” Harry asked, in a voice that squeaked just a little. He wondered if that was
what it felt like to get called out about sex in front of one's mum. Mrs. Weasley was sitting
tensely in the chair in the corner, with Mr. Weasley patting her hand soothingly. Harry hoped that
the impending arrival of the first grandchild would be enough of a distraction.

“She's doing fine, boys,” Mr. Weasley finally answered, taking pity on them. “She came in
about four hours ago, and they expect the baby to be born by tonight.”

“Wasn't she early?” Harry asked with some concern.

“Not to hear Fleur tell it!” Charlie said, and Ginny smiled, shaking her head.

“She's been pretty miserable - hot, mostly - over the last four weeks. She only had a week
to go, though,” Ginny added. Ron and Harry settled into the only empty chairs to wait, with the
rest of their family.

Hermione came in at around four o'clock in the afternoon, and drew everyone's attention
again when she came in and kissed Harry lightly on the lips by way of greeting.

“Oh, you *are* back together!” Ginny said loudly, clasping her hands in front of her, and
causing Harry and Hermione both to look abashed. Fred and George began to make cooing noises,
fluttering their eyelashes, to mock their baby sister - Harry was just an added bonus.

“Yeah,” Harry said, concentrating on the toes of his shoes. He felt Hermione's hand reach
out and twine through his.

“Is the wedding back on?” Ginny asked eagerly. Harry and Hermione exchanged uneasy looks, and
both their gazes went to Hermione's deceptively empty-looking right hand.

“We're - er - we're taking it slow,” Harry stuttered, and Ginny looked apologetic.

“Well, how are your wedding plans coming?” Hermione said brightly, turning toward Percy and
Penelope. Harry's hand tightened around Hermione's, and she knew that she wasn't
fooling him at all.

“They're coming along. Only two months to go!” Percy said, actually looking almost relaxed
where he sat, with one arm draped behind his fiancée.

“My mother is driving me crazy,” Penelope said, with a commiserating look at Hermione. “I just
want to tell her to make all the decisions and let me know later.” The girls shared a laugh at
this, but were distracted by Fred's sudden exclamation.

“Here comes Bill!” At once, all attention was riveted on the eldest Weasley son, who was holding
a small bundle in his arms. Mrs. Weasley was in tears, before Bill had even entered the room.

“Here she is,” Bill announced, looking at the baby like he couldn't believe it was actually
in his arms.

“*She*!” Mrs. Weasley pounced on the crucial word. Bill lowered the blanket, and angled his
arms so that everyone could see her. “How's Fleur?”

“She's doing as well as can be expected,” Bill said. “She's tired, but excited, and was
suitably impressed at how beautiful the baby was.”

“Of course she's beautiful,” Mrs. Weasley said, holding out her arms to take her first
grandbaby into her arms. “And look!” her voice rose to an almost inaudible pitch. “She's got
red hair!” She pushed the blanket back to display the barest hint of red fuzz on the baby's
head.

“Should we be surprised?” Fred and George remarked in unison.

“She's beautiful, Bill!” Hermione called out, and Bill appeared to notice them for the first
time.

“Harry, Hermione!” He greeted. “Good to see you here!”

“So, how many names did Fleur call you?” George asked with a grin. Bill shook his head, an
answering smile spreading across his face.

“I don't really know. Most of what she said was in French, so I'm just going to pretend
she was telling me how much she loved me!”

“What's her name?” Ron asked, pushing the blanket further down with two big fingers, to get
a clearer view of her face.

“Molly Ariane Weasley,” Bill said, looking at his mother. “We're going to call her Ariane so
it won't be confusing.”

“That's a beautiful name,” Ginny said, leaning in for a closer look. Mrs. Weasley looked
overcome.

Harry and Hermione drifted away from the cluster of Weasleys to give them a little time with
their newest member. “Bill looks like he isn't touching the ground when he walks,” Hermione
observed, and Harry agreed with a grin, watching the scene with a somewhat wistful look in his
eyes.

“It must be the greatest feeling in the world,” he replied.

“Do you want any kids? I mean, someday,” Hermione asked, looking a little hesitant to speak,
lest he misunderstand her.

“Of course!” he said, without a moment's pause. “I mean, I did. I think - I - it would be -
I never really had a family, you know…but now…” he trailed off.

Hermione looked at him, and felt her heart crack a little more. He seemed resigned to his fate,
speaking of his future in the past tense, as if it were already decided. Without even realizing it,
she put one hand around the back of his neck, threading her fingers into his hair.

“You are *going* to have children someday, Harry Potter!” she said fiercely. “And
you're going to have them with me!” She clutched the front of his shirt with her other hand,
and pulled him toward her for a kiss.

“Hermione - ” he protested into her mouth, trying to back away from her. “I don't want you
to get your heart set on anything…I don't know if you can count on - ”

“I'm counting on your beating him again…just like you did last time,” she said, meeting his
eyes with a look that was iron-hard with determination.

The glass doors clattered open simultaneously, and the roomful of people turned to see who was
so unceremoniously interrupted the new family bonding time.

It was Remus Lupin, his tie askew, his shirt sleeves pushed over his elbows. He was breathing
heavily, and looked as if he had run up the stairs all the way from the lobby. “Harry - ” he said,
and then paused, unable to get anything else out, due to his need for oxygen.

“Remus, what's wrong?” Harry asked, in a low, urgent voice. Dread began welling up in his
gut.

“I've been looking….for you for thirty minutes….I finally - if I'd known you were here,
I - I could have … saved myself a trip…your flat… and the practice field…” he wheezed.

“What? Is Tonks here? Is she okay?” Harry interrupted, impatient for the information that Remus
was trying to impart.

“No…no, she's fine. It's - it's Neville…”

“Neville?” Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny exchanged alarmed glances. “What's wrong with
Neville?”

“He's - ” Remus shook his head, inhaling deeply. “Sorry…he's okay, but his - his
parents… they've come around…they're - it looks like they're going to be all
right.”

“Well, Remus, that's brilliant!” Harry said, his eyes coming alight. He thought of how
grateful and excited he would be if he suddenly got his parents back, knowing that Neville had
grown up with nearly the same kind of parental deprivation. “What's that got to do with me
though?”

“They're - they're awake, *really* awake…and the next person they asked to speak to
- after Neville - was you.”

**TBC**

**Thanks to everyone who's reviewed. I check my computer breathlessly for them several
times a day, and I'm so glad I've got people here r****eady and willing to validate**
**me!**

**You're going to see events begin to accelerate here soon. We're on the home stretch
now. I rather liked this chapter, and hope you enjoyed it too.**

**You may leave a review on your way out, if you like!**

-->



14. Discoveries
---------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART III: The Beginning of the End**

**Chapter Three: Discoveries**

Harry let his hand slide reluctantly out of Hermione's, and followed Lupin out of the
waiting area, almost too bewildered to speak. Behind him, he knew that the Weasleys and Hermione
had instantly gone into speculation mode.

“So…Neville's parents have snapped out of it, huh?” Harry said, trying to sound like he was
talking about an everyday occurrence.

“Apparently so,” Lupin said, in a more relaxed tone of voice. “The Order sent me to check on
them, for obvious reasons, and they asked for you. Neville and his grandmother were on their way;
they're probably up there by now.” Harry came to a stop in the middle of the corridor.

“But - I don't need to - Neville - shouldn't he have some time with them?” Harry finally
managed to articulate. “He doesn't need me barging in there.”

“They were quite insistent on seeing you,” Lupin said. “I'm sure that Neville wouldn't
begrudge you a short conversation with them.” Harry looked as if he rather doubted this, but he
resumed following Lupin down the hall.

“What happened? I mean, did they just come out of it all on their own?” Harry ventured after a
moment.

“Actually it was a new potion given them. The Ravenclaw Foundation has been developing it.
Augusta Longbottom gave her permission for it to be tried, but they really didn't think
anything would come of it, because the catatonia was so long-standing. It also happened relatively
rapidly, as well. I think it's caught everyone flat-footed.” Harry looked at Lupin
dubiously.

“The press?” was all he said. Lupin shook his head.

“They do not know about this. With Bellatrix Lestrange still out there, the news that the
Longbottoms have recovered does not need to become common knowledge.” Harry supposed that Lupin was
correct; when he had come panting into the waiting area, he had only told a roomful of Order
members, after all.

Harry was surprised when they finally arrived at a ward that Harry had never been to before. He
had been expecting to go up to the closed ward again, where they had seen Gilderoy Lockhart, but he
supposed that the Longbottoms had probably been moved somewhere more private. He looked at Lupin
with trepidation, not really wanting to go through the double doors. Lupin unsealed the doors with
a wave of his wand, and gestured for Harry to enter the room. He could hear voices, one of whom was
saying,

“Dumbledore gone, Amelia Bones? I can't believe - ” Everyone turned to look at Remus and
Harry, as they entered.

There were two hospital beds ensconced within, each bearing a partially reclined figure. Neville
sat on a chair near the far bed, looking somewhat dazed, as if Christmas had come early and he was
still trying to process it. Augusta Longbottom stood ramrod straight nearby, an unreadable
expression on her proud face. Her eyes, however, seemed suspiciously wet.

“H - Harry!” Neville stammered, standing up.

“Hi, Neville,” Harry replied awkwardly. Neville's parents were like the proverbial elephant
in the room. “How's the Herbology internship going?”

“It's going great,” Neville said with unconcealed enthusiasm, the tension draining away for
a moment. “I'm learning loads!” Harry noticed Frank and Alice Longbottom exchange fond glances
with each other and then look back at Neville.

“So, you're Harry Potter,” Alice said, with a slight smile on her worn, pale face. Her
stark-white hair made her look older than she actually was. “You look very like James.” Harry
swallowed, feeling odd as always when confronted with people who knew his parents. Alice was
speaking slowly, as if it took her just a bit longer to process the transition from thought to
speech.

“That's what I'm told,” he said gravely, finally dragging his eyes up to meet her
gaze.

“They were a few years behind us in school…but once we were all in the Order, we got to know
them fairly well…Your mother - I've never seen a witch with so much innate talent. Magic just
seemed to come off of her in waves.”

“Yeah…” Harry said, thinking of how she had saved his life.

“We had just heard about them - about what happened and what you did, when - when the Lestranges
…Everyone thought it was over, but we knew…” Her eyes drifted from him to Neville.

“It's hard to believe,” she said, almost to herself. “I could tell time was passing, but it
was like I was in a dream, something foggy and ill-defined…but nearly seventeen years!” She looked
apologetically at Neville. “I - on some level, I knew you were there. I tried to tell you - ”

“I know, Mum,” Neville said, reaching out to pat her hand. Harry wondered if he too was thinking
of the Drooble's gum wrappers, and shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling intrusive by
just being in the room.

“Harry,” Frank Longbottom said suddenly, his raspy, disused voice sounding suddenly very
incongruous in the room. Harry noticed absently that his right hand was twitching, seemingly of its
own accord. “Remus tells me you've defeated him - V - Voldemort again.” He ground out the name
with determination. “So, you've destroyed them all?”

Harry felt his insides begin to wind themselves up into a tight, painful knot. He looked at
Neville's parents with wide, all-too-comprehending eyes. “What are you talking about?” Mr.
Longbottom's round face was grave.

“What we had been researching for the Order. Why Bellatrix Lestrange came after us, so sure that
we knew what had happened to him. Horcruxes.” On the last word, his voice sank to a whisper.

“Everyone knows about those now, Dad,” Neville said, not quite understanding the high amount of
tension in the room, and wondering vaguely if it had anything to do with what happened on
graduation night. “Harry, Hermione, and Ron destroyed them last summer, before Harry fought
Voldemort in the Final Battle.”

“How many?” Neville's dad asked, his eyes boring into Harry's.

“S - six,” Harry stammered, feeling somehow exposed in front of Mr. Longbottom. He felt Remus
lay one comforting hand on his shoulder.

“So there were seven pieces of his soul…that's what we thought he would do,” Frank replied,
looking very pale and tired.

“But - but Dumbledore said he - ” Harry said in confusion, recalling the conversation that he
and the Headmaster had had after he had successfully obtained Slughorn's memory. For some
reason, he had gotten the impression that the horcrux theory was one that Dumbledore had only
recently embarked upon.

“Dumbledore had been watching Tom Riddle very carefully since that stunt with Hagrid,” Alice put
in suddenly. “He had different Order members looking into different aspects of Dark magic that
Riddle might try to pursue. I'm assuming that Dumbledore continued our research on his own, and
was finally able to come up with proof that Riddle had done what we suspected all along.”

“So Bel - Bellatrix found out what you were researching, and came after you?” Harry asked. Mr.
Longbottom shook his head.

“We're not sure. We had kept everything very secret…not even the other Order members knew
what we were studying.” Remus hunched his shoulders slightly, in a move that seemed to corroborate
what Mr. Longbottom was saying. “We could have just been the first Order members she came across,
though somehow I doubt it. Nevertheless, it was vital that she not find out what we knew. Can you
imagine what the Death Eaters would have been capable of if Bellatrix had been able to spread the
word that Voldemort was not actually dead?” Harry had a sudden image of these two people, young and
strong, valiantly enduring the Cruciatus curse, so determined that Bellatrix Lestrange not get that
information, that they sacrificed their very sanity.

Harry saw Alice Longbottom tremble convulsively out of the corner of his eye. “It could have
been Pettigrew,” he said suddenly, darting a look at Remus, whose eyes became steely at the mention
of his former friend.

“We were sorry to hear about that, Remus,” Alice remarked. “All your friends gone…and Sirius
spending those needless years in Azkaban.” Remus nodded thoughtfully in response.

“*He's* still out there too,” Harry gritted his teeth, thinking of Peter Pettigrew.
“Just like Lestrange.” He felt an anger bubbling inside him, like a liquid just on the verge of
coming to a boil. He would like nothing better than to eradicate the world of Voldemort for good,
and then take on those two Death Eaters himself.

The anger seemed to set off some sort of chain reaction, and caused a sudden searing pain in his
scar. Harry let out a breathy groan of pain, bending over slightly, his fingertips going
automatically to his scar.

“Harry, are you all right?” Lupin said, rather loudly, in a warning tone. Neville had come to
his feet again. Harry straightened, inhaling and exhaling slowly and deeply.

“I'm all right,” he assented, exchanging a questioning glance with Lupin.

“I think you should tell them,” Lupin said gently. “They may be able to help you.”

“We think there's another horcrux,” Harry stated, watching Neville's jaw drop. “Instead
of making seven horcruxes, he split his soul seven times and made eight.”

“Where is the eighth horcrux then, Harry?” Frank asked seriously.

“In me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bill had taken baby Ariane back to her mother, with the dazedly happy grandparents trailing
along behind. The other Weasleys had drifted away - down to the cafeteria, Hermione assumed - with
mumbled promises to return shortly. Finally, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny alone remained in the
otherwise empty waiting area.

Hermione shifted around in her seat, sighed, and finally looked over at Ron and Ginny. “What do
you think the Longbottoms wanted to see him about?” she asked. Ron shrugged, his eyes wide in a
“you got me” sort of stare. Hermione glowered at him. “You're a lot of help.”

“Hermione, what's the use in wondering about it? When Harry gets back, he'll tell
us.”

“I know,” Hermione half-sighed, and stood, tucking her hands in the back pockets of her pants
and beginning to circle the room aimlessly. “I wish I could have gone with him.”

“I don't,” Ron said matter of factly. “Don't you remember that time at Christmas that we
were up there on that closed ward? It was really creepy.” He shuddered at the memory.

“Ronald, it was tragic, not creepy,” Hermione said, offended on behalf of Neville's
parents.

“It was tragic *and* creepy,” Ron insisted.

“Well, if they're wanting to speak to Harry, then they're not like that anymore,”
Hermione harrumphed, continuing to pace.

“You're making me dizzy,” Ginny said in a grouchy voice, and stood up. “I'm going to get
something to eat.” Neither of the others really acknowledged her departure.

“It's just eating you up, isn't it?” Ron said, eying her with a grin.

“What are you talking about, Ron?” Hermione asked in exasperation.

“That you're not with Harry, finding out what's going on. It's driving you
crazy.”

“I am perfectly capable of waiting until Harry gets back,” Hermione said snippily, and sat back
down abruptly, as if determined to prove him wrong. Ron snorted at her, but subsided.

“Hard to believe it's been almost a year since they brought us here,” she remarked softly, a
moment later.

“Oh, yes, there's a beautiful memory to bring up,” Ron said sarcastically. Hermione seemed
to be looking at something far away, and was twirling a strand of her hair through her fingers
distractedly.

“I was so afraid,” was all she said. Ron glanced at her sharply, as if he knew just what she
meant.

“We all were.”

“I thought…if - if Harry actually made it out of there alive, that he'd - that he'd
never be the same again.”

“I don't think anyone is the same, Hermione,” Ron's voice sounded uncharacteristically
gentle.

“I mean, but when - you know, he's still *Harry*. I was afraid that - he'd be…
different, maybe, maybe *altered*, more like - like *him*, you know…if he had to - since
he had to - ” she sighed, frustrated that she could not better articulate her thoughts. “But
he's really not different - still Harry…”

“Coexisting with a piece of Voldemort's soul,” Ron added darkly, and Hermione's gaze
shot up to meet his, troubled.

“I - I haven't found anything, Ron, not anything of any real value,” she said, with the air
of one confessing a misdeed. “I - I - what if we can't fix it?”

“Of course you're going to fix it. When have you ever failed at anything?” Ron said, trying
to reassure her. A quiet sob escaped her lips so suddenly, that she clapped her hand over her mouth
in surprise.

“I failed him,” she answered softly.

“I thought you were both past that now,” Ron asked, leaning toward her, a bewildered look on his
face. “You *were* in our flat this morning.”

“We're…better,” Hermione agreed, drawing her knees up under her chin, in the chair where she
sat. “I'm just - I'm worried about him. About what's going to happen.”

“Harry's defeated the Darkest wizard of our time - twice…I wouldn't give up on him just
yet,” Ron said, in a rather cheerful voice. Both of them ignored the fact that Harry hadn't
really fully defeated him, at least not yet.

“Did you think he'd be able to do it - defeat Voldemort, I mean?” Ron looked caught off
guard.

“Well…I - that is, Harry's always been able to do things that ordinary wizards
couldn't,” he stammered. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him.

“That's not really an answer.”

“Why are you asking me that?” Ron protested.

“Now you're dodging the question.”

“Look at what kind of question it is!” Ron's voice rose. “You're asking me whether or
not I had faith in my best friend.”

“Did you?”

“Did *you*?” Ron echoed back, and they stopped for a minute, glaring at each other.

“I - I *hoped* he would win,” Hermione finally said in a soft, hesitant voice, “But I was
*afraid* that he wouldn't.” Ron seemed to sag a little at her admission.

“So was I,” he agreed.

There was a long silence, in which they could vaguely hear the bustling sounds of a busy
hospital, sounding very far away.

“I - I'm just scared that - that this time… maybe Harry's - I mean, how many times can
he dodge Death?” Hermione said, and the edge of her voice was ragged with despair. Ron glanced at
her with a little shock.

“Hermione, you don't mean that.” It was phrased almost like a question.

“Do you know what he's doing? Do you?” Hermione demanded. “Do you know why we're back
together?”

“Because you both apologized?” Ron ventured.

“Because he's getting ready to die, Ronald!” The words rang out, harsh and discordant, in
the empty room, and Ron winced. Hermione lowered her head into her hands. “He's getting ready
to die, and he didn't want to leave still mad at me.”

“Hermione, that's not - ” Ron began.

“No, I think he really meant it when he forgave me, and I'm so glad that we're not apart
any more, but he - he just has this - this look on his face every now and then, like he's
looking over some far horizon that I can't even see, and it's - it's like…” she trailed
off.

“But - but look what he did last time. He did win; he did survive. He could do it again,” Ron
said hopefully.

“This time it's so easy though,” Hermione's voice was a nearly broken whisper. “Last
time, he had to fight, he had to kill. This time….he just has to die, and it finishes
everything….*e**verything*. Why risk something going wrong, and Voldemort coming back,
when death - when death - ?” She seemed to be struggling to continue.

“Hey, hey,” Ron murmured softly, holding out his arms to her. She sank gratefully into them, and
leaned her head on his shoulder, sniffling softly to herself. “I know that it is against your very
nature to believe in anything that you can't see for yourself or read in black and white…but
you know Harry, he's been doing the fantastic and outrageous since he was a baby. Don't
give up. And don't let Harry see you upset.” He rubbed her back soothingly.

Hermione straightened up a little, and wiped at her cheeks. “I haven't been…I - I
won't,” she said. “I'm sorry - I guess I - I guess I just needed to vent a little.”

“What are best friends for if you can't yell at them and cry on them every now and then,”
Ron said with a shrug, and Hermione smiled a watery smile at him.

“Thanks, Ron,” she said. “For being here.”

“Don't mention it,” he said, standing and holding out his hand to help her up. “Let's go
get something to eat. I'm starved.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Voldemort made you into a horcrux?” Mr. Longbottom repeated slowly. Harry thought that
Neville's eyes were going to bug out of his head, and he might have laughed, if the situation
hadn't been so deadly serious. “All our research showed that it was impossible to make a living
thing into a horcrux. It had to be an object…preferably a naturally occurring material, some sort
of metal or a gemstone.”

For one brief, shining instant, Harry felt hope well up inside him, but just as quickly, it
ebbed away and died. “No, you *can* make living things into horcruxes. Voldemort made his
familiar into one - his snake, Nagini…we - we killed it last summer.”

Mr. Longbottom was shaking his head, and he muttered something that sounded like, “Curious, very
curious.” Harry exchanged bewildered looks with Remus Lupin.

“Sir…Mr. Longbottom,” Harry stammered. “We found this - this brooch that belonged to Rowena
Ravenclaw at my house, and we - we thought…” he proceeded to outline his and Hermione's theory
about what happened to the brooch. “But it wasn't one. And then I - I started having
nightmares, feeling emotions that weren't mine, speaking in Parseltongue.”

“Why would he turn his snake into a horcrux?” Frank Longbottom said slowly, as if he had not
heard Harry at all.

“We - we thought - Dumbledore thought that it was later, after he came back, to fill out the
required number… that Voldemort had been intending to use me as the death to create a horcrux, with
the brooch, but it didn't work, because I - I didn't die.”

“And you ended up as a horcrux instead,” Mr. Longbottom finished, and Harry looked at him with
dumbfounded shock. How had they not thought of this before? They had just assumed that because the
number seven was involved that the creation of the horcrux had been intended. But he hadn't
been made into a horcrux by design, but by accident. “The horcrux requires use of a ritual spell,
channeled through a silver knife, instead of a wand, said at some point before the killing occurs.
If the spell had been cast, but then the killing curse somehow backfired on Voldemort, perhaps the
feedback created a horcrux in you.” Harry noticed Mr. Longbottom's hand twitching even more
violently on the coverlet, until he finally stilled it with his other hand. Harry shook his head
again.

“My - my mum…she - she wouldn't move out of the way - out from in front of me. He kept
telling her to stand aside.” Even as he spoke, the scream echoed in his ears, and he had to
restrain an odd urge to throw back his head and laugh in triumph.

“Ah,” Mr. Longbottom said, in a voice of comprehension. “Voldemort killed her after beginning
the horcrux spell, when he was intending to kill you, thus already completing the murder necessary
to create a horcrux. As for the fact that you survived a killing curse, that's - ”

“Very old magic,” Harry supplied for him, and they smiled awkwardly at each other. There was a
moment of silence, while Harry tried to digest this new information.

“I guess that makes sense,” Lupin said, finally breaking the silence. “If Voldemort actually
*knew* you were a horcrux, why would he have spent the last seven years trying to kill
you?”

“It also makes Professor Trelawney's prophecy kind of pointless,” Harry said slowly,
recalling his and Dumbledore's discussion on whether or not prophecies were self-fulfilling,
once people tried to live within the constraints of one. He got a sudden light in his eyes, as if
he had just thought of something.

“The spell that you cast… to make a horcrux…” Harry began eagerly. “Is it the *Readunatio
Animae*?” Mr. Longbottom looked at Harry in total bewilderment.

“The *Readunatio Animae*?” He echoed. “Harry…where did you hear about that?”

“In my head,” Harry admitted slowly, feeling like a freak. “I - I - the Parseltongue…”

“It's not a spell at all. It's -”

“That is quite enough for today,” came a voice from behind them. They turned slowly to see a
very angry looking healer standing in the doorway, charts in hand. “Mr. Lupin, when I said you
could come in, I certainly did not intend for you to bring additional guests with you. Need I
remind you that these people have been bedridden and non-functional for seventeen years? They do
not need to be worn to a complete frazzle on their first day back! Now, if you will both please
leave at once. You may return tomorrow, if everything goes well.”

Lupin laid a hand on Harry's shoulder, when Harry looked like he might argue with the
healer. He exchanged a knowing glance with Augusta Longbottom. “You and Neville be careful. The
Aurors will have a guard posted - and the Order will probably have someone on hand as well.”
Neville's grandmother nodded regally.

Harry still looked like he wanted to protest, as Lupin steered him toward the door, in a fashion
that brooked no argument.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Well, Weaselina,” drawled a familiar voice from behind Ginny, as she reached across the counter
for the drink that the serving-witch was handing to her. She felt her spine grow rigid and her
shoulders hunch up, at the mere sound.

“To what do I owe this pleasure, Malfoy?” Ginny asked, in a voice that implied that it was
exactly the opposite.

“Mother needed to see a healer to get a refill on her headache potion,” Draco said in a bored
voice.

“You ought to just leave on your own,” she remarked, and Malfoy narrowed his eyes at her.

“Ah, the stinging wit of a Weasley! I may never recover.” He put his hand over his head, and
mimed being pierced to the heart, marring the effect by rolling his eyes at the end.

“So, you just decided to come over here, have some sport with a Weasley, while mingling with the
commoners?” Ginny asked, looking pointedly at the nondescript cafeteria tray he was holding.
Draco's face maintained its haughty demeanor, but something urgent flickered in his eyes.

“There's something you should know,” he said in a low voice. “Keep acting like you don't
want me around, in case anyone is watching.”

“I hate to break it to you, Malfoy, but that's not pretense. I really *don't* want
you around.”

“Funny,” Malfoy said, insincerely, and Ginny made a face at him. “My aunt was up at the manor
this morning.” Ginny's face suddenly changed, and she nearly dropped her drink.

“B -- Bellatrix?” she asked.

“Weasley!” he hissed at her in alarm; her face had gone very pale, and he'd grabbed her
upper arm. “What happened to the acting? Of course it's Aunt Bellatrix. I wouldn't think
you'd be concerned about the comings and goings of Aunt Andromeda…not that Mother would receive
her, if she showed up anyway.”

“But she'll receive Bellatrix?” Ginny asked, wrenching herself out of his grasp, and
regaining a trace of her asperity.

“I never said I agreed with my mother's taste in guests,” Malfoy said, a trifle
defensively.

“You never said you didn't, either,” Ginny countered. “Burn your candle at both ends long
enough, and you're going to be burned, Malfoy.”

“The Wisdom of Ginny Weasley. Should I write that down?”

“Did you hear anything worth knowing, Malfoy? Or should I call my brothers? They're all here
somewhere, you know.” Malfoy ignored her jibe.

“I didn't hear much. They were talking in pretty guarded language anyway. But Aunt Bella
said something about Harry and what Wormtail overheard. Then she said something about finally
getting her hands on - something Latin, I couldn't make it out…”

“The *Readunatio Animae*?” Ginny parroted in a wooden voice. Draco slanted an odd look at
her.

“That sounds like it… Mum laughed, and said, `So that was you? I should have known.' Aunt
Bella said, `It's going to be soon. And you can say you knew me when.' Mum asked, `How are
you going to get him?' and Aunt Bella said, `We're going to use his greatest weakness
against him.' Then they must have heard a board creak or something, because they stopped
talking about it. Aunt Bella said she needed to be going, before the Aurors tracked her to the
manor.”

“What did you do?” Ginny asked, curiously.

“Got the hell out of there, what did you think I did? Aunt Bella's killed people for less
than that.” Draco's voice was serious, and Ginny made a `why am I surprised?' face. His
eyes drifted suddenly over Ginny's shoulder, and he said, “There's Mum. I've got to go.
Tell them, will you?”

“I will,” Ginny said solemnly, then surprised them both, by reaching out and grabbing his wrist
with one hand. He jerked his gaze up to hers, startled, but did not make his customary snide
comment. “Be careful, Draco,” she said, suddenly, his given name sounding odd and out of place on
her lips.

He nodded once, jerkily, and moved smoothly away from her, winding his way toward a sleek, blond
woman, who was looking imperiously around the room. By the time her son reached her side, Ginny had
exited the cafeteria, and was fleeing for the Maternity waiting area, as if the hounds of hell were
after her.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The four of them sat around aimlessly in Ron and Harry's flat later that night, exchanging
glances that were alternatingly meaningful, afraid, and frustrated. Hermione had the leather
portfolio on her lap, but she had not actually looked at it in quite some time.

“That's exactly what he said, Ginny?” Harry said, for what felt like the hundredth time.
“There was nothing about when or where?”

“Harry, I've told you everything exactly as Malfoy told me,” Ginny said, in a voice that
managed not to be exasperated. He smiled at her apologetically, and she returned it.

“Mr. Longbottom told you it wasn't a spell,” Hermione said, half to herself. “And Bellatrix
Lestrange told Mrs. Malfoy that she'd gotten her hands on it. `So that was you'….” She
murmured, quoting from Ginny's narrative. Suddenly she straightened up, shoving the portfolio
to the floor. “Half a minute!” She called, as she dashed into the kitchen.

Harry and Ron looked at each other, as if to say “there she goes again”. Just a moment later,
she was back in the living room, unfurling that morning's copy of the *Daily Prophet*.

“Ron, do you remember that article you asked about this morning? The one about the theft from
the Athens Wizarding Museum?”

“Er…yeah,” Ron said doubtfully, not bothering to correct Hermione.

Hermione handed the paper to Harry, tapping the article in question. “That's the
*Readunatio Animae*. I'd wager my first year's salary on it.”

“So what are they going to do with it?” Harry asked. “It doesn't say anything in here about
what the amphora actually does, just that it was used in ancient rituals.”

“We need to talk to Mr. Longbottom again,” Hermione answered, a faint crease marring her brow.
“He actually knew that it wasn't a spell. Maybe he'll know how to use it.” She slid closer
to Harry on the sofa, and laid her head on his shoulder. “I think they need it so they can come -
to come for the horcrux.”

“How do they even know about the horcrux?” Ron asked. “If Neville's dad is right, and
Voldemort made Harry a horcrux by accident…then how would any of the Death Eaters even know that it
existed?”

Ginny had been sitting silently up to that point, seemingly lost in thought, but at Ron's
question, she stiffened, as if she had suddenly remembered something. “Hang on! Malfoy said that
his Aunt said something about Wormtail overhearing something. Perhaps he heard about the horcrux,
and brought the information back to her.”

“Wormtail?” Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust, obviously still thinking about Scabbers and the
loathsome man that he had called his pet for years. “Where's he been?”

Hermione suddenly caught Ginny's train of thought. “Where were there a lot of mice running
about?”

The four of them looked at each other in a kind of horror.

“And where did I start spouting off Parseltongue and talking rubbish about the *Readunatio
Animae*?” Harry said, in a very tired voice. “He was there - he was there, all along…listening.
He went and told Bellatrix, and she knew where it was, or found out where it was, and stole
it.”

“Why would he be listening?” Ron persisted. “If, for all they know, Voldemort's dead, what
reason have they got to follow you around?”

“Maybe Lestrange doesn't want to make the same mistake again,” Hermione pointed out. “Last
time, she tortured the Longbottoms for information and couldn't get it…so she assumed that
whatever she'd heard about horcruxes had been erroneous, and that her master was dead. She was
wrong. So she sent that scurvy little….” Hermione grimaced and shook her head, “to make sure there
wasn't any hope of bringing him back.”

“What of revenge?” Ginny asked. “He could have been following Harry for some kind of revenge
plot against him.”

“Until I gave them information about something that would be even better,” Harry said dully. “My
death *and* the return of their Dark Lord. It's like their bloody dream come true. What
are they waiting for?”

“They had to get the *Readunatio Animae* first. Perhaps they don't know exactly how to
go about extracting a horcrux, either,” Hermione said slowly. They all looked at each other. The
Longbottoms were in grave danger, if this were the case. “There are guards, right, Harry?” She
asked slowly, and Harry knew what she was talking about.

“Yes, I heard Remus tell Neville's gran…from the Ministry and the Order,” Harry nodded, and
Hermione smiled. “What would they need to know about extraction? Kill me and get the horcrux,
right?”

“That's what you do if you want to destroy the horcrux,” Hermione corrected him, “not if you
want to remove the horcrux and use it. I've gathered that much from my research. The silver
knife comes into it again, but I'm not sure how.”

“If you can extract the horcrux to use it, can you extract the horcrux to destroy it…without
killing the person?” Ron asked, after a moment. He and Hermione exchanged a glance.

“I don't know,” she admitted sadly. Then she also pointed out, “Malfoy said that they were
going to use your greatest weakness against you. Maybe they're also waiting to find out what
that is….what?” At the last part of her sentence, she had looked up to find all three pairs of eyes
on her.

“Hermione, *you're* my greatest weakness,” Harry said gently. “And I'm sure that
Bellatrix has already found that out.” His gaze seemed far away, and Ron was forcibly reminded of
what Hermione had said that afternoon about distant horizons. “You know what that means. I
can't risk any of you getting hurt. Especially you,” he looked at his girlfriend, his lover,
with tenderness, reaching one hand up to cup her cheek.

“Harry…” she whispered, the sound of a thousand tragedies wrapped up in the way her voice spoke
his name.

Harry rose slowly from the sofa, gripping his cane in one hand. “It's really late,” he said,
mostly to Ginny, as their guest, by way of apology. “And there's loads to do, before…” he
trailed off, and the look of faux-confidence on his face faltered. Ginny and Ron looked at each
other uncomfortably, while Hermione's eyes followed Harry's miserably.

“Harry, wait, please…” she said, following him out of the room. Ginny and Ron heard the door to
his bedroom slam, and then they heard muffled voices raised in argument. After a while, one of them
must have cast a silencing charm, for they heard nothing else.

“Ron, is he - is he really going to - ?” Ginny ventured, after what seemed like an eternity of
thunderous silence.

“Not if Hermione has anything to say about it,” Ron quipped, his eyes trailing down the
corridor, but his voice was grim.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“What do you want me to do, Hermione?” Harry said, turning toward her as she slammed the door
hurriedly behind them. “You want me to wait until they come after you…until they resurrect
Voldemort? You know what they'll do to me after they've got what they wanted.” Hermione
pressed her lips together tightly, and nodded. She knew. “And then, Voldemort's back, and
I'm dead, Dumbledore's dead… everything that everyone's fought for is in vain. *I
can't let that happen*.”

“We don't know when they…we could still have time,” Hermione said, her voice sounding
uncharacteristically feeble and hesitant.

“Time? *Time*? Hermione, we've had months…and we've got nothing. It's too big a
risk.”

“Your life is too high a price!” Hermione countered, nearly yelling. Harry looked at her then,
and the ghost of a smile traced its way across his face.

“For the hundreds of lives that may be saved in return? You don't believe that.”

“But you're the one that matters the most to me,” she whispered back. She noticed what he
was doing…throwing random items haphazardly into a bag. “What are you doing?” He raised one eyebrow
at her nearly hysterical sounding voice, and cast a Silencio charm at the door.

“I'm leaving. I'm not putting you or Ron in danger.”

“Where will you go?” Hermione asked mildly. Harry got the feeling that she had not given up the
argument, but was letting it pass for now to assuage her curiosity.

“I - I don't know…maybe Grimmauld Place,” he said, in an off-hand tone.

“They know about Grimmauld Place,” Hermione pointed out.

“I won't be there long,” he said, and he wouldn't meet her eyes. She sank down on the
edge of the bed, as a shudder vibrated through her frame.

“Hermione,” he sat down next to her, and tried to pull at her chin to get her to look at him.
“Hermione, you knew this might be the only way.”

“I don't know that this is the only option left!” Her voice sounded muffled. “I - I
don't want this to be over…I don't want you to - to - ”

“I don't want to leave you. But I don't want them to hurt you, either.” He whispered
back.

“Stay with me, please. One more night,” she pleaded, kissing him lightly in between words.

“Hermione - ” he protested against her mouth, but lured in by the sweetness of her kisses.
“It's too dangerous.”

“If you stay….with me, it won't be…dangerous,” she said, kissing him again. “I'll go
with you to St. Mungo's to speak with Mr. Longbottom again, and - ” Harry had moved away, and
was shaking his head.

“Come on, Harry! One more conversation with Mr. Longbottom to make sure we've covered every
possibility, and then…” she swallowed convulsively. “And then, I - you can do whatever you need to
do.”

He looked at her for a long time, his green eyes seeming to plumb the depths of her soul. “All
right,” he finally conceded. “One more day.” Doubt shadowed his face, but he pushed it aside, and
cupped her face in his hands, kissing her gently.

“I love you, Harry. I love you so much,” she murmured beneath his lips. “It's - it's not
fair.”

“No, it's not,” he said, looking into her eyes apologetically. “I'm sorry - ” She
laughed a little, and it hiccupped into a sob.

“I'm not mad at you, you idiot,” she said fondly. “I - I - I'm mad at whoever's
taking you away from me.”

“Then you *are* mad at me,” Harry said, smiling a little. Hermione managed a slight twisted
smile, before it wavered and vanished from her face.

“I know you wouldn't go unless you had to,” she admitted softly. He kissed her again, a
long, deep kiss, as he scooped her up against him.

“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered raggedly as his breathing accelerated. Slowly, he pushed
her down onto the bed, and she locked her arms around his neck.

“I want to put your ring on my left hand,” she blurted suddenly, causing him to stop unbuttoning
her shirt, and look at her in bewilderment.

“What?” he asked. “Hermione - I don't mind, but I don't really see the point.” Her eyes
swam with tears, and she tried to speak without her voice breaking.

“So I can have it - that moment. It will be mine, and nobody can take it away from me.”

“But you already have that moment. I asked you at Christmas.”

“And then we broke up. You have to ask me again,” she said peremptorily, pushing him away from
her. “But you don't have to get down on your knee, if you can't manage it,” she said, in a
tone meant to challenge.

“Take the charm off the ring,” he said, and Hermione felt her heart speed up, for under the
ordinary words, was an unmistakable undertone. She did so, and slid the ring from her right hand,
handing it to him.

He got down on one knee - his good one - by the side of the bed, near to where Hermione sat on
it.

“You have to make your pretty speech too,” Hermione teased.

“I don't remember that speech!” Harry said in protest, feeling a lightness in his heart and
struggling to hang onto it. He would just think of right now, not of where he was going to go or
what he was going to do.

“You could make up a new one, if you can't remember the old one,” Hermione said
magnanimously.

“That's so kind of you,” Harry muttered sarcastically. He held the ring in one hand, and
knelt there motionless for so long, that Hermione began to regret that she'd said anything at
all, thinking she'd forced him into something that he really didn't want to do.

“Hermione Granger, I love you,” he said suddenly, his clear green eyes bespeaking the depth of
his emotion. “You have always been there for me, always sure in your love for me - even when I
wasn't so sure myself. You've been through a hard time this year, and I'm the reason
for that, and I'm sorry.” Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but he hurried on, not allowing
her to speak. “I wish - ” he had trouble continuing, and took a few seconds to steady his voice. “I
wish there was more time… I wish we had - ” Hermione felt her chin tremble as she saw his eyes fill
up with tears. “I - I will always love you…no matter what happens. I *want* to marry you, but
I - I can't ask you - I won't ask for a commitment that I can't keep, not when I - when
I'll - ” Profound regret clogged his throat, and he could no longer speak.

“Ask me,” she whispered hoarsely.

“Hermione - ” his voice was a ragged protest, edged with despair. She put her hands on his
shoulders, and looked into his beautiful face, willing him to ask her. He swallowed hard, and said,
“Will you marry me?” His speech sounded blurred and nearly unintelligible.

Hermione's vision of him distorted and shimmered as she blinked back tears. “I love you,
Harry Potter,” she said, as she held out her left hand. He slid the ring onto the fourth finger,
and she helped him up to sit beside her on the bed once again. He slumped there, his elbows on his
knees, and she leaned against him, her arm draped across his back, as she felt his shoulders shake
beneath her.

“Marry me now,” she said, almost without thinking, surprising them both. “Tonight.”

“Hermione, that's crazy,” he said, recovering his composure, and looking at her as if she
were certifiable.

“You and Ron are always telling me that I'm not spontaneous enough,” she joked lightly,
though tears still shone in her eyes.

“There's spontaneous, and then there's mad!”

“How is that mad? You asked me, and I accepted. Let's get married.”

“Do you know what time it is? There won't be anywhere open.”

“You're Harry Potter! Barge into the Ministry and wake someone up!” Hermione said, only
half-joking.

“Yes, because that would be nice and inconspicuous, and I'm sure no Death Eaters would find
out about that!” Harry shot back, wondering why he suddenly had all of Hermione's lines. Her
face fell.

“I guess you're right,” she said in a dismal voice, and Harry's heart melted.

“Look,” he said gently, forcing her to look at him. “If this is really what you want…then
we'll go out first thing in the morning, and find a Muggle chapel that can do the
ceremony.”

“I don't want to do this, if you don't want to,” she said, in such a sulky voice that
Harry laughed out loud.

“It's not that I don't want to marry you, Hermione, because I do. I just - I can't
promise you forever, and I don't want to - don't want you to - ” He sighed in frustration.
“I don't want you to - to be sad after...” He finished lamely, and thought that there had to
have been a better way to phrase it than that.

“Mr. Noble Martyr,” Hermione said, her voice struggling through the words, though she smiled.
“You'd be a tough act to follow for anyone, and I don't *want* to love anybody else
but you. But I promise…I promise not to be miserable for the rest of my life…okay?”

“Okay,” he whispered, and she blessed him wordlessly with her eyes. As she sank beneath him on
the bed and gave herself up to his kiss, she couldn't help but think of the next day, and
wonder if her biggest joy and her biggest heartbreak would occur before the sun set again.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They dragged an unwilling Ron out of bed very early the next morning, laughing at his sullenness
and refusing to tell him where they were going.

“Why the hell are you two so happy?” Ron said in a grumpy voice. He looked at them again, as
Hermione drew one hand slowly up Harry's arm, and he leaned in for her kiss. “No, don't
tell me,” he said quickly, “because I don't want to know.”

“Should be one more block,” Hermione said, stopping at an intersection, and scrutinizing the
street signs.

“Why couldn't we Apparate?” Ron whined.


“Because it's a Muggle place, and we've never been there before,” Hermione said sharply.
“And if you want to, you can just Apparate right home. But you'll regret it.” Ron slanted her a
dubious look, but continued along with them, mostly out of curiosity, Harry figured.

“Here it is!” She sang out in a pleased voice, a moment later. Ron stared at the little stone
church without comprehension for a moment, and then looked at the two of them with dawning
awareness in his eyes.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed. “You are not!”

“We are, Ron,” Harry said, putting his arm around Hermione and smiling. They were both smiling,
but there was something - something flickering behind their eyes that could not be completely
forgotten.

“Right,” Ron said, in a voice that was gentle with understanding. “Thanks for wanting me to be
here.” Harry cleared his throat noisily.

“It wouldn't be the same without you, mate,” he said.

They made their way up the little flagstone path to the church, and Harry hesitantly tried the
doorhandle, which turned smoothly.

“Hello?” he called out, his voice echoing in the vestibule. Slowly, they proceeded into the tiny
nave.

“Are you the young couple that contacted me this morning?” said a voice suddenly, causing all
three of them to jump.

“Yes,” Hermione stammered. “Yes, we'd like to be married - please.” Her hand was clinging
tightly to Harry's.

“Very well…” the cleric said. “You have the necessary paperwork, I presume.” Hermione handed
over the neat, newly transfigured identification and papers, which the clergyman signed in the
proper places. “If you will stand up here, and face each other.” He then directed Ron where to
sign, and then where to stand to witness the ceremony.

Later, nearly all Hermione would be able to recall was the look in Harry's eyes, a glowing
look that told her how precious she was to him, without words…a look that seemed to be at once
radiantly happy and infinitely regretful. His fingers were warm and sweaty around hers, and his
voice trembled only slightly as he repeated the vows that the minister recited.

Hermione's voice sounded strong and clear, echoing oddly in her own ears, sounding somehow
very far away. She felt the cold metal of a wedding band slide onto her finger, and she felt
Harry's hand beneath hers as she placed his ring on his finger. And still there was the odd
sensation that this was happening to someone else.

The time for the kiss had obviously arrived, though Hermione could not say that she had heard
the cleric voice it. Harry leaned in to her, his hands barely resting on her hips, and kissed her.
The kiss was slow and tender, and lingered only lightly on her lips.

“Mr. and Mrs. Harry Potter,” the minister said, really addressing just Ron, though he spoke as
if presenting them to a packed congregation. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances and nervous
laughs, as they collected the papers that said they were married, and walked with Ron out the front
door of the church.

“This does not give you free rein to snog in front of me,” Ron warned, and so Harry and Hermione
promptly did.

“I wonder if Malfoy will still call me Granger?” Hermione wondered aloud.

“He should *not* be the first person you think of right after we get married,” Harry
replied with distaste, and Hermione laughed, kissing him again.

Ron walked a stride or two just behind them, watching their relaxed happiness with each other,
and knew that most of it was pretense, each of them putting up a good front for the other. *Come
on, Harry, you can beat this*, something inside him pleaded. *Don't let it end this
way.*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Thank Merlin it's Saturday,” Harry said, as he clumsily kicked the door of the bedroom
open, and dumped Hermione somewhat unceremoniously onto the bed. “Thank Merlin Ron's bastard of
a coach scheduled an additional practice today.”

“Harry, we still have to go to St. Mungo's,” Hermione chastised him, though she didn't
really look as if her heart were in it.

“It's still early. We can go in a couple of hours,” Harry said dismissively, though the
somber light still lingered in his eyes. “I want to sleep with my wife.”

Hermione watched him gravely, but her face formed a bright smile at his heartfelt statement. “I
like the sound of that.”

“So do I,” he said, and there was a note of wistfulness in his voice.

“Harry - ” she began, feeling uneasy that they were using precious time in such a self-seeking
way. He put his hand over her mouth.

“There's nothing outside this room right now,” he whispered. “There's no Voldemort, no
eighth horcrux, no Death Eaters trying to look for me….there's nothing in the world, except you
and me, husband and wife, right here, right now.” He got into the bed with her, leaning on one
elbow, looking into her eyes. Her hair fanned behind her on the pillow.

“Okay,” she nodded at him. If this is what he wanted, then this is what she would give him. She
kissed him then, as ardently as she knew how, and he pulled her into his arms, returning the kiss
with fervor.

“I love you,” she gasped.

“I love you too,” he whispered back, reaching for his wand to perform the contraceptive charm,
as she pulled the tail of his shirt out of his waistband.

“No,” she said, suddenly, putting her hand up to push the wand away.

“Hermione, what are you doing?” he asked in confusion.

“No charm…not this time.”

“Hermione,” his voice sounded tired and irritated…and a little fearful. “You don't know what
you're asking…I - I can't do this, and have you raise a child alone.”

“I'm not pregnant, and you're not dead!” she said suddenly, fire flashing in her eyes.
“If - if something *does* happen to - to y-you, I just want to know that we - we made the most
of the opportunities we had.” Her eyes were wide and appealing. “I know what I'm doing, Harry,”
she whispered throatily, her hands wandering lower. Harry groaned, and pulled her closer.

“You don't fight fair,” he whispered, dropping the half-hearted argument completely, as her
mouth closed over his.

**TBC**

**There was a lot of information thrown at you in this chapter, so I tried to fluff it up at
the end.** **This chapter was** **also** **mostly set up for the next chapter, so I hope
everyone liked it okay. The next chapter should probably be where most of the action takes place,
and then there may be another chapter or epilogue to tie it up.**

**Thanks so much for all the reviews for the last chapter…I was really overwhelmed by the sheer
number of them. It was very awesome and gratifying, and maybe even a little bit humbling. Just
wanted y'all to know how much they are appreciated.**

**You may leave a review on your way out if you like!**

-->



15. Towards Zero
----------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART IV: Denouement**

**Chapter One: Towards Zero**

**“**We found out about the *Readunatio Animae*,” Harry said without preamble, later
that morning, as he and Hermione strode into the Longbottoms' hospital room. “Small glass
container with a stopper, used in ancient rituals, right?” Frank and Alice exchanged glances with
each other and nodded. “It was stolen from the Athens Wizarding Museum a couple of days ago.”

“Do you think it was Lestrange?” Frank asked in a voice that was actually commendably calm.

“I have no reason to think it would be anyone else,” Harry said, as he and Mr. Longbottom seemed
to communicate briefly without speaking.

**“**What about the knife?” Hermione asked, straining to be calm. They sat in two chairs near
the bedside, and her fingers threaded tightly through his. “If we got one - a certain kind, with
runes on it, maybe…” Mr. Longbottom shook his head.

“Horcruxes have to be extracted by the same knife that installed them,” he said. “And I still
don't know what that would do to Harry…a human being used as a horcrux,” he shook his head, as
if he still had trouble believing the very idea.

“The same knife…” Hermione's voice trailed off in disbelief. “How on earth would we be able
to come up with the same knife that Voldemort used seventeen years ago?” She looked at him
sorrowfully. “Harry…”

“Mr. Longbottom,” Harry asked, giving Hermione a compassionate glance. “If the Death Eaters
intend to come after me and retrieve the horcrux, what would they do?”

“They would channel a reversal spell through the silver knife…and it would have to be the same
one… and then remove the soul fragment into the amphora - the *Readunatio Animae*.”

“What happens next?” Harry asked, curiously, but Mr. Longbottom shook his head. His right hand
shivered on the bedsheet.

“I don't know, Harry. I'm not even sure if anything like that has ever been done before.
*Readunatio* means `reunion', but in this instance, the amphora is actually a repository.
I think it stores - and maybe magically strengthens - the soul fragment, until a body is found to
be reanimated and inhabited.” Harry nodded in resignation. “I wish there was something more that I
- ”

“You've done more than could be expected, Mr. Longbottom, and I thank you for it,” Harry
said graciously, as he traced his thumb over Hermione's invisible wedding and engagement rings.
They had both agreed not to say anything to anyone…until after the horcrux issue had been settled,
if there was an `after'.

Another wave of rage swept through him, and he had the sudden desire to fling Hermione's
hand from him, as if he'd touched something filthy. *It's the horcrux, it's the
horcrux*, he repeated to himself, clamping his hand more tightly around Hermione's. As he
fought with it, he felt a sharp, shooting pain reverberate through his scar. He nearly toppled out
of the chair, and the ungainly movement he used to stop his fall sent a wrenching pain through his
knee.

“Harry, are you all right?” came Hermione's concerned voice.

“I'm fine,” Harry said in a wheezy kind of gasp. “It's just *him* again.” He was
rubbing his scar lightly with his fingertips, as it subsided into a prickle. As he stood, Hermione
noticed that he was favoring his right knee even more than usual.

“Your knee,” was all she said.

“I twisted it or something. It'll be okay,” he replied, as his voice and breathing returned
to normal.

“Might I see your scar, Harry?” Alice asked tentatively. Harry started; they had almost
forgotten that the Longbottoms were there. He hobbled over to her bedside, and she tenderly brushed
his bangs out of the way, to get a better look at that which marred his forehead. Harry closed his
eyes at her touch, and thought how lucky Neville was to get them back.

“What are you thinking, Alice?” Frank asked, and Harry opened his eyes to see Neville's mum
staring into middle distance, thoughtfully.

“If Voldemort was preparing to form a horcrux with your death, but then killed Lily first…” she
trailed off, clearly trying to formulate her thoughts into words. “You fought off the killing
curse, and it left that scar?” Harry shrugged a little.

“That's what everyone thinks,” he said noncommittally.

“And it - your scar - it reacted to the presence of Voldemort?”

“Yes, I could always tell when he was near. Sometimes I could feel it when he was very angry or
very happy. Had nightmares where I was seeing things through his eyes. Dumbledore always thought
that my scar was a link between us.” Alice Longbottom nodded slowly.

“I think your scar is the horcrux,” she said. “It would explain why you could always tell when
he was near, because it was one soul fragment calling out to another.” Harry nodded. The theory
made sense.

“Yes,” Frank nodded in a musing tone. “The horcrux is actually contained within your scar... not
just bouncing around inside your head, or some such. That may be why you do not feel his presence
all the time.”

“If we had that knife…” Harry began, thinking of being able to physically remove his scar.

“But we don't,” Hermione said hastily, forestalling whatever he'd been about to say.
*Like anything he was thinking is worse than his dying, Hermione!* she mocked herself. Harry
subsided, addressing the Longbottoms, saying only,

“Thank you again for all your help.”

He and Hermione rose together, and bade the Longbottoms goodbye. When they were out in the
corridor again, Hermione said, “What are you going to do?”

“What else is there to do, but what we discussed yesterday, Hermione?” Harry said tenderly.

“When are you leaving?” Hermione asked, as calmly as if Harry were headed on a business trip,
but Harry could see the struggle for control highlighted in her dark eyes.

“This afternoon, I guess,” Harry shrugged. “I'd like to say goodbye to Ron…I - ” he stopped
awkwardly. Everything sounded so odd, so surreal. *Goodbye? To Ron? To Hermione? Forever?* He
couldn't process it. He kept thinking that someone would swoop in to save the day, but - *who
saves the savior?* he thought sardonically.

“I was going to stop by work.” Hermione said softly, and Harry didn't even bother pointing
out that it was a weekend. “I left some notes there that I'd like to look at. But I'll - I
won't stay long. Will you wait for me?”

“I won't be able to wait long.” Regret was nearly tangible in his voice, and she suddenly
threw her arms around him, nearly throttling him in a tight embrace. The words she was muttering
were lost in his shoulder. “I know, love, I know,” he soothed, as if he'd understood her, or as
if he knew what she was saying, even without the words.

“I'll see you later then,” she tried to say casually, not quite succeeding. Harry nodded
gravely.

“Hermione!” he called out quickly, as she turned to go. She pivoted back toward him, a
questioning look on her face. “Do you really - do you think you'll get- ?” he gestured
awkwardly toward her abdomen. She looked down, then up at him, with comprehension in her eyes, and
smiled sadly.

“There's no way to know yet.”

“I'm going to pretend you are,” Harry said, seeming suddenly far away. “Might make it easier
- ”

“Stop it, Harry Potter!” Hermione said, her voice trembling. “You're not making it easier on
*me*.”

Harry was instantly at her side, pulling her into his arms, and apologizing into her hair.
*I'm so sorry, you don't deserve this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.*
She pulled away from him and looked at him, *really* looked at him. He seemed tired…and old
somehow. He never really had regained the healthy look that he'd had prior to the Battle with
Voldemort, and he was still too thin.

“I wouldn't trade this,” she said, in a low, heartfelt whisper, “for a lifetime of happiness
with anyone else.” She saw a muscle jump in his jaw, as he clenched his teeth together to bite back
the emotion.

“Be careful, okay? Can you be back in an hour, two at the most?” he asked her, looking into her
eyes intently.

“The Ravenclaw Foundation has a lot of security. I'll be okay. I'll Apparate straight
there, and straight home.” Her voice wavered, and she smiled crookedly at the last word, repeated
it wistfully. “Home.”

Hand in hand, they walked down to the lobby, where they could Apparate to their respective
locations.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry appeared in his flat with a small pop, and looked around curiously. “Hermione?” he called
out. He had just returned from an impromptu visit at Ron's field - where the Cannons had
welcomed him with open arms, much to Ron's chagrin - and his best mate was supposed to be right
behind him, Apparating back as soon as he stowed his Quidditch gear.

There was no sound from the flat, but something didn't feel right. Harry felt the presence
of someone else nearby. Almost silently, he withdrew his wand.

“Harry,” came a voice, and Harry jumped violently, whirling around with his wand at the ready.
He felt his heart rate slow, when he saw the face of his father's old friend, Remus Lupin,
entering the room from the kitchen.

“Remus, you scared me to death. Nearly got yourself hexed.” Harry said, feeling annoyed with
himself for succumbing to panic. Remus did not smile back. “You've caught me a bad time,
I'm afraid,” Harry continued, nearly rambling. “As soon as Ron and Hermione get here, I'm -
well, I'm going. There's nothing else for it. The Death Eaters are trying to get the
horcrux, and we all know that can't happen. I -” he stumbled to a stop, as he realized that
Remus had not yet responded to anything he'd said. The older man's face had a grayish cast
to it. “Remus, what the hell's the matter?”

“I've just come from the Department of Mysteries. The Unspeakables have finished looking at
the papers that Hermione gave me.” Harry read Remus' grim face.

“They didn't find anything either?” Harry guessed, basing his deduction on the demeanor of
his old professor.

“No, actually they did find something,” Remus said. “Traces of a locator charm. It apparently
was activated quite recently. The main brunt of the charm rests with the portfolio, I'd wager,
but traces of it showed up on these papers.” Harry looked at Remus with panic in his dilated
eyes.

“A locator charm? But who would activate it? And how would they know to activate it?” He thought
aloud. “Bellatrix! Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“How *would* she know to activate the locator charm?” Remus asked.

“She - she went to look for information on horcruxes…the same place we did. Or - or that rat
bastard Malfoy has sold us out.” Harry felt the anger began to well up within him like the rise of
a white-hot flame.

“Draco Malfoy could be in very grave danger…if, indeed, he is still alive,” Remus said mildly.
Harry was staring wildly around the room, as if he didn't know which direction to move in
first.

“Harry?” Remus said sharply, recalling Harry's focus to him. “Where would the locator charm
lead them?” Harry's eyes went automatically to the table where the portfolio had rested last
night, but the table was empty…as he'd known it would be. He looked up at Remus, his eyes wide
with fear and panic, and his face deathly pale. “Harry,” Remus said again clearly, afraid that
Harry was going to be overcome. “*Who has the portfolio?*”

“Hermione.” Nausea rose up inside of him, and he had to fight back the urge to vomit right there
in the living room. *Hermione.* What wouldn't they do to her? Harry Potter's sidekick,
best friend, lover - he silently blessed the mutual decision to reveal their marriage to no one
save Ron - and a Muggle born to boot. *The Death Eaters will have a field day…*he thought, and
had to grab at the back of the sofa for support.

There was a light crack behind them, and Harry spun, hoping against hope that it was Hermione.
His face fell when he saw Ron.

“Don't look so thrilled to see me,” Ron cracked, trying to smile, but his face was pale.

“Ron, what's wrong?” Harry asked, unsure if he could handle any more bad news.

“The blokes on the team heard it on the wireless in the locker room,” Ron began. “The Ravenclaw
Foundation - it's been attacked.” Harry's knuckles whitened around the handle of his cane,
as he struggled to stay upright.

“She - she went - the Death Eaters - had a locator charm…Hermione!” he said incoherently. He
exchanged glances with Ron, who nodded at him seriously.

“Remus,” Harry said quickly. “Check on Malfoy…he - he did help us…”

Remus nodded grimly. Without another word, Harry and Ron both Apparated away.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Ravenclaw Foundation was in an uproar. The Aurors had set up a barricade, behind which
throngs of curious people waited and watched. Along another arm of the barricade, reporters flashed
cameras and shouted questions at the harried officers, who, for the most part, ignored them.

“Shit,” Harry muttered under his breath, when he appeared and saw the maelstrom. He clutched at
Ron's sleeve, pulling him around the far side of the barrier.

“Here now!” An Auror protested. “You can't come in here, sonny.” Harry tilted his head back
to look up at the taller man, so that his scar was clearly visible.

“One of my friends was inside. I need to see if she's all right, please.” Harry's voice
suggested that this was anything but a polite request.

“Mr. Potter,” the Auror's tone became deferential, but Harry cringed as his name traveled
clearly across the small space to the hordes of people waiting beyond the tape. He heard the
whispers and the excited murmurs escalate, and the flashes of the cameras began anew. “Of course,
right this way.” He gestured toward the bank of glass doors, allowing them to pass.

The front lobby of the Ravenclaw Foundation was a disaster. Giant blackened holes marred the
walls, where hexes had hit. The huge oil portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw had been scarred by a
misfired curse, and hung on the wall by only one corner, its sticking charm obviously damaged.
Papers from the reception desk littered the floor, strewn about haphazardly, fluttering in the
draft every time the front doors opened. Clusters of people stood about, talking nervously to each
other, or giving testimony to Aurors.

Harry stood motionless in the lobby, his insides roiling, his mind shrieking at him to *do
something!* Already his presence had not gone unnoticed, as the murmurs from outside began to
ripple through this place as well.

*You know they're not going to kill her…not until they have you*, an insidious voice
whispered inside of him. *But who knows what sport they'll have with her in the meantime.*
*If you had gone through with it already, this would not have happened.*

Guilt assailed him, even as he argued back, *You don't know that. They could have come
after her anyway, after my friends…as revenge*. It was a weak argument, and Harry knew it. *My
fault, it's all my fault*. He thought of her in bed with him that morning - *only this
morning!* - twined around him…smiling…

“Harry?” Ron asked, nudging him lightly in the arm. Harry seemed to suddenly snap out of it,
looking at Ron with a startled gaze.

“The longer we take, the longer they're tormenting her,” he said woodenly, as if Ron had
been the one dallying. He had evidently come to some sort of decision, and strode across the wide,
marbled lobby, where an officious looking woman was speaking with three Aurors.

“Excuse me,” Harry said. “Can you tell me which departments were attacked?” Ron was surprised at
how pleasant and *normal* Harry sounded.

“Young man, I am quite busy at the moment,” the officious looking woman said in a haughty voice,
at the same time as one of the Aurors said,

“How'd you two get in here?”

“Perhaps you didn't catch my name,” Harry said with false politeness. “I'm Harry Potter.
My friend Hermione Granger - perhaps you've heard of her as well; she helped me battle
Voldemort - she works here. I have reason to believe that Death Eaters are looking for me, and I
need to know *which departments were attacked!*”

The woman and the Aurors all flinched, as Harry's voice rang out across the lobby on the
last phrase. Ron would have grinned if the situation hadn't been so serious.

“Only one department was attacked, the Potions Development Department - that is Miss
Granger's department, I believe.” The woman said sullenly.

“Where is it?” He asked urgently. She hesitated, an automatic reminder that the Ravenclaw
Foundation's research was classified obviously trembling on her lips. “*Where* is it?”
Harry repeated, his hand straying down toward his wand.

“Third floor, left hand corridor,” she said suddenly, as if the words had burst out of her
against her will. Ron looked at Harry curiously.

“Wandless magic again?” he asked, as they made their way toward the bank of lifts at the rear of
the lobby.

“I don't like doing that,” he said shortly. “Feels like - like I'm assaulting
somebody.”

“It's for Hermione. You could *have* bloody well assaulted that nasty woman, and
I'd have backed you up.” Harry glanced up at Ron, and smiled a little, but seemed to
concentrate solely on walking for the time being. His breath was coming in harsh, labored gasps.
“What the hell happened to you?” Ron asked, as they entered the lift and began their trek to the
third floor.

“I twisted my knee this morning…at St. Mungo's. I think it's swelling, because it's
really started to hurt.”

“Are you sure we should be doing this?” Ron asked. “If the Death Eaters…”

“They're long gone. And they have Hermione.” *Husband, she had called him this morning, my
husband. She seemed to relish the way it sounded to her ears, the way it felt on her lips and
tongue. And the whole time they were together that morning, a sadness had lurked behind her eyes,
that nothing they did could fully drive away.* “This was a mistake,” he muttered.

Ron paused in the midst of exiting the lift. “Do you want to go back down?” he asked.

“No, I need to see what they saw. I need to see where she was when they came,” Harry said. “I
wasn't talking about this trip, I was talking about me and Hermione. If we hadn't been
together, none of this would have happened. I would have already - already…”

“She would have still been here, looking for some way to save you,” Ron argued, as they entered
the department.

It was filled with wide cubicles, each of which was outfitted with the makings of a potions lab
that Snape would have turned green over. There were scorch marks on the walls here too, and here
and there, a chair was overturned, probably in the course of the person's flight to safety.
Harry moved through the aisles, limping as quickly as his own body would let him, his eyes roving
over the names attached to each cubicle wall.

“Here it is!” Ron called out, waving him over to a partition with a placard sitting atop it:
*H. Granger*. Her cubicle was nearly pristine; only two of her closest friends could have
pinpointed ways in which it was awry. Two of the drawers in her desk were slightly ajar, and a
couple of the vials of potion ingredients were knocked out of their straight lines. Some of her
notes had fallen to the floor, where they had scattered, one page being under the chair in the
cubicle across the way. Ron retrieved these, scanning them quickly.

“These aren't about the horcruxes. Just some work she was doing - on some potion.” Ron said,
placing them back on her desk.

Harry sat in her chair, moving his hands over her equipment, thinking of how briskly and
efficiently she would have moved and mixed and jotted notes. Her desk was arranged for optimum
productivity…classic Hermione.

“She must not have been here for very long,” he observed, “before they came. It must have taken
them some time to localize the charm.” His eye fell on a nicely framed photograph of him, Hermione,
and Ron, smiling and waving in the corner of her desk, and he appeared lost in thought.

“Ron!” he hollered so suddenly that he startled his best friend. “Where - those notes that you
had…where are they?”

“Right there,” Ron said, indicating a stack of papers to one side of the desk. “But they're
not - ”

“A potion she was working on… a *potion*!” He looked intently at Ron, who was not following
his train of thought. “Do you think it's a coincidence that the Longbottoms woke up just a few
months after Hermione started working here? Remus said that the Ravenclaw Foundation developed the
potion that - that cured them.” He scanned down the pages of notes. “This ingredient is used to
counter memory charms, and this can help revive someone who's unconscious - this… and this… She
must have been on the team that developed it…” His speech dwindled away to nothing, as he continued
reading. At the bottom was a hasty scrawl that caused him to freeze, sitting up straight and nearly
crumpling the notes in his suddenly clenched fist. *Test subjects AL and FL, StM**.*

“Bloody hell, Harry…” Ron said, reading over his shoulder, and seeing what Harry was indicating.
“If Bellatrix saw that…”

“Ron, go!” Harry said suddenly. “Find Neville. You've got to get down to St. Mungo's.
You know - you know she'll send someone there, to finish them off. You *know* she will.”
Ron nodded, knowing that Bellatrix would not allow them to live long enough to tell anyone else
what they knew, as well as to exact revenge for their not telling her what she wanted to know all
those years ago.

“But - but Harry…what about you?”

“I'm going after Hermione,” he said in a grim voice.

“But you - you *can't*! That's what they want you to do. You'll be walking
right into their hands.”

“What would you have me do, Ron?” Harry's speech was harsh with fatigue and worry. “If I
don't show up, they'll - they'll kill her.”

“Send someone else,” Ron said urgently. “Let me go and get her.” Harry appeared to mull this
over for a moment, knowing the danger inherent in what he proposed to do, by going himself. If he
failed…*But I won't fail*, he thought with determination.

“Ron,” Harry said slowly. “She's my *wife*!” All his fear, frustration, love, and
despair came out in his voice, in that one word. He met his best mate's eyes slowly. Ron nodded
slowly.

“I understand,” he replied in a hoarse voice. “I wouldn't want anyone else to go after her
either. But, please…let me go with you.”

“There's no one else to send to St. Mungo's,” Harry said, shaking his head. “You've
got to go…the Longbottoms - Neville - they deserve better than this.”

“But the Order…” Ron tried feebly.

“If the Death Eaters go through St. Mungo's the way they came through here, the Order
won't be able to do anything. Go! It may already…” *be too late.* He did not finish his
sentence.

Ron turned back toward him a final time. “You're - you're absolutely sure about
this?”

“I'm going to get Hermione,” Harry stated again.

“Harry, if you fail -”

“I know.” Harry said. Their eyes met again, a long soul-searching look, where each silently
thanked the other for the years of friendship and support

“How will you find her?” Ron asked.

“I know where they are,” Harry said, certainty in his voice. “Death Eaters are many things, but
imaginative is not one of them.”

“Cedric?” Ron said only. Harry nodded once.

“Cedric. Now, *go!*”

Harry did not hear the arrival of the lift, and assumed that Ron had sprinted down the three
flights of stairs, to be more quickly past the anti-Apparation wards. He sat at Hermione's desk
a moment longer, before placing both hands flat on the desk to rise. He stopped mid-motion, and
looked more closely at the picture of the three of them.

Hermione was now blowing kisses in his direction, and Ron and Harry were pointing over their
shoulders, in an urgent way. It looked for all the world like they were…trying to tell him
something.

“She's bloody well charmed the photo!” Harry murmured to himself, admiration evident in his
voice. He moved the photo out of its corner, and looked behind it. There was a tiny parcel there,
almost out of sight, even with the photograph removed. A label was on it….*For H**. when he
needs it. Love W**.* The handwriting was sloppy and hasty. The initials confused him for a
moment, but then he realized *H…W…husband…wife*. He placed both hands over his mouth and nose
for a moment, closing his eyes; he would *not* cry here at her desk.

He unwrapped the brown paper, and found a small vial of a sickly green potion. His hand trembled
as his fingers clumsily closed around the small container. *She**'d*
*kn**own**! Bloody hell, she**'d* *kn**own**!* Somehow she
became aware of the fight going on, and knew that the Death Eaters were coming, and for whom they
were coming. Knowing that she would not be able to Apparate away, she had managed to keep her head,
pour up this potion, hide it, write the note, and charm the picture…all while knowing that they
were coming …for *her*.

*Touché, Hermione*, he thought, a grim smile playing over his features, *but I'm not
drinking this…not yet. Would to God that we all won't regret this later.*

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione willed away the wave of dizziness that swept over her, as blood from a laceration
trickled from her scalp down near the corner of her eye. Her features were pale and grimy, but had
lost none of their determination over the hour that she'd been in captivity.

“He's not coming!” she said confidently. “He knows what you're planning, and he
won't come.”

Bellatrix Lestrange's perfect red lips twisted upward in the approximation of a smile. Her
inky hair was twisted up in an elegant knot, and she managed to look effortlessly beautiful, as if
she were on her way to a cocktail party, rather than some kind of hideous ceremony. “Oh, he'll
come, Miss Granger. There's no doubt in my mind that he'll come for you.”

“He won't risk it,” she said crisply, even while her heart was yearning for him to come
rescue her. She did not want to die yet, although she supposed that it might be preferable to
living without Harry.

Bellatrix twirled Hermione's wand around in her fingers, idly. Other masked Death Eaters
milled around, occasionally acknowledging her existence with a rude or off-color comment. She tried
to subtly move against the magical restraints that bound her to the gravestone, but each time she
came into contact wit them, they sent shooting pains up her arms and legs.

“He should be here soon, I think,” Bellatrix suggested lazily, as if expecting a late arrival to
a party. Hermione lifted her chin, and shook her head haughtily, smiling as imperiously as Narcissa
Malfoy could. Bellatrix moved closer and backhanded her, the metal setting of her large ring,
leaving a shallow slash across Hermione's cheek. Her ears rang from the force of the blow. “I
would *think*,” the Death Eater said bitingly, “that you would not be so eager for him to fail
to arrive, considering what will happen to *you*, if he does not come.”

“I don't care about me,” Hermione said softly. Bellatrix rolled her eyes.

“*Of course* you don't,” she said sarcastically. “You people are all so damned noble.
Which is, of course, what I'm counting on….and which is, of course, why he'll come.”

“He won't!” Hermione insisted, as the magical restraints shocked her again. “He knows that
if - ” She clamped her mouth closed, unsure as to how much Bellatrix actually knew, and how much
she was just guessing at.

Bellatrix laughed softly. It was not pleasant. “Whatever secrets you think you're hiding
from me…well, if they're of no consequence, you may keep them, by my choice. If they're
important…” here she leaned down close to Hermione, gripping the girl's lower jaw in one
elegant, thin hand, and forced her head back, hitting it painfully on the stone she leaned against.
“Then I'll rip them from your pretty little mind.”

“Like you did the Longbottoms?” Hermione asked coolly, trying not to wince from the pain of the
blow. She was sure her head was bleeding profusely. “Tortured them into insanity, didn't you?
And you still got nothing for it!” Bellatrix hit her again, and this time, she tasted metal in her
mouth. She spat blood at the other woman's feet, contempt stamped clearly on her face.

“I know all about the Longbottoms and their `miraculous' recovery,” Lestrange said in a
quiet, dangerous voice. “As well as who orchestrated it.” She raked Hermione with a sardonic
glance, arching one eyebrow. “Do not worry; someone has been dispatched to take care of it.”

Hermione began to struggle violently against the restraints, heedless of the pain or the livid
weals that began to rise on her wrists and ankles. Bellatrix laughed again, throwing back her head.
Furious tears stung Hermione's eyes, and she blinked them back desperately, not wanting them to
see her cry.

*Neville! Frank! Alice!* she thought desperately. *This poor family who's been
through so much for the Light, to have happiness torn from them just because - just because
Bellatrix Lestrange thinks they should die!* *It isn't right! Harry!*

And suddenly, as if in answer to her internal plea, a Death Eater fell with a muffled cry, just
at the edge of her vision. Other masked figures looked sharply in that direction, and most drew
their wands. Hermione felt a lump well up in her throat; she was helpless, wandless, able to do
nothing….and what he was risking to save her life….

A flash of light. Another Death Eater crumpled soundlessly to the ground. Bellatrix moved over
towards them, hissing instructions. Hermione could not make them out, but saw Bellatrix flinging
her arms out, directing them to move to the sides and outflank the attacker.

*Harry, oh God, oh God, Harry!* Hermione thought. How could even he stand against so many
Death Eaters? *Maybe there are other people with him…Ron, Remus, Neville…*She craned her neck,
trying to see what was going on, trying to get a glimpse of the beloved person that the Death
Eaters were searching so desperately for.

Suddenly, a figure in black loomed in front of her. Bellatrix Lestrange stood over her with a
malicious smile on her lovely face. “Can't have you shouting out any kind of warning.” Hermione
stared at her, aghast. She hadn't even thought of shouting anything at all. *He doesn't
need to be here. It's too dangerous.* She was loath to do anything that might attract Harry
to that which awaited him.

And then, with no further warning, Bellatrix grabbed Hermione's lower jaw again, and drove
her head back into the gravestone to which she was tied. A breathy sort of gasp escaped her lips as
the grit from the tombstone ground painfully into her still oozing wound. She bit back a wave of
nausea, and desperately tried to keep her eyes open. Then, in a throbbing, echoing voice that
sounded quite far away, she heard Bellatrix say,

“Stupefy.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks arrived with minimal sound at the front gate of Malfoy Manor.
Anti-Apparation wards kept them from arriving any closer to their goal, but oddly enough, the
fancily wrought front gate, complete with a swirling letter “M”, hung ajar, creaking softly and
eerily in the light breeze. The pristine grounds that led up to the beautifully kept mansion on the
hill looked typical of any family of the upper echelon, but unlit windows gaped out of the manor
like empty eye sockets. The hair on the back of Remus's neck prickled uncomfortably.

“Maybe they've skipped out?” Tonks suggested.

“No,” Remus shook his head, suddenly quite sure. “Someone is in there. Are the reinforcements
around back - just in case?” He whispered to his wife. Tonks cocked her head to one side and
appeared to be listening to something. After a moment, she nodded, and they slipped through the
gate, treading quietly over the lawn to the wide front door.

The ornate knocker thudded loudly on the door, and seemed to echo all over the too-quiet
countryside. Lupin and Tonks exchanged glances, and inched hands closer to their wands.

Narcissa Malfoy herself answered the door, and they could see over her shoulder that the foyer
was bathed in almost total darkness. It looked like she had not a single lamp lit in the house. Her
face was tired and sorrowful, her beauty now etched into her face like the fine lines in delicate
fabric that has been crumpled and tossed aside.

“What do you want, wolf?” she asked abruptly, though not really rudely. It was as if they were
new arrivals in a long line of unwelcome visitors that she had already wearied of receiving.

“Your sister's already been here, hasn't she?” Remus said. It was not really a question.
“What was she looking for?”

“Surely you must know that already, or you wouldn't be here,” Narcissa said, with a trace of
her old hauteur.

“Where is your son?” A tremor ran through Narcissa's face, like ripples over the surface of
water, but she quickly grasped at her fleeing composure and her features were still again.

“He's upstairs,” she said, in an off-hand tone, but there was a quiet despair in her
voice.

“What has she done to him?” Remus' voice was even and low. The same shudder trembled through
Narcissa's frame.

“He is a traitor,” she said only, ignoring his question.

“He's your son!” Tonks spoke up, passionate disbelief vibrating through her voice.

“I told him to tell her the truth. I begged him to.” Narcissa's eyes stared through them,
unseeing. “I begged her to stop. He's your nephew…he's family. Bella, *please!*” She
was parroting the words back to them, with wide, staring eyes, almost as if she was seeing her
sister in front of her, instead of the two who were actually there.

“Tell me what happened,” Remus' voice was a quiet command, and he and Tonks stepped into the
house. The darkness - darkness born of despair and grief and pain - seemed to close around them
like a cloak…or a shroud.

“Bella came in, with a couple of her - a couple of associates,” Narcissa said, in the same
toneless voice, as she led them up the wide, curving staircase, one hand trailing elegantly behind
her on the handrail. “She was looking for some of Lucius's old papers… I knew what she was
planning, and I knew what she needed. But, they weren't there - where Lucius had hidden them.”
She turned at the top of the stairs, and looked at them, her eyes and mouth suddenly forming a sad
caricature of surprise. “She thought I had taken them. She began to make threats, say vile
things…about me, her own sister!” Remus felt Tonks make a restless, involuntary movement behind
him. Neither Narcissa nor Bellatrix had ever shown such familial consideration to their other
sister.

“She cursed me…the Cruciatus curse…she screamed at me to tell her where I'd hidden the
papers. I told her I didn't know what happened to them, but there was a locator charm imbedded
in them…she could activate it.”

She drifted down a long, impeccably decorated corridor, also in darkness. Tonks thought that she
seemed to skim along gracefully, barely touching the floor. Her voice wafted behind her, carrying
back to them clearly in the dark.

“Draco came running in, when he heard me scream. He - the look on his face, when he saw Bella
and me…it was like - it was like he'd been betrayed. Bella was accusing me - when she saw where
the locator charm showed them - she thought I'd sold them out, I'd betrayed them. I thought
she was going to kill me.” Another spasm trembled through her frame, as she paused at a closed
door, her fingers resting lightly on the door handle. She had not raised her voice over that
robotic monotone, a voice of someone who has shut herself away, rendered herself inaccessible to
further emotional overload.

“Draco put himself in between Bella and myself. He told Bella that she had it all wrong - that
he had been the one to steal the papers on horcruxes. I told Draco not to lie for me, and he - he
looked me in the face, and told me he wasn't lying. He had given the papers to the Ministry for
examination.” Remus and Tonks exchanged glances, wondering at this further lie on Draco's part,
surprised that he had not immediately incriminated Harry or Hermione.

“Bella said that he was lying. That he had given the papers to Harry Potter. Draco said that it
wasn't true, but she didn't believe him. She - she used *Crucio* on him…over and over
again…I - I've never seen her so angry. I - I put him in his bedroom…I thought that would be
more comfortable for him, don't you think so?” She smiled a little, as she asked anxiously for
their opinion. Tonks' face was stamped with sympathy, and she laid one hand gently on her
aunt's shoulder.

“Is he awake?” she asked softly.

“He hasn't awakened yet. And he won't be the same, even if he does wake up, will he?
It's what Bella did to those - those wretched blood traitors - what were their names?” Narcissa
opened the door then, proceeding forward as if she had not really expected or required an answer
from them.

One lamp was lit in the room, just next to the bed. It was green-shaded, and the glow it cast
was a sickly and eerie one, neither illuminating nor comforting. Draco Malfoy was lying the bed,
only the rise and fall of his chest betraying signs of life. His hands were even folded over his
breast, as if his mother had laid him out for a viewing. Remus felt his gorge rise at the macabre
scene.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” he began, with difficulty. “He needs to be at St. Mungo's.”

“They can't help us,” Narcissa said, in a sing-song tone. “Nobody can help us now.” She was
flexing and unflexing her fingers, as she swayed from side to side. The green lamp threw her shadow
up onto the wall, distorted and grotesque. “They're bringing him back, you know. He's
coming back, and everything will be lost.”

“Mrs. Malfoy - ” Remus said again, urgency straining his voice. “Do you - ?”

“It's all over. My husband is a failure, my son is a traitor…everything we've worked so
hard for is gone.” She said this with a look of faint wonder on her face, as she stared at a fixed
point somewhere over Tonks' shoulder.

The Auror stepped over to her, and looked straight into Narcissa's face, placing one hand on
each of her shoulders. “Aunt Cissa…we're going to take Draco to the hospital. They'll be
able to help him.” She was enunciating the words clearly, as if to communicate to a person who was
unfamiliar with the language being spoken. “Do you know where Aunt Bellatrix is?”

Narcissa's eyes remained wide and unfocused. “Where he rose before, he'll rise
again.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry pressed his back to a wide tree arching over a collection of graves, and tried to quiet
his breathing. He'd felled two, but there were at least six or eight more, and he knew he
wouldn't be able to take on all of them. Not only that, but if the skirmish began to go badly,
they could decide to cut their losses and kill Hermione. There were shouts, uncomfortably close,
and every now and then he heard a random curse fly by. He could only hope that they'd hit some
of their own. He fingered the vial of potion in the pocket of his jacket. He would still have that
ace to play, at least, if he was caught.

He threw a wandless spell out, bending it with the force of his will, making it turn at right
angles around a tree to look like it had originated from somewhere else entirely. The very effort
involved in such complex magic winded him, and he slumped against the tree that served as his
hiding place, listening in satisfaction as the shouts dwindled to another part of the graveyard. He
risked a glance. There, near the Riddle family graves, was Hermione, tied to a tombstone, her legs
bent underneath her in what looked like an uncomfortable angle. Bellatrix Lestrange stood nearby,
Hermione's wand in hand. On a slab of stone - Harry could only guess that one of them had
toppled a headstone, so that it lay face down - not too far away from where she stood, was a
crystal decanter, colored a translucent red. It was beautiful, alluring, and part of him wanted
desperately to walk to it and close his fingers around the smooth neck of it. A throb of pain burst
through his scar, and he had to grit his teeth to stifle his cry.

He watched, with mounting anger and furious helplessness, as Bellatrix forced Hermione's
head back against the stone. He heard the gasp of pain and protest that she tried to keep back. His
fingers danced toward his wand. *Dammit, Hermione, what am I going to do?*

And then he saw his chance. Bellatrix Stupefied Hermione, and then, believing her Death Eaters
to be cornering the quarry they sought in another portion of the cemetery, turned her attention
more fully to the makeshift table, on which the *Readunatio Animae* rested.

He moved slowly and silently, ducking behind gravestones, making a wide circle so that he was
behind the Riddle monument, almost directly in line with Bellatrix and Hermione. Once there, he
risked his energy again to bend another spell, drawing the Death Eaters further away.

He took a moment to recover from the feat, and then sprang out from behind the large memorial,
sending a low Stupefy that hit Bellatrix right between the shoulder blades. She dropped without a
sound.

“Enervate,” he cast at Hermione, hurrying to Bellatrix's side to disarm her.

“Harry,” she blinked at him slowly, her eyes widening with alarm, as she recalled what was going
on. “Harry, what are you doing here? If they - ” Her voice cut off suddenly, and Harry heard a
simpering, lisping voice say,

“Expelliarmus!” Harry's wand flew out of his hand, and he whirled to see the sad excuse for
a man that his father had once called friend. He was holding his wand to Hermione's neck, her
head forced backwards by his hold on her hair.

“Pettigrew!” Harry spat, feeling annoyed and terrified that the rodent had gotten the drop on
him. He had probably remained in his Animagus form, waiting in case such a situation arose.

“One wrong move, Harry, one wandless hex, and she dies! Oh yes, I know of your little lessons
with Moony.” Harry blanched, but struggled to retain his composure. He tried not to look to his
right…the spot where Cedric had died. Had it all come full circle to lead them back to this
place?

“You've lost the right to call him that name.”

“We'll see who has power over whom when the Dark Lord returns,” Pettigrew sneered.

“I won't let that happen,” Harry said solemnly, and Pettigrew laughed, a horrid, wheezy,
choking laugh.

“My dear boy,” he said, through mirthless chuckles, “you can do nothing to stop it!” Even as
Harry tried to Apparate - and failed - Pettigrew sent large coils of heavy rope streaming from his
wand, wrapping themselves sinuously around him. He struggled against his bonds, as Pettigrew
Enervated Bellatrix Lestrange.

Her treacherous face was gleeful, as she saw who stood before her. The other Death Eaters
gathered around, and Harry began to feel true fear. He had misjudged badly; he had put
Hermione's life over the lives of everyone else, and it was they who would pay the penalty for
his error.

Hermione was struggling against Pettigrew's grimy grasp, tears beginning to stream down her
face, mingling with the blood and dirt. “Harry!” She cried, kicking at the restraints until her
ankles began to bleed. “*Harry!”*

“Hello little Harry!” Bellatrix said in the sing-song, babyish tone that she used to bait him.
“It's been quite a while since we've seen him, but he does not look so happy to see us! And
once again, *he* is going to be the tool that brings our Lord back to us!”

Harry glared at her, with fire in his eyes and his jaw mutinously set. His hand struggled in the
tight bonds, his fingers ticking the edge of his pocket; he could feel the seam, but could not
reach inside.

“What is little Harry planning? Has he got some elaborate scheme? No, Bellatrix thinks he's
come all alone!” She cocked her head to one side, childishly, her eyes wide. Rage thrummed through
Harry like fuel through an engine, and he felt as if it would physically burst through his very
flesh. “Foolish baby boy is all alone, and now there's no one to save the Boy. Who. Lived.” She
bit off the last three words, and smiled radiantly.

Harry strained again for his pocket. He felt the rope burn against his skin, as he twisted his
arm. Bellatrix interpreted his struggles, as impotent desire to be free, and mocked him. The other
Death Eaters laughed. Hermione watched, powerless, helpless, feeling as if her heart was shattering
into thousands of shards, even as it beat within her chest, while Harry struggled for the
concentration needed to perform a wandless spell.

Bellatrix raised her wand with incredible speed, and hatred flashed in her dark eyes. “Reducto!”
she enunciated with clear and malicious intent, aiming the destructive spell at Harry's right
leg, knowing exactly where to hit him. “That's for having the temerity to kill the Dark Lord,”
she spoke haughtily over Harry's hoarse, breathless scream. Hermione heard her own cry blend
with Harry's and echo in her ears. His leg had buckled beneath him, but he grabbed at the edge
of a tombstone, refusing to let himself fall in front of Lestrange.

With one swish of her wand, she had him lying on the fallen gravestone, near the Repository of
Souls, which she took in her hand, caressing it softly.

“Aw, isn't the little boy brave? We'll let him in on the best part of the plan!”
Bellatrix continued, still in that bright, chirpy, child-like voice. “We're not going to kill
him!”

Harry actually laughed out loud at this, even though his face was pale and clammy, and his eyes
dilated with pain. For a moment, Bellatrix's sweet manner faltered.

“Harry doesn't believe us!” She looked around at her masked circle with an expression of
injured surprise. “But we're telling the truth. We aren't going to kill him. We aren't
even going to use the *Readunatio Animae* to store the Dark Lord's soul.”

Curiosity flickered in Harry's eyes, and Bellatrix saw it. His fingers were still straining
toward their goal; they dipped down beneath the edge of his pocket; he could feel the cold rim of
the vial. The pain was swelling over him; blackness stained the edges of his vision.

“We're going to use it to draw out his own soul.” Harry looked at her blankly, without
comprehension, barely hearing Hermione's muted cry of distress to his right. “Once his soul is
gone, our Lord Voldemort will be free to take over *his* body, and rule again.”

Fury and terror trembled through Harry, even as he heard a maniacal laugh ringing in his head.
His fingers pressed against the glass; he slid it upward slightly, still unable to actually grasp
it. *So close*…he thought desperately, trying to quell the nausea that rose up. He *had*
to get that vial; he would *not* allow Voldemort to live in his body, to reign in terror over
the wizarding world.

Bellatrix pulled out a long, thin silver knife, with runes graven into the handle. She brought
it down with a sudden furious motion, piercing the skin of Harry's forehead, and zigzagging it
along the path of his scar. Harry's breath hissed through his teeth, as the charmed blade
burned like fire. He felt the sticky warm trickle of blood begin to run across his forehead and
down the side of his temple.

His eyes sought Hermione's, as Bellatrix held the blade aloft, where it shone in the dim
moonlight, except where it was darkened with blood, and began to chant an encantation. He reached
for the vial again, and his clumsy fingers knocked it further down in his pocket, out of reach. The
pain in his knee was almost too much to bear.

Hermione saw his hand move toward the pocket, even through her blinding tears, and guessed
instantly what he held there. She quickly blessed the arrogance of the Death Eaters, who were so
sure of their own supremacy that they would not even properly search their victim.

She met Harry's eyes, with every ounce of confidence and love that she could muster. She
then closed her eyes, reaching deep down within herself, to the magical reserves that she had
rarely called on until today. She focused on how much she loved Harry, called it up, until it was a
blinding white light within her. She felt as if it was radiating from her in a visible aura.

She opened her eyes again, looking at Harry's bonds, and thought as fiercely as she knew
how, *Diffindo!*

The rope that bound his hands brushed roughly against Harry's arm, and loosened. Harry
looked at Hermione with surprise, as he tried to move his arm slowly toward his pocket. Bellatrix
was still chanting, and the Death Eaters seemed focused on the ritual taking place. He slid his arm
further toward his side, careful not to dislodge the remainder of the rope that bound him.

Hermione slumped against the stone, astonished at how tired she felt, and amazed at the fact
that Harry had cast these more than once during that Battle nearly a year ago. She watched in
satisfaction, as Harry's hand slid into his pocket, and closed around the object within it.

Hermione decided to try again, calling up the reserves, in much the same manner as she had a
moment ago, and thinking *Finite Incantatem*. Her magical restraints fell away, and she began
to run toward Harry.

She heard Peter Pettigrew's startled yelp of surprise, and felt his arms close around her,
before she had covered even half of the distance. She saw Harry flip the stopper off of the vial
with one thumb.

Someone in the circle of Death Eaters said, “He's got something in his hand!”

Bellatrix opened her eyes, in mid-chant, and looked down at Harry with wrath.

Hermione fought against Pettigrew, but his filthy, grasping hands bit into her arms, holding her
fast.

Harry jerked his entire weight to one side, pulling against the partially severed rope enough,
to roll off of the stone. He hit the ground on one hand and both feet, struggling not to shriek in
pain, as his knee took further abuse, and holding the vial aloft as to not spill the contents.

In what seemed like slow motion, he straightened. He looked at Hermione, for one shining, frozen
moment that seemed to linger into eternity. He swallowed hard, and she knew what he was going to
do. He couldn't do anything else.

That's why she'd left him the potion, after all.

She redoubled her struggles against her captor. “I love you, Harry! *I love you!*” she
cried out, with such force that her throat was raw with the effort and emotion. “Drink it! It's
okay! It'll be okay!” Tears were pouring down her face, unchecked, as she kicked at Pettigrew,
one arm outstretched, reaching for Harry.

Bellatrix snarled, “Someone shut her up!”

Death Eaters were lunging toward him, scrambling for their wands.

He knocked back the contents of the vial.

It had all happened so suddenly that, by the time a Death Eater hit him with a disarming spell,
aimed to fling the vial from his hands, the vial was already empty.

His eyes were already glazing over, as he crumpled soundlessly to the ground, his injured leg
folding first.

Hermione's gaze remained fixed on the fallen form of her husband, her eyes wide and
watchful, paralyzed perhaps by trauma and shock. She did not notice when the sound of multiple
cracks indicated a number of Apparations occurring, when Pettigrew released his hold on her to
flee, when the Aurors engaged the Death Eaters who had not managed to escape.

No, she could not retain any sensory information, except for that found on his bloodstained,
peaceful face, and the empty vial that was a short distance away from his outstretched hand.

A strange, hopeful light flickered in her eyes when red smoke streamed upward from the reopened
wound on Harry's forehead. And over the skirmish of the battle, she heard a thin, keening wail
that was soon dashed away by the breeze.

Then, and only then, did she allow herself to collapse to her knees by his side, her fingers
trailing lightly through his blood-dampened hair.

“You did it, Harry,” she whispered softly.

**TBC**

**Wait, wait, wait!** **No stones or flames please! (Or** **whatever** **other weapon
you would choose)**

**I will say only…note the TBC just above, rather than The End.** **I wrote like a fiend to
get this out, and was as excited while writing it, as I hope you've been while reading it.
Happy Thanksgiving!**

**You may leave a review on your way out, if you like!**

-->



16. Sundry Consequences
-----------------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART IV: Denouement**

**Chapter Two:** **Sundry Consequences**

As Ron careened through the front doors of the Ravenclaw Foundation, like a man on a mission,
the cameras began to flash again, and he heard the desperate, strained voices of several reporters
shout out,

“Mr. Weasley!”

“Mr. Weasley, what were you looking for?”

“Where's Harry Potter?”

He muscled his way past them, giving no sign that he even knew they were there, until he heard a
clear, calm voice say, “Ronald.” He skidded to an ungainly halt, and turned to see the dirty blond
hair of the girl he was dating, just at the edge of the crowd, evidently covering the story for her
father.

“Luna,” he said, grabbing her arm, and steering her away from the crowd of media. Her eyes
searched his face intently, losing their generally vague look.

“Ronald, what's wrong?” Ron shook his head in response.

“I don't have time to explain. I've got to get to St. Mungo's. I've reason to
believe that the Death Eaters are after the Longbottoms. I could use any wand I can get.” She
lifted her chin to look him in the eyes, and her own eyes grew bright. She dropped her notebook and
quill, without even realizing that she had done so.

“The Order…” Luna proceeded tentatively.

“Harry thinks the Order could be taken by surprise,” Ron replied grimly.

“Where *is* Harry?”

“Bellatrix Lestrange has Hermione.” Luna nodded, as Ron's answer required no further
explanation. She knew where Harry was going.

They Apparated to St. Mungo's.

When they arrived at the wizarding hospital, they found people hunched together in anxious
groups in the lobby, whispering at each other. Ron found it rather reminiscent of the scene
he'd just left.

“Excuse me,” he asked, trying to adopt the confident tone that Harry had used at the Ravenclaw
Foundation. “What's going on?”

The receptionist leaned over her desk, resting her weight on her elbows. Her dark eyes were
shadowed with fear, but managed to look excited at the same time. “The Death Eaters came through
here. They just blasted their way through the lobby like a - like a- ” she shook her head, at a
loss to describe exactly what the Death Eaters' rampage had been like. “I hid under the desk.
They hurt a couple of people over there,” she pointed to a corner, where some Healers were kneeling
over the fallen.

“Where did they go? Do you know what they were after?” Ron asked urgently.

The receptionist shook her head, looking somewhat sorrowful that she would not be asked to tell
any more of this thrilling story to this tall young man. Something like awareness dawned in her
snapping eyes. “Are you - are you Ron Weasley?” Her face lit up like candle flame.

Behind him, Ron could feel, rather than see, Luna rolling her eyes.

“He's on a mission for Harry Potter,” Luna said, leaning around Ron's shoulder and
smiling, leaving subtle emphasis on the name. The receptionist's eyes threatened to bug out of
her head. “We're quite busy.” She steered Ron through the double doors at the back of the
lobby, one hung loosely off of its hinges, and it was a fairly safe bet that the attack had
proceeded in this direction. The receptionist watched them go, with wide, amazed eyes, and then
looked around for someone to whom she could relate that story.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They took the stairs to the floor where the Longbottoms' were, moving in defensive posture
as they had learned in the D.A. Ron could not keep a small smile from straying across his face, as
he recalled how much he enjoyed working with Luna. Her blue eyes would become focused and serious,
and the change in her expression made her look like a completely different person.

“Ronald,” Luna asked, as they reached the floor, and peered cautiously through the small square
window in the door leading out of the stairwell. “Shouldn't one of us - well, have gone to the
Ministry?”

“If the Death Eaters are here, then the Ministry already knows. They were supposed to have a
guard posted on the Longbottoms' room. So was the Order, but I'm not sure it would be
enough against an all-out attack.”

“I didn't mean about the hospital. I meant about Harry.”

“I thought the Ministry were just a bunch of power-hungry megalomaniacs whose chief objective
involved exploiting the plight of the common wizard,” Ron rattled off in one breath, as he squinted
through the window. “I think I see one. He's using the doorway of that hospital room for cover.
Oh - and there's another one there - whoa!” He instinctively ducked, and pulled Luna down
beside him. Out in the corridor, they could hear muffled shouting.

“I would be willing to overlook how they routinely cover up the truth, if it would help Harry,”
Luna said seriously, and Ron smiled at her.

“You really are something else, you know that?” he said, with admiration evident in his voice.
“You ought to go then. Maybe you can get someone to listen to you. Harry went to Little
Hangleton…the graveyard near the Riddle family home.”

“I can't leave now!” Luna protested. “We don't know how many are out there.” There were
more flashes of wandfire, and more shouting. Ron cracked the door, hoping to hear more clearly what
was being said. “Ron!” Luna hissed in warning, grabbing at his sleeve, as he pressed his ear to the
small opening. The shouts drifted through more clearly, but were blurred by fury and terror in the
person's voice.

Ron carefully closed the door. “Wish we had some of Fred and George's ears,” he said glumly.
“If I just knew that those two were the only ones out there, we could make a run for it, and take
`em out.”

“Hang on!” Luna said, peering through the window again. “Isn't that - ?” Ron stood up to
look before she could finish her sentence, and she pointed to a head, poking out from a corner,
nearer to them, that they had not previously seen.

“Bloody hell, that's Shacklebolt,” Ron said in amazement. “If they're out here, then…”
he trailed off, watching as Shacklebolt signaled to one of the people further down the hall. “Then
who's in the Longbottoms' room?”

“The Death Eaters already have them?”

“But what are they doing? Why don't they just kill them and have done with it?” Ron sounded
mystified. He appeared to think furiously for a moment, and then turned to Luna with an abrupt
motion. “Go on back. Get to the Ministry and tell them about Harry and Hermione. Little Hangleton.
I'll try to let Shacklebolt know I'm here. Maybe I can help.”

“Be careful, Ronald,” Luna said softly, kissing him quickly on the mouth. “It's supposed to
be a bad month for people that were born in March…especially if they have older sisters.” A smile
quirked at the corner of Ron's lips.

“But I don't have any -” he began, but Luna cut him off, with a wise look in her eyes.

“That's what they want you to believe,” she said sagely.

“I'll be careful,” he promised, amusement glinting in his eyes. Slowly, he opened the door
leading into the corridor, as the soft patter of Luna's footfalls died away on the stairs.

Ron crept slowly from the corridor, and when he was still a good distance away hissed,
“Kingsley!” He did not want to be hexed point-blank.

The Auror turned, wand at the ready, but visibly relaxed when he saw Ron. “We could use you! Is
Harry here too?”

A dark look crossed Ron's face, and he shook his head. “Bellatrix Lestrange took Hermione.
Harry went after her.” Shacklebolt swore under his breath, and returned his attention to Frank and
Alice Longbottom's hospital room door.

“Who's in there?” Ron asked, gesturing toward the room in question. “Death Eaters?” Kingsley
shook his head, and might have smiled, if he hadn't looked so frustrated.

“No, it's the son.”

“Neville?” Ron asked, in bewildered confusion. “But what's he - ?”

“He was with his parents, when the Death Eaters attacked. I can only assume that he managed to
take them all out.” Ron arched both brows, impressed. “But he's barricaded himself and his
parents in there - even got a shield around the door. The Death Eaters must have been polyjuiced,
or dressed up as Healers or something, because now the boy thinks that we're all in on it.
Someone's going to get hurt, and we've got to make him believe that we are who we say we
are. He's done some pretty impressive magic so far.”

Ron snorted and coughed out, “*Neville?*” Kingsley gave him a dirty look.

“Come on, if you knew Neville like I've known him…you would realize that it is bloody
incredible - and a little hilarious - that he defeated Death Eaters all by himself, and is holding
off a whole squad of Aurors!”

“It's not a squad…there's just me and the other two,” Shacklebolt said, a trifle
sulkily, it sounded like to Ron. “We could call for more, but we don't want anyone to get
hurt.”

“I'll talk to him,” Ron said, resolutely. “But you and your team should get back to the
Ministry, and get others to help Harry. Everyone's lives depend upon it.” Kingsley's eyes
narrowed at him.

“What are you talking about?” he asked suspiciously. Quickly and in as few words as possible,
Ron explained about the final horcrux, residing within Harry himself. Kingsley's face grew
drawn and shadowed. He signaled to the other Aurors, and they crept silently down the hall toward
him, but somehow managed to draw another barrage from Neville. One Auror looked pale and shaken,
and was muttering vile things under his breath about Neville.

“I sent Luna Lovegood to the Ministry to get help,” Ron said, “But I don't know if
she'll be able to get anyone to listen to her.”

“We'll get to Little Hangleton, as soon as possible,” Kingsley said, clapping Ron on the
shoulder once. He and the other Aurors slipped through the door without a sound.

Ron slid into a crouch, and moved closer to the room. *How close can I get before he sees -
?* he was wondering, when a warning spell shot out, narrowly missing the top of his head. He
froze. *That close*.

“Neville!” he called out, feeling somewhat foolish, his voice sounding hoarse in the silent, dim
corridor. “Neville, it's Ron Weasley. The Death Eaters are gone. You either got them all, or
the others have left. You've been holding off a bunch of Aurors.”

“I don't believe you!” came Neville's voice, high and terrified. “It's a trick…just
like the one who said he was Mum's healer. That's a mistake he won't make again.”
Neville obviously meant for his voice to sound triumphant and challenging, but he didn't quite
achieve it.

“It really is me, Neville. Listen, Harry's in trouble. I need to go help him, but you're
going to have to come out first.”

“I'm not coming out. What happened to your other friends?”

“The Aurors have gone back to the Ministry,” Ron said, nearly shouting to be heard, trying to
enunciate clearly. “They're going to help Harry fight Bellatrix Lestrange.”

There was a long silence.

“N - Neville?” Ron called out again.

“You've polyjuiced yourself to look like Ron. Well, it's not fooling me! You won't
come near my parents again, or you'll regret it!!”

“Bloody hell, Neville!” Ron sighed in annoyance. “I roomed with you for seven years. You lost
your toad on the Hogwarts Express. You took my sister Ginny to the Yule Ball, fourth year. You
fought with us at the Department of Mysteries.”

There was another long silence. Then Neville called out hesitantly,

“What are you most afraid of?”

Ron rolled his eyes, even though no one was around to see it. “I'm deathly afraid of
spiders, okay, Neville? They make me scream like a bloody girl. Satisfied?”

The door cracked open, and Neville poked his round face out. Ron waved airily at him from his
position crouched on the floor, and Neville darted his eyes up and down the hallway anxiously.

“There's no one out here but me,” Ron said, standing and walking towards Neville.

“Wait!” Neville called out, raising one hand up in warning, as Ron walked into something
invisible that zapped him.

“Bloody hell, what was that?” Ron jumped back, wringing his hands.

“Sorry,” Neville said shamefacedly. “I put a shield up round the door, so no one could get in…at
least, not without my knowing about it.” He muttered something under his breath and swirled his
wand around in an intricate gesture. The now-translucent blue field popped once, and vanished.

“How many Death Eaters *did* you take out?” Ron asked, the admiration evident in his
voice.

“Three,” Neville said, squirming a little under the praise. Ron peered in the room, at the three
stunned, tied-up bodies lining one wall of the room.

“They only sent three?” Ron puzzled, wondering about this versus the full-out assault on the
Ravenclaw Foundation. Neville cocked an eyebrow at Ron, with an oddly dangerous look on his
face.

“Only three got this far.”

“Oh.” Ron mulled this over for awhile, trying to make this fit with his own mental assessment of
Neville. “How are your parents?” Ron queried, after a moment.

“They're okay. Dad got winged by a curse, while I was still trying to get my wand, but
he's all right.”

“Well, Harry will be bloody well impressed,” Ron said jovially, though a shadow fell across his
face, as he thought of his two best friends. Neville shrugged a little.

“It's all thanks to him anyway,” he said, meaning the D.A. meetings. Their eyes met, and
they seemed communicate briefly with each other. “I need to get a healer in here to look at Dad.
Then let's lock these bastards up in an empty room, and get to Little Hangleton,” Neville
declared, and Ron slapped him on the back.

“I always knew I liked you, Neville,” he said, and bent down to grab the bound ankles of the
first Death Eater, intent on dragging him none too gently down the hall to an empty room. He let
the man's head hit the edge of the doorframe on the way out. “Oops,” he called out,
insincerely.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In the lobby of St. Mungo's, Ron and Neville nearly literally ran into Remus Lupin and
Nymphadora Tonks, levitating an unconscious Draco Malfoy between them. Tonks was leading along a
dazed-looking Narcissa Malfoy by the hand, like a little child.

“What the hell happened to him?” Ron said, unable to keep the distaste completely out of his
voice.

“He took repeated rounds of the Cruciatus Curse for not telling Bellatrix Lestrange what she
wanted to hear,” Remus said quietly, the slightest hint of reproof in his voice. Ron flushed.
Neville was staring at Malfoy's pale, drawn face in mixture of fascination and revulsion.

“Did - did *she* - ?” was all he said. Tonks nodded in a tired way.

“Maybe - maybe what the Ravenclaw Foundation gave Mum and Dad - ?” he offered hesitantly. Tonks
smiled at him.

“That's a good idea, Neville.” Remus was speaking to a mediwitch behind the desk, and she
could be seen making arrangements for Draco to be placed in a room.

“Remus,” Ron called, urgency cracking his voice. “Harry's at Little Hangleton. He went after
Hermione. Shacklebolt's got a team of Aurors on their way…I think.” He was unable to risk
shooting a glance at Neville, who squirmed under his gaze, blushing painfully. “We should go.”

Remus looked at Narcissa, feeling torn and somewhat responsible. The mediwitch saw his look, and
waved him away. “She'll be taken care of,” she said firmly, and led Narcissa through the doors
through which Draco had just passed. Mrs. Malfoy did not appear to notice that a change of
caretakers had taken place at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron and Neville, Apparating straight to Little Hangleton from St. Mungo's with Remus and
Tonks, arrived there at almost the exact same time as the Aurors, with an insistent Luna in tow.
Ron's eyes flitted over the gravestones, almost instantly picking out the frozen forms of Harry
and Hermione, just in time to see Harry fall.

Horror welled up within him, and he stood motionless, as the Aurors sprang into action, trying
desperately to round up the Death Eaters, whose rout quickly morphed into a retreat. Hermione
stood, staring at Harry with wide, shocked eyes, as if she could not believe what she was
seeing.

And then he heard it, a thin, piercing shriek borne along the breeze. Red smoke curled up from
Harry's crumpled body.

“Sweet Merlin, Harry, no….” he whispered softly, and then started back to alertness, as a spell
rushed past his ear. He dropped to the ground, and then looked up to locate Hermione again. She was
kneeling beside Harry, running her fingers through his hair, oblivious to the fighting going on
around her. “She's going to get herself killed,” Ron muttered to himself, and began to pick his
way across the cemetery to her, using the tombstones for cover.

But the battle seemed to resolve rather quickly, as the Death Eaters - the vast majority of them
former Slytherins - quickly changed their loyalty to that of looking out for number one. Even as
Ron made it to Hermione's side, the curses and shouts were dwindling, as the Aurors
successfully stopped most of the Death Eaters from making it outside the anti-Apparation wards that
Bellatrix had set up.

“Hermione?” Ron said softly, kneeling beside her and placing his hands on her shoulders. He
thought that perhaps she wasn't aware of his presence at all, as she continued to stroke
Harry's hair back from his forehead. The bloody lightning bolt, rent anew on his forehead, was
a rusty brown, the blood dried in rivulets across his face.

“I did it, Ron,” she said, so quietly that he almost didn't hear her at all.

“It's okay.” Ron soothed, not really knowing what she was talking about. “Come on, love,” he
said tenderly. “Let's go. We'll take him back - and - and - ” His voice suddenly strained
and broke. “He died a hero, Hermione. And Voldemort is gone. It's what he would've
wanted.”

“I did it,” her voice was faint. “I gave him the potion.” Pieces of the puzzle began to click
into place for Ron. She had made him a poison - knowing Hermione, one that was painless and quick -
for just this instance. He had taken it, and had won, but she had, in turn, caused his death.

“Hermione, you saved everyone…do you hear me? *Everyone.*” Hermione did not look like she
had heard. He started to pull under her arms, trying to lift her to her feet. Behind him, he heard
the cracks of Aurors side-alonging their quarry back to the Ministry. She resisted him, pulling
away, clinging on to Harry's hand. “The Healers are going to need to look at you. You're
all over blood.”

“No!” It was a muted cry. “'You can bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in
death.'” She said suddenly, in a sing-song voice. “Wait.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ron said, his voice coming out more harshly than he meant
for it to.

“Wait,” she reached up behind her to lay a staying hand on his arm.

“Wait for what?” Ron said, growing angry simply because the anguish threatened to rise up and
choke him. “Hermione, *he's dead!*”

She didn't respond to his outburst, but turned back, fixing her unyielding attention on
Harry. Ron felt a rush of pity for her. *Harry's dead, and she's in shock or denial or
something*, he thought.

Some of the Aurors who had finished what they were doing, and had come to see what was going on.
Remus' face paled and crumpled as he saw Harry's body, and he turned away from everyone,
swearing violently under his breath and kicking at the edge of a tombstone. Tonks went to him,
laying one hand on his arm, and speaking to him quietly. Ron looked over his shoulder at the ring
of faces, and noticed one missing, in particular.

“Where's Neville?” he asked. Nobody answered, their attention seeming to be permanently
affixed to the corpse of the Boy Who Lived. Luna was the only one who responded to Ron's
query.

“I'll go look,” she offered, and turned back toward the main portion of the graveyard.

“Somebody, go with her,” Shacklebolt ordered tersely, and some nameless Auror broke away from
the knot of people. There was silence.

“What is she doing?” someone whispered uncomfortably.

“Hermione,” Ron said, putting one hand on her shoulder and trying again. “Hermione, come on,
sweetie. Let's go.” She jerked her shoulder out of his grasp, and turned to look at him, fury
snapping from her dark eyes.

“I would never hurt him!” She said, her voice wobbling and barely understandable.

“Hermione, we know. It was the only thing to be done. We know that, and Harry knew that.”

“You're not listening to me, Ronald!” Her voice rang out loudly in the hushed graveyard, and
Ron looked abruptly at her eyes, shocked at what he saw there. They were not vague and dazed, as
they had been a moment ago, but clear and sharp, though nearly naked with pain. The Hermione he
knew was back, having evidently withdrawn from her shock. He met her eyes gravely, and addressed
her again as an equal, rather than a child.

“Then tell me,” he said evenly. She turned back, staring avidly at Harry, while she spoke.

“I've been working on this potion for weeks. Remember what Snape said…on our very first day
of potions class? Putting a stopper in death? I wanted to be able to pull out the stopper, release
death, but then call it back when it had served its purpose.” She looked back up at Ron then; her
eyes were shiny with tears, but blazing with hope. “I think I did it.” Ron's eyes flickered
uncertainly from her to Harry.

“So…he's not dead?”

“No, he's - he's dead,” she faltered, her brow knit with sorrow and worry. “Simulation
of death might have fooled Lestrange and the Death Eaters, but it wouldn't - ”

“ - have gotten rid of the horcrux,” Ron finished for her. His eyes went back to Harry. He lay
so still and pale, the blood dried on his face stood out in marked contrast. He did not move. “So,
what do we do now?” he asked, after a moment.

“I don't know how long it will take…it's supposed to be just a few moments, until he -
until he - ” She glanced over her shoulder at him again, and Ron could see how frightened she was,
the terrible self-doubt that gnawed at her, demons shrieking that she had made a mistake, that he
was dead, that it was forever, and that it was her fault.

“Somebody!” came a high cry from across the graveyard, echoed by another male voice. “Somebody!
We need help.” Ron came to his feet, looking across the graveyard.

“Luna!” he said in a hoarse whisper. Several Aurors broke away to answer the call. Ron stood
there, a man divided, unsure whether he should go to his girlfriend, or stay with his best mate.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lupin, sitting on the ground, his head in his hands.
Tonks was kneeling next to him, still speaking softly.

He had taken two steps away from the tableau, when he heard Hermione give a hoarse, wordless
cry, and whirled back around. He watched in shock and amazement, as, with a rattling gasp,
Harry's chest began to rise and fall.

“Merlin's Beard!” Someone exclaimed behind him. “Harry's alive.”

Ron was barely beginning to process this, when Luna arrived back at his side.

“Are you all right?” he asked her in concern. Luna nodded, looking shaken. “Is *Neville*
okay?” She nodded again.

“She hit him with something. They've taken him to St. Mungo's.”

“She - who? - Bellatrix?” Ron stammered, almost incoherently. Luna gestured in the affirmative.
“She get away?” he asked.

“No,” Luna said breathlessly. “He killed her.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hallo, Malfoy,” came a voice from the door of his hospital room. Draco removed his attention
from the window across from his bed, and turned toward the voice. “So, you finally had a principle,
eh? Was it hard?”

Malfoy glowered at the intruder. “What do you want, Weaselette?” he muttered.

“I wanted to come see you,” Ginny said honestly. “I heard what you did.”

“And to think that I swore all those beautiful, naked girls to secrecy!” Malfoy said, closing
his eyes. There was a strangled noise, and Malfoy's eyes flew open. “Are you, a noble Weasley,”
he rolled his eyes, “actually laughing at *my* joke? Was that *really* your idea of a
laugh?”

Ginny's face was solemn, though her eyes looked suspiciously bright. “Was that *really*
your idea of a joke?” she countered, mimicking him.

“I'm an invalid, you know,” he said, glaring at her. “That means you have to be nice to
me.”

“I hope that I will never live in a world where conditions are such that I have to be nice to
you, Malfoy,” Ginny responded in a withering tone. “Besides, you had that potion, and you're
going to be fine. At least, *you* didn't have to wait seventeen years for it - although
that might not have been such a bad thing.” She smiled at him. “You got hurt helping Harry Potter,
and then Hermione Granger saved your life.” Her grin grew broader, and she wrinkled her nose at
him. “That's got to stick in your craw, doesn't it?”

“As long as I stay alive, I don't care who saves me,” Malfoy shot back, imperiously.

“If you really believed that, you'd have sung like a canary when your Auntie started cursing
you,” Ginny taunted. “Hermione Granger. Saved. Your. Life,” she enunciated. “You flinched.”

“I did not,” Draco looked particularly affronted.

“You did too,” Ginny said. “Hermione Gra - yup, you flinched again. It looks like you've got
a tic or something.”

“Sod off, Weasley,” Malfoy said, thoroughly annoyed. “Besides, didn't I hear that she was
Hermione Potter now? God, that makes my gorge rise!” He rolled his eyes again.

“Yeah, they secretly got married the morning before - everything happened,” Ginny grew sad and
wistful. Draco's eyes flickered briefly with sympathy.

“He's not awake then? Still?” He quickly regained his trademark arrogance, and added, “Idiot
can't even die properly.” Ginny seemed to guess that he didn't really mean it, and the fact
annoyed him.

“No,” Ginny shook her head, all pretense of joshing gone. She rose slowly from the foot of the
bed, where she'd been sitting. “I guess I should go. Ron's waiting for me down in the
cafeteria.”

“Yes, and I can only imagine how he'd react finding you in here, being as he's so
non-judgmental and all,” Malfoy said sarcastically.

“Oh, he's *at least* as open-minded as you are!” Ginny retorted, a spark returning to
her eye.

“Why are you even barging in here making my life a misery?” He looked conflicted. “Aren't
you supposed to be in school?”

“I got special permission from McGonagall to come see Harry…and - and I thought I might as well
harass you, while I'm here.” Ginny said in a cheeky voice.

“McGonagall gives you damned Gryffindors anything you want,” Draco muttered, only half-joking.
“And people thought Snape was partial!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hermione thought dizzily that it was like a repeat of events of just over one year ago.
Reporters were permanently camped out in the lobby of the hospital. She felt as if she were living
in the hospital, even though she had been treated and released over a month ago.

Harry had still not awakened.

She spent nights in a chair by his bedside, leaving only to go to work each day. She had been
given a leave of absence from her job, but had turned it down, insisting that she didn't need
it.

It was nearly nine o'clock that night before she finally left her office, Apparating back to
Harry's flat - where she had moved all her things - for a change of clothes, before intending
to go back to St. Mungo's.

Ron was waiting for her in the living room, which had seen better days, as Ron never claimed to
be any kind of homemaker, and Hermione was only there on the fly. His face darkened with a scowl.
Hermione let her eyes slide closed wearily.

“I'm really not in the mood to listen to this right now, Ron,” she said softly, raising one
hand, almost in a gesture of surrender.

“How do you know what I intend to say?” Ron asked, his voice just as quiet, but somehow managing
to sound confrontational.

“It's the same thing you've said every night for almost a month.”

“You *can't* keep doing this to yourself, Hermione!”

“Honestly, Ron!” She said, with a shade of her old annoyance. “I'm not doing anything `to
myself.'” She made sarcastic air quotes with her fingers on the last two words.

“Look at you! You're working twelve or more hours a day. You're not eating. You're
barely sleeping - and when you do, it's at that hospital.” He said, implying that she could not
possibly get a restful sleep there.

“I'm fine!” She replied in a biting tone.

“Do you think he would want you to live this way?” She flinched as if he'd slapped her.

“What about him?” she retorted. “Do you think he would want to live the way he is? In a coma? He
doesn't have a choice, so - ”

“So, why should you?” Ron finished for her gently. “Hermione, this is not your fault.”

“Yes it is,” she said dully. “I - I miscalculated on the potion - put in the wrong ingredient,
or too much of one, or *something*. Somewhere I messed up, or he would - or he would be awake.
He was supposed to wake up!”

“Is that why you're working seven days a week? Hermione Granger is single-handedly going to
figure out what has everyone else buggered? You shouldn't be punishing yourself; it's not
your fault. Healer Munson told me today,” Ron said, “while you were at work. They've isolated
what's causing the problem. It wasn't the potion. It was from the knife.”

“The knife?” Hermione queried, her eyes alight with a kind of feverish, frantic gleam. Ron could
only guess that she was mentally writing up more notes to go over at her desk at the crack of dawn
the following morning.

“The blade was charmed. Munson said he's never seen anything like it. He guesses it had
something to do with the - some kind of stasis that they were going to put him in …when they
removed his soul, and let Voldemort's take control of his body.”

Hermione had gone very white, and she groped for the back of the wing chair in front of her,
using it to help her stand up.

“Can they - can they - ?” She stammered.

“They're looking into it,” Ron shrugged, looking a little despondent. “It's all new
territory for them, though.” She seemed to wilt a little, as he watched.

“I'm going to the hospital,” she mumbled in a vague voice, moving toward Harry's bedroom
to get fresh clothes.

“Go in the morning. Sleep here tonight,” he said, pleadingly. She whirled back toward him, tears
effectively drowning the fury that would have been crackling in her eyes.

“We spent our - our - well, what little honeymoon we got - in that bed, Ronald,” she said
angrily, her voice trembling. “I will *not* sleep in that bed without him!”

Ron flinched, and his face fell, as sympathy flooded his features. “Hermione…” he murmured
softly, moving towards her, as she looked wearily at him from where she stood in the hallway,
weaving visibly on her feet, looking like a fragile, tortured shell of her former self. “You look
like hell,” he said gently. “When he wakes up, he's going to be right pissed at you for
half-killing yourself, and then he's going to hex me into next year for letting you do it.” A
ghost of a smile flickered across her face like shadow from a candle flame.

“I just - I just haven't felt very well lately,” she said, pressing a shaky hand to her
brow.

“Are you pregnant?” Ron asked, his ears turning red at the impertinence of the inquiry, although
he mostly succeeded in keeping his face neutral. The question fell abruptly and jarringly into the
silence. Hermione's gaze shot up to his so reprovingly that Ron nearly apologized, but she
turned and went into Harry's room, without answering. Ron followed, right on her heels. “You
are, aren't you?”

“Leave me alone, Ron, *please*,” she said, sitting down unceremoniously on the edge of the
bed.

“I'm not going to leave you alone. How long have you known? Have you seen anybody - a healer
- about it?”

“I've known for about a week. And no, I haven't seen anybody. I don't - I don't
want to talk about it. I need to work.” She was shaking her head, while she rambled. *Harry was
right. I can't do this on my own, I was a fool to think that I could. I don't want to go
see a healer; that will mea**n it's real. It can't be real; I can't face it.*
*I need Harry.*

“You *need* to take care of yourself,” Ron said. His brow was creased over blue eyes that
were awash in concern. “Hermione, you need to see a healer about this. I'll - I'll go with
you, if you want me to.” He knew by the sudden flare of fury in her eyes that that had been the
wrong thing to say.

“I don't *want* you to go with me,” Hermione said, in such a heartbreaking way that
Ron's eyes filmed over. “I want - I want - H - H - ” Her voice wobbled and broke. Ron sat
beside her on the edge of the bed, whispering soothing nothings into her ear.

“I know,” he whispered. “I want him to wake up too. They're working on it. You know
they'll spare no expense or manpower to get him back. He's going to be okay. He's going
to wake up,” Ron tried to infuse his voice with certainty. “And *when* he does,” he put
pointed emphasis on that word, “he's going to want a healthy wife and a healthy baby.”

“Oh - oh - oh God,” she whispered, as the last phrase filled her paradoxically with both hope
and despair. She leaned against Ron and cried, heart-rending sobs for all the times over the last
month that she had not let herself cry. Her body was wracked as she let all the grief and terror
and anger and guilt escape, with all the force - and grace - of an artillery barrage.

Ron let her cry, handling the situation with uncharacteristic deftness, sensing that victory was
near. When her sobs began to abate, he handed her a tissue, and she wiped at her streaming, swollen
eyes.

“Now,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “I'll make an appointment for you to see
a healer tomorrow. And I'll make up the sofa. You can sleep in my bed.” Hermione sniffled
loudly.

“Honestly, Ron!” She managed to say contemptuously, even though her voice was thickened and
hoarse. “You can't really expect me to let you fold yourself up on that thing. You take your
bed. *I'll* sleep on the sofa.”

Ron tried his best to smother the smile that wanted to spread across his face. “Whatever you
want, Hermione.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“What do you mean you don't know what else to do?” Hermione stood in front of Healer Munson,
rigid and icy, betraying no sign of the turmoil from the night before.

“The stasis charm is somehow still activated in his circulatory system. We've given him
Blood-Cleansing Serum, but it has had no effect. There's really nothing else in wizarding
medicine to try. Either the stasis charm will wear off on its own,” he shrugged a little ashamedly,
“or it won't.”

Hermione's eyes flashed fire. She could feel the dull throb of a headache beginning at her
temples, and her stomach had been queasy since she had gotten up that morning. Still, she drew
herself up to her full height, and met Healer Munson with a quailing glare. “Then your
Blood-Cleansing formulae are not good enough, are they?”

“Mrs. Potter,” Healer Munson tried again. “Our potions are state of the art. I assure you, St.
Mungo's has access to every new medical development.”

“How sad for the wizarding community!” Hermione spat. Healer Munson flinched, and she felt a
momentary stab of pity for him. This was really not his fault; he had worked so diligently on
Harry's health the last time. But just as quickly, the pity was gone, replaced by fear and
irritation. She did not need this today. She was due for her appointment in only a few moments, and
Neville's hearing was later that afternoon. “He *is* Harry Potter. Need I remind you of
how poorly it would reflect on your establishment if you fail to revive him?”

She whirled from his office, marching out arrogantly, as Ron trailed along, bemused, in her
wake. As soon as she had rounded the corner, she let herself lean against the wall, clasping
shaking hands together, intertwining her fingers.

“Damn, Hermione!” Ron's eyebrows were nearly in his hair. She smiled wanly at him.

“I think I'm going to throw up.” Her face had grown very pale, and there were purple circles
under eyes. Ron eyed her warily, as if she were some kind of device that might suddenly
explode.

“Please don't,” he said hastily, and she would have rolled her eyes at him, but instead
decided to dash into Harry's room and avail herself of his loo.

A moment later, she was splashing cold water on her face, leaning against the sink on wobbly
limbs, having just thoroughly emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. Suddenly, she
straightened, as the hair on the back of her neck prickled. She poked her head out of the door,
expecting to see Ron sitting in the room, waiting for her, making some snide comment about her
inflicting her nausea on him.

There was nobody there, but Harry. *I could have sworn I heard* *somebody moving in
here**,* she thought, and her eyes drifted hopefully to her husband. Wards chimed and
flickered around him; the restraint field that Hermione had finally gotten used to *not*
seeing around his knee was back in place, shimmering serenely.

There was no sign of life.

*Damn*, Hermione thought, drifting over to Harry's bedside. She touched his hand
lightly, running the pads of her fingers over skin that seemed nearly translucent.

“I've got to go, Harry…I'm - I'm going to see about our baby now. Nobody knows, but
Ron - isn't that weird? Do you know, Harry - somewhere in there, do you realize? I wish
you'd wake up. I wish I could watch the light in your eyes, when I tell you that you're
going to be a father…” she stopped suddenly, as if afraid that continuing would wreak further havoc
on her control. “I'll be back later. I love you,” she whispered softly, and flitted noiselessly
from the room.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There was a flicker of recognition in the healer's eyes as he entered the examination room.
He glanced down at his chart, and looked at it again, as if he thought it to be wrong.

“Hermione… Granger?” he said tentatively.

“Actually, it's - it's Potter now,” she admitted faintly, and he raised his eyebrows.
She had briefly toyed with the idea of using a pseudonym, and then had figured that there was
really no point. People in the office would recognize her on sight, and it would be all over the
papers tomorrow that Harry's poor little bride had a bun in the oven.

“I saw that in the *Prophet*,” the healer said. “But lately that paper's such rubbish
that I don't know what to believe when I read it.” His eyes twinkled at her, and she smiled at
him gratefully. He held out his hand to her.

“I'm Healer Andrew Wakefield.” She nodded in greeting, as he already knew her name. “What
brings you here today?” he asked, flipping open the chart.

“I'm pregnant,” she said, astounded at how odd those words sounded coming out of her mouth.
Healer Wakefield pulled out a quill, and jotted a few notes.

“Do you know the approximate date of conception?”

“August 11th,” she blurted, and then colored a little. Healer Wakefield made no
reaction.

“Let's have a look then,” he said, helping her lie back on the table. He muttered an
incantation, and ran his wand over her for a few moments, scrutinizing the colors and flashes that
it gave. A small readout was spilling from the side of the bed, on what looked like grocery
tape.

“Is everything okay?” Hermione asked, after a moment of anxious silence.

“The baby looks perfectly healthy. The size seems to line up with the date you gave me - putting
you about six weeks along. Do you want to know the gender?” Hermione shook her head in the
negative, sadness swimming in her eyes. She did not want to find that out without Harry. “You do
look a little thin,” Healer Wakefield said in an appraising tone. “How has your appetite been? Been
nauseated?”

“I - a - a little,” she said. “I threw up just a while ago.”

“That's to be expected, I'm afraid,” he replied. “Although I suspect you may be under
more stress than most mothers-to-be,” he looked at her carefully, after his delicate
phraseology.

“It's been…rather difficult,” Hermione admitted.

“I can only imagine what you've been going through,” the healer said in a voice of sympathy.
“However, you are going to need plenty of healthy food and plenty of rest, in order to keep this
baby healthy. It is of paramount importance.” His words were stern, but his voice was kind. “Can I
trust you to make some changes in your … habits?” Hermione felt properly chastised.

“Yes sir,” she answered.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Potter,” he said, and she felt a tremulous smile creep over her lips at
the address. “I'll have the mediwitch give you some anti-nausea potion, if you need it. And
we'll want to see you back in three weeks. You can make a return appointment at the desk.”

After making the appointment, Hermione trailed slowly out to the waiting area, where Ron was
sprawled uncomfortably in a chair, obviously waiting anxiously. He sprang up when she came out.

“How's everything?” he asked carefully, noting the receptionist's eyes on them.

“It's good,” she said, smiling slightly, then following his gaze to the other patients in
the room, openly watching them. “I'm going to be in all the papers again tomorrow, Ron.” she
whispered in a low, sarcastic voice. “Isn't that exciting?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“This is ridiculous!” Hermione burst out rather loudly, as the bustle and movement of people
exiting the courtroom slowly increased in volume.

“Who the bloody hell does he think he is?” Ron agreed, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of
his robes, and glaring daggers at the presiding judge.

“How can they deny releasing Neville on his own recognizance?” Hermione seethed. “It's
utterly preposterous that he was even arrested in the first place!”

“'The Wizengamot does not and cannot condone murder,'” Ginny croaked, in a fair
imitation of the pompous man. “That's what he said when Snape was sent to Azkaban too.”

“It's not the same thing *at all*,” Hermione said, insistently. “Dumbledore was a
highly respected wizard and a leader in the community, headmaster… Snape killed him under what were
highly suspect circumstances! He could say he and Dumbledore had talked about it all he wanted -
the other party involved was dead! Neville killed a known Death Eater in battle!”

“You don't have to convince us, Hermione,” Ginny replied. “We're on your side.” Hermione
flushed, having gotten carried away in her zeal.

“It's the fact that Bellatrix *Crucio-*ed Neville's mum and dad,” Ron remarked.
“Comes off as revenge.”

“It was nothing of the sort!” Hermione said, threatening to explode again.

“This judge is going to do whatever the hell he wants,” Ginny remarked, angrily, as the said
judge, Gustave Pembleton, rose elegantly from his chair, and proceeded out of the door that had
been at his back. “He had Aurors….both of you… give testimony on Neville's behalf, and he still
- ” Ginny subsided into furious murmurs, out of which “treated like a common criminal” could be
clearly heard.

“It doesn't help that nobody saw what happened either,” Luna said placidly. She had also
given testimony about the situation as she found it, when she went to look for Neville.

“No,” Ron shook his head, “Everyone was too busy with…” he trailed off, and Hermione could
practically hear everyone think glumly, *Harry*.

“You don't really think he's going to end up on trial, do you?” Ginny asked.

“Surely it won't come to that,” Hermione answered. “It was clearly self-defense…Neville was
wounded! She sent Death Eaters to attack his parents!”

“Did you hear the way that arrogant prat twisted mine and Shacklebolt's testimonies around
on us? Making it seem like Neville was some big, bad vigilante - `trained on the sly by Harry
Potter'?” Ron let out a bitter half-laugh. “Where do they come up with this rubbish?”

“People are afraid,” Hermione said suddenly, as if the idea had just occurred to her.

“Afraid of what?” Ron shot back, in disbelief. “Voldemort's dead. The Death Eaters are
scattered - or worse.”

“And Harry Potter, Hero of the Light, had been waltzing around for a year, with a piece of
Voldemort in his head! What would have happened if Bellatrix had won?” Hermione said furiously, and
everyone was painfully silent. “The people who are older - people who can remember what happened
last time - they're afraid of another Dark Lord rising to take his place. Judge Pembleton is
feeding on that. He's going around preaching tales of vigilante justice, of the Order taking
the law into their own hands, and people are actually *listening* to them.”

“So, he's going to make an example of Neville?” Ginny asked.

“He wasn't trying to kill her!” Ron all but hollered. “He didn't use *Avada
Kedavra*. It was a reductor curse that got away from him. Anyone who knows Neville wouldn't
find *that* hard to believe.”

“Reckon his parents will be well enough to testify on his behalf, if he does go to trial?” was
Ginny's next hesitant question.

“The judge would love that!” Ron said sarcastically. “Might garner Neville a sympathy vote!”

“Is there anything we can do? If my father - ” Luna began.

“There's only one person I can think of that anybody would listen to: Harry. The judge is
afraid of him - but doesn't have the clout to publicly denounce him. He's still too
elevated in popular opinion. It's why the judge didn't attempt to send *him* to
Azkaban.”

“I'd have liked to see old Pembleton *try*!” Ron snorted, kicking at the leg of the
chair nearest to him. “Sending the Boy Who Lived to Azkaban for killing everyone's worst
nightmare come to life!” His tone said “the very idea!”

“But Harry's -” Ginny said, then stopped abruptly.

“He'd be a sight more intimidating if he were conscious, eh?” Ron said, inelegantly, and
then flushed. Hermione sent both Weasleys an understanding look.

“Yes, he would,” she sighed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Hermione and Ron exited the lift back at St. Mungo's, they were instantly assailed by
incredible clamor and chaos in the corridor. Mediwitches were running hither and yon, directing
orderlies, who seemed to be converging in one direction, and gathering supplies. Hermione could
clearly hear someone yelling frantically.

“What the hell?” Ron said, mystified. Hermione was standing motionless, one hand flat over her
abdomen. Even the short lift ride had been enough to set her stomach to churning. “Somebody's
stirred up the anthill,” he quipped.

She saw two orderlies dash into a doorway that was just out of their line of sight, and the
yelling became clearer, as the door presumably opened. The color drained so quickly from
Hermione's face that Ron grabbed her elbow, afraid that she was going to faint.

“Harry!” The air rushed from her lungs in a breathless wheeze, and she shook Ron's hand away
from her arm, plunging blindly down the corridor to Harry's room. She careened around the
corner, hearing Healer Munson's best placating voice say,

“Harry, she's fine. She's just stepped out. I'm sure she'll be back
directly.”

“What the hell have you done with her? Where is she?” The words were nearly incoherent, and yet
Hermione felt her heart cease beating as she heard them. She reached out a trembling hand to the
door handle. One of the wards began shrilling an alarm, and she heard Healer Munson instruct a
nurse to sedate him.

“He's delirious,” she heard him say. “He could do himself harm.”

The fear of missing Harry awake drove her into the room with almost comical abruptness. “Wait!”
she cried out suddenly. She was dimly aware of Ron just behind her, of Healer Munson moving away
from the bedside, no longer blocking her view of Harry.

Everything else melted out of her consciousness, as he turned toward her, his eyes alight.

“Hermione!” The angry look disappeared from his face, as he gazed tenderly at her.

“Hi…” she offered inanely. It was all she could manage through a throat that was suddenly
clogged and closing fast.

“You're okay?” He said. It was a grateful whisper, a breathless thank you to an overruling
power. She nodded, and he held out his hand to her.

It seemed to take her years to cross the room.

When his fingers closed around hers, warm and responsive, Hermione's eyes slid shut in
overwhelming gratitude.

“Do you remember what happened?” she croaked in concern, wondering why her absence had had him
so agitated and terrified. Harry's eyes clouded, and his fingers clamped more tightly around
hers.

“Some,” he said shortly. “I didn't - I was afraid that she - *she* - still had you.”
Hermione shook her head.

“I'm fine,” she said.

“I assume that … I owe my life to something…amazingly brilliant that you did?” he asked, smiling
a lazy smile at her that did funny things to her heart and her stomach.

“It wasn't so brilliant, Harry. You've been in a coma for over a month.” Her countenance
was dark with self-recrimination.

“Better that than dead,” he said bluntly, and Hermione winced. “Is it - is it gone?” he asked
hesitantly. Hermione nodded, and Harry seemed to sag in relief. She reached out to caress the
healed wound on his forehead lightly.

“Healer Munson said the old scar tissue was gone. He said if - if a new one hadn't been
carved onto your forehead, then your scar would have been gone altogether.” Harry ran his
fingertips over the smooth scar, but did not comment.

“How do you feel?” she asked gently.

“Like I'm starting all over again,” he said quietly, looking ruefully at his restrained leg.
Hermione pressed her lips together sympathetically, and squeezed his hand.

“I'll be right here with you,” she promised, and he smiled at her tiredly.

“Good,” he replied. “I've missed you.” He reached up and brushed away a rogue tear that
trickled solitarily down her cheek. “We've been married for over a month, and we've only
shagged twice…how pathetic is that?” Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm.

“Harry!” she said, in scandalized protest, and only then did she realize that the room was
otherwise empty. She had not even been aware of everyone leaving. “Besides, it was only once. The
other time that day was actually *before* we were married.” He looked at her longingly, and
she thought that she would drown in his gaze.

“So what happened?” he asked, at length, once he was finally able to wrest his eyes from
hers.

“The cavalry arrived right after you - you fell,” Hermione said shakily. “They rounded up the
Death Eaters.”

“And Lestrange…is in Azkaban?” Hermione shook her head, and saw his eyes harden.

“No,” she said aloud. “Neville killed her in a duel.”

“Good,” Harry said succinctly. His face was flinty.

“He's in a bit of trouble, actually,” Hermione said. “It'd be good if you could testify
for him.” Harry nodded, and his eyes blinked heavily.

“Just tell me when and where, and I'll be there,” he murmured. His eyes closed, and he was
quiet for so long that Hermione thought he had gone to sleep, but after a moment, the brilliant
green orbs opened again.

“Do *you* have any news for me?” he asked, with unmistakable insinuation. She reddened, and
felt her stomach tighten in excitement and trepidation.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said, adopting an exaggeratedly casual tone. “I went to see a
healer today.” His features took on a blazing, vital look.

“Whatever for?” he asked sleepily, in a bland voice that belied the eagerness that had flared
into his face a moment ago. She eyed him suspiciously, as he appeared to have nodded off again.

“A stomach upset,” she answered, and his eyes flew open, as if that had not been the answer
he'd been expecting. “You know already, don't you?” she accused.

“I heard you - I think - when you - did you come tell me? You were crying…” he spoke slowly, as
if thinking out loud. Hermione looked self-consciously down at her feet.

“Only because I missed you so much,” she admitted softly. “And because I was afraid you were
going to miss it.”

“Miss what?” he said gently, a hint of a smile on his face. “I want to hear you say it -
*really* hear you say it.” Her eyes filled with tears then, and she was afraid that she'd
not be able to get any words out at all.

“You're going to be a father,” she said in a broken voice, and then half-laughed at herself.
“We're going to have a baby,” she repeated, almost to herself, and then looked shyly at him
through her eyelashes.

He brought her fingers up to his lips, and kissed them gently. “I love you, Hermione. And the
baby. I'm so glad…” he trailed off, drifting into sleep, before he could tell her what it was
that he was so glad about.

She lifted his hand to her mouth, and returned the gesture. “So'm I, Harry,” she said
softly.

**TBC**

**Okay, there may be one more chapter, while I finish up the Neville-loose end. I guess it all
starts to get anticlimactic now, but I hope you enjoy our two protagonists having some happy times
finally.**

**You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.**

-->



17. Coming Home
---------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**PART IV: Denouement**

**Chapter Three: Coming Home**

Hermione tapped lightly on the door of Healer Munson's office the next morning, and peeked
her head around the jamb, on his muffled instruction to enter.

“Mrs. Potter,” Healer Munson said formally, and Hermione flushed. “How's Harry doing this
morning? I'll be starting my rounds in just a few moments.”

“I - I haven't actually been in to see him yet today,” Hermione admitted. “I wanted to
apologize - for the way I spoke to you, yesterday.” The healer smiled, his eyebrows raised, as
though she'd brought up something that he'd forgotten about.

“You've been under a lot of - ” he began, but she interrupted.

“It was inexcusable,” she said firmly. “I did have a - a lot on my mind…I still do, but none of
it was your fault, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

“Apology accepted,” he said gently. “Mrs. Potter, I wouldn't presume that anyone could
possibly want Harry healthy and well as much as you do, but it is one of the things that I am
striving for, to the best of my ability.”

Hermione nodded, and dropped her gaze. Her eyes fell on the desk, which had this morning's
copy of the *Prophet* lying in the center of it, still folded. She had stopped by her work on
the way in to St. Mungo's, and had left before Harry and Ron's copy of the paper had been
delivered.

The headline blared across the front page: **Secret Potter Marriage** **To Produce**
**Heir****.** Hermione's expression was one of chagrin, although it really wasn't a
surprise - indeed, she had been expecting it. Healer Munson's eyes followed her line of sight
to the daily headline.

“Is that true?” he asked, and Hermione nodded, pressing her lips together tightly. “Well,” he
said, clapping his hands together in a more official way, gathering his charts up in his arms.
“That will give your husband even more of an incentive to apply himself diligently to his therapy,
will it not?” He opened the door for her, as they headed for Harry's room.

When they arrived, Harry was already awake, his face turned toward the window and his eyes
glazed over as if lost in thought or remembrance.

“Good morning, Harry,” Healer Munson said, moving to his bedside to check the wards. Hermione
merely smiled, one that was barely more than a crinkling at the corners of her eyes. Whatever
disturbing thing was occupying his mind flitted from his face when he saw her, and he smiled back.
He reached out his hand for her, and she eagerly claimed the grasp.

“When am I going to get to go home?” he asked, in an almost plaintive way, directing his
question toward the healer, though his eyes danced lightly across Hermione's features.

“I'd like to give you a few more days before we try to move that knee at all,” Healer Munson
replied. “Your magical reserves were lowered again this time, but you seem to be recovering more
quickly. I'd hazard a guess that it is due to the fact that the horcrux is no longer
present.”

“The horcrux was hindering his recovery?” Hermione queried, tearing her eyes from Harry to look
at the healer.

“I think so,” he replied. “The last time he was injured, he had also destroyed a horcrux - well,
two, if you count the piece in - in Voldemort himself,” Munson said gravely. “You said he'd
been ill every time one had been destroyed?” Harry and Hermione both nodded. “Well, this time the
horcrux that had initially caused all the backlash was destroyed. No more backlash - faster
recovery.” His eyes flitted from Harry to Hermione, and she got the distinct impression that he was
not telling them everything.

“So…the bottom line?” Harry asked. “How long?”

“It's dependent on your rate of recovery,” Healer Munson hedged. “But I'd say ten days?”
He arched his eyebrows questioningly. Harry nodded, feeling somewhat downcast, and looked balefully
at the knee encased in the restraint field. When the healer had finished examining Harry, also
making note of which potions amphorae needed to be refilled, he took his leave to finish his
rounds.

“Ten days…” Harry said, sounding unhappy. He reached up one hand to caress Hermione's hair,
drawing his hand down along her temple and the curve of her jaw line. “I hate being in here. I want
to go home.” His voice was nearly petulant, and Hermione could only imagine how frustrating it
would be to have made so much progress, only to wake to so much regression.

“It'll be here before you realize it,” she said softly, turning her head to softly kiss his
fingers. She watched him draw in a sudden breath at the sensation of her lips against his hand.

“How - how are you feeling?” he blurted, trying to get his mind off of certain impulses that he
would not be able to follow up on.

“I've felt better,” she admitted, crooking up one corner of her mouth, as if it were not
really that big of a deal. “I threw up in front of Ron this morning,” she admitted, rolling her
eyes at herself.

“Should I feel sorrier for you, or for Ron?” Harry said, half-laughing.

“Ron, I think,” Hermione said, “but it was his fault anyway. He put Chinese take-away leftovers
in the bin last night, and when I tried to put something in there this morning…well, it was lucky
that the bin was right there.”

“I miss you, Hermione,” Harry said, winding her fingers up in his. “I - I want to - I want to be
home with you…I want to be a part of this - this pregnancy,” he fumbled.

“Even the throwing up part?” Hermione asked, amused. He gave her an “I'm serious!” look, but
she smiled crookedly at him. “You weren't even awake this last month. How much more do you
think I miss you?”

Harry looked down at his hands guiltily, and he apologized, feeling as if he had somehow been
responsible for the state in which he ended up.

“I wasn't trying to make you feel badly,” Hermione said hastily. “I just want you to know
how glad I am that you're back. Take it slowly, so you'll get completely well, okay? I
don't want you overdoing anything on my account.” He looked back up at her then, and
smiled.

“I feel like I've already missed so much, like I've let you down, by not being there for
you when I should have.” Harry's hands were now tracing invisible lines across her palms. “I -
when Healer Munson told me how long it had been, I - it was such a shock…I remember it so
clearly…for me, it really *was* like yesterday.” He looked a little bewildered, as if he was
unsure how to take into consideration days that, for him, had never really happened.

“Believe me, I'm not having any trouble recalling details about what happened that night
either,” Hermione said wryly. Dark remembrance overshadowed Harry's face.

“Did they - did anybody…hurt you?” he asked carefully, and she felt the power of his magic, even
at reduced levels, and it was truly an awesome and intimidating thing.

“They banged me around a bit, but nothing serious,” Hermione said, speaking lightly for
Harry's benefit. “Nothing like…*that*,” she added, reading the look in his eyes. “Death
Eaters wouldn't stoop to sullying themselves with someone like me.”

Harry looked at her somberly for a moment, and then a twinkle in his eye turned his expression
cheeky. “I'll sully myself with you anytime you'd like.”

“I'll let you,” she countered, leaning toward him, and brushing a loving kiss across his
lips. He moved his mouth against hers, allowing the kiss to linger achingly. She stood reluctantly,
wanting more, but not willing to risk his health to obtain it. “Ron was coming by before
practice…he should be here soon,” she said. “I'm going down to the cafeteria, to see if I can
hold down a cup of tea, maybe some crackers.” Her face looked vaguely green at the thought of
eating anything. “I'll be back in a minute.”

“What about - are you off of work?” Harry asked curiously.

“They offered me leave, after - after… but I turned it down. I was working - well, anyway, I
might take the time off now. ”

“You were trying to help me, weren't you?” he said, with a look warning her not to
evade.

“In the end, I didn't do anything at all. You came out of it all on your own,” she shrugged,
with a weak grin. Her thoughts suddenly recalled the odd look on Healer Munson's face, when he
had talked about Harry's recovery. He had not been telling them the whole truth, she was sure
of it.

“Hermione, you've got a baby to take care of now…” Harry started hesitantly. “I - I
don't want anything to happen…”

“I know, Harry.” She smiled indulgently at him, to let him know she didn't take offense.
“The healer told me as much…and Ron - well, Ron worried me to death about it, even before I knew or
he knew that I was pregnant.”

“As well he should have,” Harry returned.

“And don't you forget it either!” came Ron's voice, as he entered the room, with a sack
full of something that smelled like warm pastry. “I brought breakfast. You haven't eaten in a
month, after all. Can't imagine that you're not hungry.”

“Ron -” Harry and Hermione said in unison, but Ron waved them off.

“I know all about the little vial of nutrients, or whatever,” he said, gesturing down toward the
silvery tape pasted across Harry's hand. “You cannot make me believe that that is the same
thing as actually,” he pulled a gigantic sweet roll from the bag, “eating.”

Harry watched Hermione swallow hard and say quickly, “I think I'll just go for that tea
now,” and hastily leave the room.

“How can the smell of fresh pastry turn her stomach?” Ron asked with his mouth full, handing
Harry the sack. “How're you feeling, mate?”

“All right, I reckon,” Harry said candidly. “Better than last time. Reckon it'll get worse
once they start lowering the painkillers.” He pulled out another pastry, and eyed Ron carefully
before eating it. “Thanks, Ron…for taking care of her.”

“I dunno how successful I actually was,” Ron admitted. “She's right stubborn.” Harry rolled
his eyes, and nodded in agreement, then tucked into his breakfast.

Exiting into the corridor, Hermione spotted Healer Munson emerging from another room, and made a
beeline for him.

“What's wrong with Harry?” she said, without preamble, planting her feet and crossing her
arms over her chest, as if prepared to stand precisely there until she got an answer. Healer Munson
looked bemused.

“He's doing quite well, for someone who's been through what he has,” he said slowly, as
if not quite sure why he was being thusly berated. “His knee is going to give him the worst
trouble, of course, but it's quite treatable.”

Hermione's expression did not waver in the slightest. “When you were talking about his
magical levels… there was something you weren't saying. What was it?” Her voice was calm and
completely certain.

“It's not really anything *wrong*, per se,” the healer hedged. He eyed Hermione, who
merely gazed placidly back at him, unmoving. “I told you his levels were reduced, and so they were.
But the rate at which they're rising…” he shook his head, and spoke in a lower voice. “I
can't help but wonder if the horcrux had not been masking his innate ability for nearly his
entire life. That this is occurring now, just after the horcrux has been eliminated, has to be more
than coincidence.”

“How high are they rising?” Hermione asked, a little warily.

“They've been rising slowly throughout the entire time he was in a coma. Once he awakened,
they began to rise much more rapidly. He'll be at normal levels by…tomorrow or the next day,
I'd guess. And - ” He hesitated.

“And if they show no signs of slowing?” Hermione prodded. Healer Munson shrugged.

“He could become one of the most powerful wizards ever known.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Draco Malfoy paced around the small confines of his hospital room, hands shoved into his
pockets, looking very thoughtful - and it didn't appear that the thoughts occupying his mind
were terribly happy ones.

“Are you sure? There are no other options?” His tone was clipped, the brief questions delivered
in as an aristocratic manner as any Malfoy could ever hope to achieve.

Remus and Tonks exchanged glances. “It's not the only option, but we believe it is the best
one.” His cousin finally said hesitantly. She was so glad that Remus had come from Hogwarts to see
Harry - so that she did not have to do this alone.

“And Mother?”

“She'll be welcome to accompany you, if you'd like. Indeed, it might be better that
way…she can be kept safe as well,” Remus put in

“You don't really think - I mean, Aunt Bella is dead…who else would come after us?”

“Your father,” Tonks said gently, “Or any of the other Death Eaters who reckon they've been
betrayed by you - it could be any of those that fell under Lucius' sphere of influence. They
haven't all been accounted for by any means.”

“There are also the trials to consider. They might be willing to do almost anything to prevent
you from testifying,” said Remus. Draco looked up at them sharply, a combination of fury and alarm
filling his eyes.

“My father is in Azkaban. And I *never* said anything about testifying!” he said
emphatically. “Do you know what would happen to me - or Mother - if I did?”

“That's why we want you to go into - ” Tonks said, in a placating way.

“No, you don't understand how they operate.” Draco sounded angry, and Tonks wasn't sure
if he was angry at them or at the Death Eaters for the situation in which he found himself. “If I
testified, it would never be over - *never­.* As long as any of the affected Death Eater's
family lived, there would be a blood feud - a score to settle between them and me. I'd never be
safe - Mum - we'd never be safe…” The soft voice in which he finally allowed himself to use the
more casual derivative went to Tonks' heart, but she forced herself to reply in a steely
voice,

“And that's what you're really concerned with, isn't it? Better survival than
justice?”

“Nymphadora - ” Remus began, in a reproachful way, but Draco overrode whatever he'd been
about to say.

“I *don't* believe this!” He spat angrily. “Where do all of you get off pretending like
self-preservation means nothing to you? You can't expect me to believe that none of you want to
live! Potter and all of his disgusting little friends - they're all just suicidal maniacs - I
don't believe it! And do *not* say anything about the `greater good', or I will hex
you out of here myself!” Remus had been opening his mouth to say something, but shut it at
Draco's rampage.

“Your mother said that Bellatrix had two Death Eaters with her,” he finally said softly. “There
are at least two other people out there that you can identify as Death Eaters - two other people
who know what you did. You think they won't tell others? You're already in danger, Mr.
Malfoy.”

Draco's shoulders slumped, and he paused near the window, looking out of it wistfully. He
had been well enough to be released weeks ago - having not been under the effects of excess use of
the Cruciatus Curse for nearly as long as the Longbottoms - but they had kept him here for his own
safety. He knew that Remus and Tonks were right, yet he was loath to admit the need to give up the
only life he'd ever known.

“When would I have to do it?” he asked quietly.

“As soon as possible. The new trials should be starting soon.”

“Where would we go?” The question sounded nearly plaintive.

“Anywhere you want,” Remus answered compassionately.

“When could we come back?”

“There's no way to know,” Tonks said officially. “We'd contact you as soon as we thought
the danger had been minimized.”

Draco stared out the window again for a long moment, and when he looked back up at them, his
face was bleak and bitter - he seemed to have aged before their eyes. A terse nod of acceptance was
the only reply they received.

Remus had his hand on the doorknob, when Draco suddenly blurted, as if the question had been
torn from him against his will,

“Can I see Ginny before I go - to say good-bye?” The request was decidedly gruff, and Remus and
Tonks exchanged bemused glances.

“Ginny Weasley?” Tonks said, with some amazement. A stain of embarrassment covered Draco's
normally pale face. “I think we could arrange that.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“This is your first day with the restraint levels turned down,” Healer Munson argued, several
days later, wondering - not for the first time - why he had been given the most stubborn celebrity
patient ever to fly a broom. At least this time, Hermione seemed to be on his side, though she was
mainly watching Harry face him down with a doubtful, worried expression.

“Neville Longbottom is my friend,” Harry enunciated, bracing himself on the bed railings, to
push himself into a more upright position. He winced, and Hermione saw him almost visibly beat back
a wave of pain. “He came to help me in the graveyard, and look where it got him. I'll not
abandon him now, not for the sake of a little pain.”

“Harry, you can Floo your testimony into the courtroom,” Hermione offered, still watching him
anxiously. Healer Munson watched her. She seemed to be only going through the motions of the
debate, as if she knew it would be to no avail.

“Wouldn't my actual presence have greater impact?” Harry asked, and Hermione reluctantly
nodded. “Then I'll go. There might as well be some positive uses for being so bloody famous.”
The last sentence was nearly a growl, as if to remind them how much he hated his status.

“I'll have to note that this is against medical advice,” Munson said, and Harry eyed him
without blinking.

“Do what you have to do, Healer,” he replied respectfully, adding, “and so will I.”

After the healer had left, Harry and Hermione remained sitting in a somewhat strained
silence.

“You don't think I should do this?” Harry asked, at length.

“No, I - I know you need to do this,” she admitted. “I just - I just wish it was later. I guess
that's stupid. You've been through so much, and that - that damn judge is just waiting for
a chance to lambaste you in public, hoping to catch you out or something.” She sat down, hopped up,
and sat down again, twiddling nervously with her fingers. “Are you going to need a chair?”

“No, I won't be taking a chair. Where's my cane?” Harry asked, horrifying Hermione by
sitting all the way up, and swinging his good leg over the side. He tried to move his restrained
leg, and, when he failed, flicked his fingers toward the end of his bed, easily and wandlessly
removing the ward that was keeping his leg motionless.

“Harry, it's too soon to use your ca - what are you doing?” The last part of her question
was a frantic shriek.

“I'm getting up,” he answered, and carefully moved his leg, which felt somewhat cumbersome
in the restraint - like he was moving something that wasn't really there, something he could
see, but not really feel - toward the side of the bed. He eased himself down, putting all of his
weight on the left leg, which ached vaguely from disuse. His face had gone very pale, and sweat was
beginning to trickle from his hairline.

Hermione looked as if she wanted to argue with him, but decided against it. “I brought you some
clothes,” she said inanely, walking across to the small wardrobe. Harry busied himself, staggering
down the length of the bed, holding tightly to the railing with both hands, and trying to keep the
breathy gasps of effort from escaping his parted lips.

He leaned heavily on her shoulder, as she directed him across the room to the chair, where he
began pull the flimsy hospital gown from his shoulders. Hermione handed him the neatly folded shirt
without looking at him.

“I'm going to need some help with my pants,” he said, a moment later, in a voice that was
oddly hoarse. Something flashed briefly in Hermione's eyes, when she gazed down at him.

“If you're still feeling okay, after this is over…” she trailed off, unmistakable meaning in
her words. She knelt down, where she was on his eye level.

“I know a great door-sealing spell,” he murmured distractedly. “I won't even need my
wand.”

“You should definitely have your wand,” she said, her voice blurred with desire, as they kissed
lightly at first, but then more lingeringly and deeply.

When they finally broke apart, they both looked askance at the pants in Hermione's
hands.

“We're going to have to undo the restraint field first,” he said critically, his mouth set
in a thin line.

“Why can't you wear your pants over the restraint field?” Hermione asked.

“The field is invisible, but it still takes up space, like a brace. It's like a Protego
shield. The pants won't fit over it.”

“But that's going to - ” She began.

“Hurt like hell,” Harry finished for her grimly. “Yeah, I know.”

The instantaneous throb of pain that surged from his knee, as soon as the field was brought
down, nearly threw Harry from the chair, as he arched his back involuntarily. His fingers clutched
at the arms of the chair whitely. Hermione was trying to gingerly lift the pants leg in question
over his toes, trying not to move his leg at all.

“Just - just hurry!” Harry pleaded, and, shooting him a look of desperate apology, she pulled
the material upward quickly, until it rested over his knees, quickly fastening the silver bands
that controlled the portable restraint field into place. As soon as the beep signaled that the
field had been reactivated, Harry visibly relaxed. He then lifted his haunches slightly, to slide
the pants over his hips, and buttoned them. “That'll take your mind off of pleasurable things
right quick,” he remarked, trying to smile, but still breathing heavily.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hermione asked anxiously. Harry nodded, no doubt or
uncertainty in his face. She absent-mindedly summoned his cane from the still open wardrobe, and
helped him painstakingly to his feet.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry had stubbornly refused to use a chair, or be levitated - insisting that he `needed the
practice' - and their progress was so slow that they arrived after the hearing had already
begun. Hermione lifted her chin, struggling to keep her expression appropriately solemn, as Harry
banged open the doors irreverently and loudly, obviously intent on making as large a disturbance as
possible. *You always did know how to make an entrance, Harry*, Hermione thought impishly.

The noisy doors interrupted the solicitor for the Ministry, in the midst of an opening statement
that was particularly eloquent, and the loud murmur that rippled around the courtroom further
ruined it.

Harry paused in the middle of the courtroom, turning and addressing the judge respectfully. “I
apologize for my tardiness, sir,” he said, lifting his cane slightly from the floor. “It is a
little more difficult to maneuver these days.” The swirl of conversation began to still slowly, as
Harry moved stiffly to where the spectators sat, fatigue causing him to all but drag his bad leg
behind him. Hermione moved wordlessly with him, her arm through his making it seem as though he
were escorting her, when she was actually helping him stay on his feet.

Hermione was impressed by Harry's restraint, as the hearing droned on and on, marked mostly
by recitation of legal minutiae that bored even her analytical mind. Every now and then, the
solicitor said something that made Harry shift uneasily in his chair.

Finally, Judge Pembleton began his ruling.

“Since the wizard in question has admitted that he indeed caused the death of one Bellatrix
Black Lestrange, it is the decision of this court that a trial be waived. This court does recognize
the mitigating circumstances,” here there was a rather obsequious nod at both the Longbottoms and
the Weasleys, “including, but not limited to, the fact that an Unforgivable Curse was not used. In
light of this - ”

Hermione turned to look at Harry with concern; he was practically squirming in his chair,
glaring daggers at the judge. Clearly he had guessed what was coming, even though she had not.

“In light of this,” the judge continued. “The court determines that Mr. Longbottom shall serve
not less than 15 and not more than 30 months in Azkaban Prison. Parole may be granted for good
behavior after the minimum sentence has been served. This court is - ”

Before he could pronounce the last word, Harry slid his chair back obnoxiously, causing it to
grate noisily across the floor. He stood, and made his way across the courtroom to where Neville
was sitting in the chained chair - although he was not actually in chains. As Harry passed Mrs.
Longbottom, who had begun to cry quietly into her handkerchief, he laid one hand gently on her
shoulder, squeezing it briefly.

The somewhat ominous sound of the steady tap of the cane alternating with the scuff of his sole
across the floor held a portent of doom - *at least for Judge Pembleton*, Hermione
thought.

He made his way to the judge's high seat, and stopped before it, waiting politely. But
Hermione had recognized the glint of danger in his green eyes when he arose.

“Does Mr. Potter wish to address this court?” Judge Pembleton asked in feigned surprise.

“He does,” Harry said flatly, his voice somehow managing to resound clearly across the
courtroom, which had been startled into total silence. “I would have thought that my presence here
would have made that quite obvious.” Hermione's heart was pounding so loudly that she thought
others could probably hear it, and she reached across the empty chair that Harry had vacated to
clutch at Ginny's hand.

“I'm sorry, I was not informed of your desire to speak, Mr. Potter,” Pembleton replied
stiffly. Harry merely waited, his silence definitively saying, “well, now you *have* been
informed.” The judge's eyes flicked uncertainly to the silent throng of wide-eyed onlookers,
and imagined how this would look on the morrow's front pages. He nodded curtly to the young man
before him, clearly quite put out.

“Was Neville Longbottom given Veritaserum?” Harry asked abruptly, directing his question toward
the lawyer for the Ministry, who looked quite offended by Harry's effrontery. He glanced at
Judge Pembleton, who jerkily nodded for him to respond.

“That has been the Ministry's standard procedure for 10 years,” was the sulky answer.

“And you asked him if he killed Bellatrix Lestrange? And he said yes?” Harry inquired, still
disarmingly polite. He received affirmative replies to both of these questions. “Did you actually
ask about the circumstances under which she died? That there was a battle going on? That he was in
a duel for his life? Or are you so eager to throw a friend of Harry Potter's in prison that you
will deny him a trial, just like you did with Sirius Black?” He had whirled back on the judge with
the last sentence, and Hermione was astonished to see Judge Pembleton pale visibly. *Was he the
one who presided* *over Sirius' case?* Hermione thought in wonder, a*nd how on earth
did Harry find that out?*

Without really waiting for an answer, he conjured up a chair, identical to Neville's, and
placed it right beside the first one. There was a crescendo in the gasps and murmurs, as he
effortlessly performed the spells; his wand, like everyone else's, had been checked at the
door. He walked carefully and painstakingly over to the chair, and sat in it heavily.

Hermione pressed both fists to her mouth, realizing now what Harry was going to do.

“I killed someone,” he said, sounding almost defiant. “It was in a battle for my life, and there
were mitigating circumstances as well. But I am not in prison.” He flicked one hand, and the chains
sprang to life, encircling his wrists and ankles. “Is Wizarding Law so flimsy and inconsistent? If
you send Neville to prison, then you have to send me as well. Our crimes were the same.” The ripple
of whispers among the spectators increased to a dull roar. A sidewise glance at Ron told Hermione
that her other best mate was shaking his head, with a disbelieving grin on his face.

Someone in the crowd called out, “You can't send him to prison. He saved us all!” There was
a swell of agreement, and the crowd shifted restlessly. The Aurors stationed at the exits grew more
alert.

Judge Pembleton lifted unwilling eyes to the flock of reporters near the rear of the courtroom,
knowing in his gut that the picture of Harry Potter chained up in a trial chair would be in every
paper in the wizarding world by the morning. And the upstart boy had already brought up the debacle
with Sirius Black, whom everyone in the Wiazarding world now knew to have been innocently
railroaded into a decade at Azkaban.

“This court could not ever conceive of putting the Defeater of Voldemort in prison for that very
deed,” he began heavily. *More like, you would put your career and life on the line if you did
so,* Hermione thought ferociously. “This court merely wanted to guard against the dangers of
citizens taking the law into their own hands. Perhaps my own … good intentions caused the
oversight.” There was a loud snort here, and Hermione could see Ron's ears beginning to redden.
“Perhaps Mr. Longbottom would be better served by a term of probation and community service?” He
had not intended his statement to be a question, but it lilted upwards like one anyway, and
annoyance flashed briefly across his face.

“Then I deserve that sentence as well, Your Honor,” Harry said, sitting ramrod straight in the
chained chair.

“Mr. Potter, you have not been formally presented with any charges. There is procedure that must
be followed - ”

“Then follow it!” Harry said sharply. “I expect to be arrested in a timely fashion!” A titter
danced across the courtroom, Ron guffawed loudly, and the judge's already high color heightened
further. A muscle worked in the humiliated man's jaw.

“The sentence stands as follows: six months of probation and six months of community service, to
be served concurrently. This court is adjourned.” Judge Pembleton rattled off quickly, disappearing
rather unceremoniously through his door, before he could be accosted by young Mr. Potter again.

Harry extricated himself from the chair, and was very nearly throttled in an enthusiastic
embrace by Neville Longbottom. His parents and the Weasleys who had attended drifted down to join
them. Hermione's eyes went instantly to Harry, who had let the fatigue and pain seep into his
face, as soon as most people's attention had been diverted.

“I have a feeling that none of this will ever find its way through the Ministry bureaucracy to
either of you,” Ginny said, her eyes twinkling.

“I was counting on that,” Harry returned in kind.

“That was still a rather big gamble, Harry,” Hermione put in. “The judge would have been well
within his rights to at least charge you with contempt.”

“He wouldn't have dared,” Ron argued. “Did you see the look on his face? I thought he was
going to wet himself when you started walking towards him. He was worried about his precious job
and the public opinion!”

“Then he shouldn't have tried to imprison one of my friends!” Harry said defiantly.

“Does that mean I can go rob Gringotts?” Ron asked in a cheeky way. Harry gave him a dour
look.

“If you do anything *really* wrong, you're on your own,” was his rejoinder, as he
sagged back down into the chair he'd conjured, almost without realizing it. Hermione was at his
side in a moment.

“You need to be back at St. Mungo's,” she said authoritatively. “I hope you're prepared
for an earful from Healer Munson.” She tried to help him up, and nearly staggered under his weight,
which he was unconsciously placing mostly on her. Ron quickly stepped to his other side, and helped
him stand the rest of the way.

“Maybe I should make Neville listen to it, `stead of me,” he quipped, and his voice was slurred
with pain. Neville looked stricken.

“Harry, I - ” he began.

“Neville, he was glad to do it. He wouldn't hear otherwise. He's just tired,” Hermione
told him gently, but firmly. “Come on, Harry,” she encouraged, as they walked from the courtroom.
“You're going to have to help us out here, or I'm going to let Ron levitate you!”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Tonks buttonholed Ginny in the Ministry lobby, while the others were occupied with Harry's
transport, and relayed Draco's request.

“He wants to say good-bye to *me*?” Ginny was dumbfounded. Tonks shrugged and nodded.

“He's going to testify in a number of Death Eater trials,” she said, her voice low and
confidential. “There's no way to know how long he'll have to be under protection, unable to
come back here. Speaking to you was the only real request he made.” Tonks looked at the younger
girl hesitantly, and asked, “Can you be nice to him?”

“Nice?” Ginny chortled, thinking of the snarky, insulting repartee they usually shared. “He
wouldn't know what to do if I went in there and was nice to him.” She looked back at Tonks,
doubtfully. “I told the Headmistress I'd be back by dinner.”

“I'll talk to McGonagall for you. I'm sure she wouldn't mind expecting you just a
little later,” the Auror answered. Ginny nodded, and Apparated to St. Mungo's with everyone
else.

She slipped away from the group, as Hermione and Ron got an orderly to levitate Harry back up to
his room, and soon found herself loitering awkwardly in Draco Malfoy's doorway.

Draco shot one look of disgust at her, and rolled his eyes theatrically. “For the love of
Merlin, Weasley, wipe that compassionate look off of your face, before I have to be sick. It does
not suit you at all! I suppose my idiot cousin told you what was going on.”

“Couldn't you have had anyone brought in here for your little farewell-to-England rudeness?”
Ginny retorted, more than a little stung. “Did it have to be me?”

“Most girls your age would commit murder for the honor,” Draco said loftily, and Ginny let out
an ill-suppressed snort of laughter.

“Commit suicide is more like it,” she said levelly, glaring at him. “You have the most
unbelievable ego of anyone I've ever met. How your gigantic head gets so far up your arse is
beyond me.” Faint color stained Draco's cheeks, which Ginny noted with some satisfaction.

“Then why did you come?” he spat angrily.

“Why did you ask me?” she countered, just as mad.

“Because I - because I am obviously an idiot and a glutton for punishment. Want to rip out a few
of my fingernails before I go into hiding?” He asked sarcastically, and Ginny couldn't shake
the insidious impression that he had been about to say something entirely different.

“I came because you helped us out when we needed it, and because you saved my friends'
lives, because when the occasion arose, you actually behaved with honor,” she was unable to keep
the faint surprise from her tone. “You deserve our thanks.”

“So you came because you're *grateful*?” he asked, pronouncing the word as if it were
some sort of dreaded disease.

“There's nothing wrong with gratitude. Pity you've never experienced it!” Ginny bit
back, growing even angrier when she discovered tears pricking the backs of her eyelids. Draco was
staring at his shoes, his hands in his pockets, and his jaw thrust forward mutinously. “Are we
quite done? Or do you want to verbally beat me up some more, so you can remember it fondly later,
while you're deprived of it?”

“You were much more fun when you gave as good as you got, Weasley,” Draco sniped, but his eyes
were not alight with the malicious glint of amusement that they usually held.

“Only because when I acted like you, you could feel like less of an arse about it.” He looked at
her with faint surprise.

“Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it - didn't find it exciting?” he asked.

“No, I don't get enjoyment out of abusing people with words! If it had been anyone else but
you, I'd - ” she stopped suddenly, and Draco chuckled under his breath.

“So I'm less worthy to receive the milk of human kindness from you? You're justified in
being rude to me because I'm such a horrible excuse for a human being?” She froze for a moment,
her eyes locked with his. His eyebrows were raised and his tone was challenging.

“I wasn't any less rude to you than you we - ” she stopped again, realizing she was
comparing herself to Malfoy, and Draco laughed louder.

“Have we painted ourselves into a corner?” he asked, jovially.

“I loathe you,” she muttered, glowering at him. He looked up at her then, his eyes nearly hidden
under the light fringe of his bangs, and sent a piercing look.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don't think you do.”

Heat flooded her face, and she took a step backwards toward the door. “You're mad,” she said
faintly. “Of course I do.”

He stood up then, and regarded her appraisingly. “I think you find our conversations
stimulating.”

“Being hit with a stinging hex is stimulating!” Ginny replied almost automatically, backing up
towards the door, as he approached her.

“I think you like me.”

“As much as I like vomiting slugs,” Ginny said. Her back hit the edge of the doorframe, and she
stopped abruptly.

“Why are you backing up? Are you afraid of me?”

“Of you? Hardly. I'm in Gryffindor, remember?”

“Yes, I'm unlikely to forget *that*…unfortunately,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes.
Ginny narrowed hers.

“Can I leave now?” she asked.

“Do you need my permission?” he countered, smiling almost pleasantly. He was enjoying their
verbal cat-and-mouse game, and be damned if she wasn't too, Ginny thought, annoyed with
herself.

“I was trying to be polite,” Ginny said through gritted teeth.

“You are full of contradictions, aren't you? Polite and rude. Full of honor and bravery and
honesty - except when you're lying to yourself, of course.” *Like how you really feel*,
was the unspoken implication, echoing as loudly in the room, as if it had been shouted.

“Sod off, Draco!” she shouted suddenly, startling both of them, and he backed up a few paces.
She pushed herself off of the wall, with an irritated air. He recovered quickly, quirking one
eyebrow up at her, in a patronizing manner.

“Something bothering you, Weasley?” he asked gently. Ginny reached up both hands to tuck her
hair behind her ears, feeling strangely nervous around him.

“You're bothering me, Draco,” Ginny said, the statement somehow not coming off as annoyed as
she wanted. She didn't even notice that she had used his first name again.

“You've been bothering me a lot lately, Weasley,” he noted, his voice intentionally
vague.

“I haven't bothered you in months,” she replied, referring to their meetings at Hogwarts to
transfer information.

“You bother me every day,” he answered back, and this time, the undertone in his voice was
unmistakable. Ginny felt her heart accelerate unwillingly, and she backpedaled until she came in
contact with the doorjamb again.

“I would think that would be your problem,” she said, trying to summon up the shreds of
irritation that seemed to have vanished somewhere. “There can never be anything between us.”

“We're both adults.” Draco said, hedging, still not actually coming out and saying anything
overt.

“My brothers would kill you, and Harry would hex the little pieces that were left over. My
family would never accept you and - ”

“Potter?” Draco's voice dripped with contempt. “I'd like to see him try!”

Ginny regarded him a little sadly before continuing. “And you would never accept them.”

“But how would *you* feel about it?” he asked. Ginny hesitated a long time before
answering.

“I would be…confused. Be safe, Draco,” she whispered, and leaned forward quickly, brushing a
kiss across his thin, pale cheek. She whirled around, and in a flash of shiny, red hair, had
disappeared out the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry had pleaded with Healer Munson not to make the extent of his magical ability widely known.
The healer had been astonished at Harry's magical levels, which were higher than any he'd
ever seen. He'd wanted to contact some people on the continent, who were experts in that field.
Harry wanted it left alone.

“You could contribute so much to their knowledge,” he'd pleaded.

“Please,” Harry said softly. “I think I've contributed plenty. And I really just want to go
home and pretend I'm normal, if that's all right with you. This new strength is not
something I plan to advertise at all.”

Healer Munson had regarded him for a moment, and then finally nodded. “It's your choice,
Harry.” After a moment, he'd handed him a sheet of paper. “Here's your discharge.
You're ready to go home.”

Harry felt a swamping wave of gratitude well up within him upon those words. He had been awake
for eight days, and had been champing at the bit to go home. They had expected the discharge at
some time that day, so Hermione had gone on ahead to “get things ready,” as she'd vaguely
explained.

She'd already taken his things, so there was nothing left for him to do, but limp down to
the lobby where he could Apparate home. As he did so, alone, he felt rather unceremoniously
abandoned. Wasn't he the Boy Who Lived? Shouldn't he have an entourage of people to make
sure he wasn't overdoing it? He rolled his eyes and smiled sardonically at his own ego.

When he arrived home, the flat was dark, quiet, and empty. He also noticed that it was
pristinely neat, and knew that its state certainly was not Ron's doing. Hermione had been less
frequently at his side, since he'd been more mobile, and he suspected he had her to thank for
the cleanliness.

“Hermione?” he called out. There was no answer. Slowly, he reached for his wand, feeling more
comfortable with the heft of it in his hand, even though he supposed he didn't actually need it
much of the time.

He went into the kitchen, which was also empty. Part of him had started wondering if something
was wrong, and the more rational side had posited that perhaps a surprise party was in the
offing.

But there was no one here.

Maybe something really *was* wrong, the voice of Mad-Eye Moody whispered in his head.

There was a scrap of parchment on the kitchen table, held in place by a round, gold paperweight.
Harry approached it cautiously, poking the paperweight with his wand, always remembering what
happened when you picked up objects that looked like you were meant to pick them up - and the awful
places they sometimes took you. Without picking up the paperweight, he yanked the parchment out
from under it.

It simply read: *Apparition Coordinates*…followed by a series of numbers. He looked at the
paper dubiously. He certainly wasn't going to blindly follow a set of coordinates left on his
kitchen table - not when he didn't know where they went or who had left them…

Then, down at the bottom, scrawled almost as an afterthought, was a neat, precisely drawn heart
and the letter *W*. Harry felt the relief seep into his bones like a penetrating heat. It was
Hermione, and she had chosen *W…W for wife*, as she had in her last note to him. She was
obviously anticipating him again, knowing that he would realize that only she would have written
that - while anyone might have written *H*, it being the obvious choice.

He clutched the piece of parchment in his hand, concentrated on the coordinates, and
Disapparated with a soft crack.

He reappeared in a small front hallway that was bathed in golden lamplight, startling
involuntarily as he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a small mirror hanging near the front
door. *Where the hell am I?* he wondered.

“Hermione?” he called out hesitantly.

“In the kitchen!” she called out in a harried-sounding voice.

“Where the hell is the kitchen?” he grumped, and he thought he heard muffled laughter. He rolled
his eyes, as he stomped down the hallway. He'd found his party, evidently, but was unsure why
in the world Hermione had elected to have it here - wherever *here* was.

When he opened the kitchen door, his world virtually exploded in light, and he heard a
resounding chorus of “Surprise!” Encircling the kitchen table, spilling back into the kitchen
proper and points beyond were all of the people that he counted as his dearest friends and
family.

“He doesn't look particularly surprised,” Fred observed, in a loud aside to George.

“Of course he's not surprised. He's the Boy Who Lived.”

“It doesn't follow that he's also the Boy Who Was Really Bright,” Fred argued back.

“You knew, didn'tcha Harry?” George asked, addressing him. “You were probably out there
checking the perimeter. Constant Vigilance!” He roared suddenly, startling his Mum and causing her
to reach up and swat him across the back of the head.

“Here, sit down!” Hermione said suddenly, a worried look seeping into her warm brown eyes. She
pulled out a chair for him. Harry considered arguing with her about it, but seeing as how he really
was quite knackered… he sat.

“So whose house is this?” Harry said curiously, as Mrs. Weasley began to dish up food to all and
sundry, directing Ron to pass out the laden plates. Harry's eyes had been tripping slowly over
the guests, trying to determine to whom the house belonged. McGonagall? *Wouldn't she have
something done up in tartan* *frills?* Remus and Tonks? He didn't think either one of
them had money for a place like this. Perhaps it was Neville's grandmother's house, though
he rather suspected that it didn't smell enough like an old lady's house to be true.

Hermione, for some odd reason, shot him a nervous look, her nostrils flaring like a skittish
filly's. She mumbled something that he didn't quite catch, and dove through the knot of
Weasleys to fiddle with something on the stove.

“Hermione?” he said in a loud, clear voice. “Whose house is it?” Everyone's eyes were on
him, and he felt a flush rising into his cheeks.

“It's ours,” she said so tentatively that it almost sounded like she wasn't sure. Panic
was flooding her; she felt as if she'd awakened one morning to realize that she'd forgotten
an important examination. What if she'd misjudged badly? What if he saw this as another attempt
by an outside party to control his life? *You're not an outside party, you're his
wife!* She chided herself.

“Ours?” he said uncomprehendingly. “We don't have a house, we have a flat.”

“That we were sharing with *Ron*,” Hermione said in exasperation. The twins snorted with
laughter, and Ron said,

“Hey!” in an injured voice.

Harry did get up then, leaning heavily on his cane, and went to Hermione's side. He heard
Lupin ask McGonagall something loudly, and a low buzz of conversation resumed. Harry was grateful
to the werewolf for diverting everyone else's attention.

“Are you mad?” Hermione asked. “I - I thought maybe I should - maybe this should be something we
did together, but then I thought that it would be nice for it to be all fixed up and ready when you
came home, and so I picked it out - well, Ron came with me, but we both agreed - at least we
thought you'd love it, and it really is the most darling house, and we didn't have a lot of
time to decorate it, but we did the best we could…and - Harry - you're not saying anything.
I've messed it up, haven't I?” She had been speaking very rapidly, but stumbled to an
ungainly halt.

Harry wasn't quite sure how he felt about this unexpected turn of events.

“Can I see the rest of it?” he asked, in a tone that gave nothing away. She nodded and led him
through another door at the rear of the kitchen. They circled back through a good-sized living
room, and ended up back at the front hall where he'd come in.

“There's a parlor just there,” she said, pointing to a door he'd passed by on his way to
the kitchen. She then led him up a short flight of stairs, where there was a longer hallway,
punctuated by four different doors, widely spaced. “There's a loo,” she said, “and there's
our spare room, and there's our room.” She pointed at the doors in turn. “Do you want to see
them? Harry, *say* something.”

“What's that one?” he pointed at the door she'd left out, and limped toward it. When he
opened it, he found the space completely empty, the walls painted a soft yellow.

“That's our baby's room,” Hermione said softly. “I - I didn't finish it…time was so
short, and I figured we - we could do it together.” Harry was amazed at how quickly tears could
rush to the eyes.

“I like the color,” he finally managed.

“You're not mad?”

“You bought and fixed up a house for us. Why in Merlin's name should I be mad?” Harry asked,
finally pulling her into his arms. As he buried his face in her hair, he imagined this room, with
the faint glow of a lamp, Hermione sitting in a rocking chair in the corner, her eyes luminous and
warm as she watched a tiny bundle in a crib, making little squeaky noises. The beauty of it nearly
overcame him, and he held her tighter so that his heart wouldn't burst from the joy.

Presently, he stepped back from her, cupping her face in his hands, and kissed her softly,
reverently on the lips.

“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she said hoarsely, tears standing in jeweled beads on her lashes.

“Thank you,” he added.

“For the house?” she asked, a bewildered look creasing her brow. “It was mostly your money.
I've been putting my paycheck in your Gringotts account, but it hasn't been very long, you
know…” He put his fingertips to her lips to stem the nervous flow of words. He knew that Hermione
would have made a prudent purchase.

“For everything,” he corrected her. “For marrying me, for saving me, for having our baby…” his
words trailed off into nothingness, as he kissed her again, more deeply this time, and he felt her
back curve inwards, as she melted against him. “Can you believe it's finally happening?”

“What?” she asked, gazing at him with a rapt expression. His hand wandered down to her still
flat abdomen, and rested there, warm and comforting above his child.

“Life.”

Hope flared into his eyes like leaping flame as he breathed in the essence of the moment. He
felt unfettered, unshackled, as if a burden that he'd not even realized was that heavy had
suddenly fallen away. He wanted to laugh out loud, he wanted to cry, he wanted to - he wanted to
see his mum and dad. He wanted to thank them, and wondered if perhaps the choice had been made,
however instantly and unconsciously, with the hope that their baby boy would someday have a moment
like this. *Thank you,* he thought soberly. *Thank you for making sure I'd have this. I
don't know how I could ever repay you.*

Hermione had stood quietly, in the circle of his arms, watching the myriad of emotions cross his
face. She wondered what it must feel like, to have spent one's entire life, first in a cupboard
under the stairs, and then in a world where an overwhelming duty loomed over one…to suddenly be
free?

She folded her hand into his, bringing it up to her lips, and kissing their joined fingers.

“We should get back downstairs to your party,” she said softly.

**TBC**

**Okay, just the epilogue to go.**

**Sorry for the delay, but Christmastime is upon us, and you know, to write fanfiction, you
first have to be at home for more than ten minutes at a time!**

**But anyway, here it is. Hope you enjoyed it. I rather liked the ending myself.**

-->



18. Epilogue
------------



**Disclaimer:** Not mine, as if you lived under a rock and thought it was.

**Epilogue**

Hermione wasn't sure what had awakened her. She lay motionless for a moment, assessing. The
house was silent, she was snugly under the sheets and coverlet, and the weak, winter sun had not
yet begun to filter through the windows of their bedroom.

She rolled over, yawning dramatically and splaying her toes out in a luxurious stretch. When she
let her eyes open, she was greeted by the wide green ones of her husband, only millimeters from
hers.

“Sweet Merlin, Harry!” she said in exasperation, one hand flat on her breastbone, as an
indication of how he'd startled her. She arched one eyebrow at him, with a no-nonsense
expression. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not that long,” he admitted, so reluctantly that she knew he was lying. She curled up sideways
under the warm covers, tucking both hands under her cheek, and waiting for the inevitable. She
didn't have to wait long. “Can we get her up yet?” he asked a moment later, in a hopeful
voice.

“Didn't Mum or Mrs. Weasley teach you anything? You never - ”

“ - wake a sleeping infant. I know,” Harry finished for her. “But she's not an infant
anymore. She's two and a half. Can't I go ahead and get her up? I can't wait to see her
face when she sees everything downstairs.”

“You said that last Christmas. You said that when she was only seven months old.” Her voice was
stern, but her eyes glinted with amusement. “You're the adult, Harry. You shouldn't teach
her that it's okay to wake up before dawn on Christmas morning.” She shook her head with mock
horror. “Bill and Fleur said that Ari had them up at 4:30 last year.” She turned her head to squint
at the clock on her bedside table. “It's not even six yet.”

“You mean to tell me that you *never* woke your parents up early on Christmas morning?”
Harry teased, and Hermione glowered at him.

“I had an alarm clock that was set for 7:30, and that's when I got up,” Hermione said in a
stiff voice. “And I've told you that before.” Harry was chortling quietly.

“I know. I just think it's funny that you set an alarm clock on *Christmas*
morning.”

“Well, you're not waking Lily-Grace up. You can wait until she wakes up on her own. Do you
really want her to be all cranky and out of sorts by about 2:00 this afternoon?” Hermione said,
ending his teasing by ending the point of contention.

“We're going to need to get up soon, if we're going to make it to brunch at the Burrow,”
Harry tried again. Hermione responded to this new tack by curling more tightly under the covers and
closing her eyes. She knew that he was just excited by Christmas, that he always had been once
he'd left for Hogwarts, never having had any kind of Christmas at all when he was with the
Dursleys. The child-like anticipation had only multiplied once their little girl had arrived, and
he had been determined to follow every single tradition of Christmas, even while Lily-Grace was
much too young to retain any of it. Hermione figured that she really shouldn't be so hard on
him; it was only one day out of the year, after all. But the bickering about it had become somewhat
of a holiday tradition in itself. And she knew that he would wake their daughter eventually…he
always did.

“Hermioneee…” Harry stretched out the syllables of her name in a wheedling tone. She didn't
make any movement or sign that she had heard him. He repeated himself, reaching over under the
covers and skimming his feet up her leg. She curled up even more tightly. Finally, he pounced,
wrapping his arms around her and pressing his cold nose in the crook of her neck, causing her to
squeal involuntarily, and try to squirm away from him.

Soft padding footfalls interrupted the lingering kiss that followed.

“Daddy?” came a childish treble, as she struggled to open the door. Hermione looked at Harry
suspiciously, as he sprang out of bed.

“She's awake!” he said triumphantly.

“You did that on purpose,” she accused. He widened his eyes at her innocently.

“After you yelled at me last year, for pulling her covers off of her - even though I clearly
*never* left this room - I promised that I wouldn't wake her up again. I didn't wake
her up. You did.” He almost made it through his speech without grinning, but didn't quite
succeed.

“You cheated,” she pointed out, sticking her jaw out mutinously. Harry looked at her and
shrugged, as if to point out that the entire matter had been removed from his control. He then sat
up in the bed, and held out his arms in welcome to the dark-haired little sprite that was standing
in the doorway.

“Merry Christmas, little love!” he said, as he pulled her up into the bed with them, and
snuggled her down in the covers.

“Is today Christmas?” she asked excitedly.

“It certainly is!” Harry replied, and Hermione couldn't help but smile at the blissful look
on his face. “Do you want to go downstairs and see if there's anything down there for you?”

“Presents?!” Lily-Grace was in rapture. Her parents exchanged glances, and climbed out of the
bed, Harry reaching for his cane, and Hermione reaching for her robe.

It was a low-key affair, even though Lily-Grace was quite excited about her gifts. She was just
able to manage unwrapping on her own, and Harry was content to sit and watch her enjoy herself,
while Hermione watched Harry, occasionally snapping a picture.

She watched the blissful expression on his face and felt her heart swell. He had given up so
much to save the world, and now he was getting to enjoy what he'd always dreamed of. She felt
lucky - nay, privileged - that she got to be the one with whom he shared this dream turned into
reality.

As Lily-Grace sat amid her pile of presents, looking at each one in turn, as if she didn't
know what she wanted to play with the most, Hermione leaned under the tree, and casually tossed
Harry a small, rather squashy package.

“Hermione, we're going to take that holiday next month,” he protested lightly. “We
weren't going to get each other anything.” She shrugged, and he added, “It was *your*
idea.”

“It's just a little something,” she countered, knowing full well that they could afford to
buy each other just about anything they desired.

“Good,” he said impishly, “I got you a little something too.” He extracted a small package that
he'd hidden under the tree skirt, and handed it to her. Hermione eyed him dubiously, knowing
that hers actually was a `little something', while his was probably ridiculously extravagant.
He grinned at her, knowing exactly what she was thinking. “You needed something to match your
necklace,” he told her, as she exposed the dark velvet of a jewelry box, referring to the sapphire
pendant he had bought her for her birthday 3 months previously.

She opened the box to reveal a pair of teardrop sapphire earrings, and looked at Harry with some
dismay.

“Harry, your present really *is* a little something,” she protested.

“Well, after I bought the new Firebolt last month - ” he began.

“How much *did* that cost?” Hermione wondered aloud, interrupting him.

“Trust me,” Harry said, “you don't want to know.” Hermione's naturally frugal
personality had had some difficulty adjusting to the fact that Harry was quite wealthy. She was the
one who clipped coupons and went to sales, telling Harry that it was for her own personal
satisfaction, not because they had to. She had been the one to suggest that, since they were taking
that holiday in a month, that they forgo buying each other Christmas presents. Harry was the one
who tended to make flamboyant, spontaneous purchases, at times without even glancing at the price
tag.

He slid closer to where she was sitting on the floor, her back against the sofa, and planted a
soft kiss behind her ear.

“I don't need a special occasion to buy something for my wife,” he whispered, and his warm
breath on her neck made her lean toward him. They kissed gently.

“You haven't opened yours,” she pointed out, as she slid the earrings into her ears. He
obligingly ripped into the brightly wrapped package, and held up his hand, dangling two little yarn
shoes from his fingertips.

“I don't think these are my size,” he joked, looking at them with amusement.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed with frustration, and he looked at the gift again. They were quite
small, smaller than Lily-Grace's feet even, and they were knit from blue yarn. He turned and
looked at Hermione, who was watching him quietly. Dawning awareness was flaring in his eyes, though
he still looked hesitant, as though he didn't want to say anything and be wrong.

“I thought we might get a boy this time,” she finally ventured, when it became clear that Harry
wasn't going to say anything first.

With a whoop, Harry suddenly lunged for her, gathering her up in his arms, and hugging her
tightly. He was saying something incoherently and raining kisses down all over her face, while
Hermione laughed. It sounded like music.

“Another baby!” he exclaimed. “How could you say that's just a little something? How long
have you known?”

“Just a couple of days. I went to see the healer while you were doing that interview,” Hermione
said, causing Harry to glower.

“Another reason for me to hate reporters,” he muttered.

“It wouldn't have mattered anyway,” she answered him lightly. “I wanted to tell you on
Christmas.”

“It's the best present you could ever give me, Hermione,” he whispered, pressing his
forehead to hers.

“It's the best present we could ever give each other,” she corrected him softly. “I love
you.”

“I love you too,” he replied, as he pulled her into his lap, and they watched Lily-Grace with
her toys, in utter contentment. “Always.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“What's with Ron?” Hermione said, within five minutes of their arrival at the Weasley family
home, whispering subtly in Harry's ear. Harry had noticed their friend's odd behavior
too.

“I don't know. He's acting awfully antsy, isn't he?” he replied softly, not that
anyone would have noticed their exchange. Bill and Charlie had Ari and Lily-Grace on their
shoulders, and were parading through the living room, winding through the kitchen and back again,
singing Christmas carols in a very loud and off-key fashion. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were bustling in
the kitchen, and Neville, who had come with Ginny, had been cornered on the stairs by both Weasley
twins looking up to no good.

“If I didn't already know that Ron and Luna were married, I'd say he looks like a man
who's about to propose,” Hermione observed, watching Ron shift his weight from foot to foot,
and look around anxiously. His wife leaned over and whispered something in his ear, that made Ron
smile and relax slightly.

“If he's going to propose *again*, I'm getting out of range,” Harry joked, and
Hermione grinned at him. Ron had been unbelievably nervous, last year, when he proposed to Luna,
and Harry had ended up being the one talking him into it, out in the garden at the Burrow. He had
also gotten thrown up on for his efforts, something which got brought up at every Weasley family
gathering, much to Ron's dismay.

“So are we going to tell everyone today?” Hermione asked him, leaning into his side.

“At the table, I guess,” Harry answered laconically. The Weasley dining table had become the
choice spot for all announcements, since that first Christmas, where Bill and Fleur announced
Ari's impending birth, and Remus and Tonks announced their marriage. Ron and Luna had announced
their engagement there, and Percy and Penelope had announced their own expected arrival there.
Their little boy, Thomas, was just 3 weeks old now.

After everyone had been seated- the table having to be enlarged once before the meal could
actually begin - Mrs. Weasley began to levitate the platters and tureens into a line down the
middle of the table, so that everyone could serve themselves.

The conversation, as it did every year, turned to the state of affairs in the Ministry, and what
was going on now with regard to the defeat of Voldemort, and the hunt for Death Eaters. Harry and
Ron managed to still be very deeply involved in what went on, despite their rather innocuous
careers in the world of Quidditch.

“Snape's up for parole next year,” Mr. Weasley remarked, serving himself some potatoes.

“Won't the Death Eaters be gunning for him?” Bill wondered aloud, passing the platter of
rolls down the table, absent-mindedly.

“He won't be able to make any solo trips down Knockturn Alley, that's for sure,” Fred
said seriously.

“D'ja hear that Draco Malfoy's back in town?” George blurted suddenly, causing a
complete silence to fall on the table. Harry glanced at Hermione, who, he noticed, had immediately
looked to Ginny. Ginny had an odd, strained look on her pale face. Neville was watching her with
concern, his fingers laced tightly through hers. As Harry watched, Neville leaned down and
whispered something in her ear, to which Ginny replied by shaking her head in the negative, and
whispering something back that caused Neville to smile and kiss her hand.

“Doesn't anyone have any announcements to make?” Charlie finally asked, only
half-joking.

“That's rich coming from you, Dragon-Boy,” Bill said languidly. George, sitting with one arm
along the back of Angelina's chair, snickered audibly.

Harry threw a glance Hermione's way, and scooted his chair back from the table, opening his
mouth to speak…

…and saw Ron already doing the same. The two friends noticed each other at the same time, and
each indicated that the other go first.

“No, you go ahead, Harry. You know how I hate announcing things in front of the whole family
anyway,” Ron stammered, color flooding his face.

“You're not going to throw up on me, are you?” Harry said with mock plaintiveness, sending
Fred and George into a paroxysm of laughter. Ron's face darkened further. “I'm just
kidding, mate,” Harry assured him. “You go ahead.”

Ron looked despairingly at Harry, who had leaned back in his chair, as if he had had no
intentions of announcing anything at all.

“Mum, you're going to have to make more room on your wall this summer,” he blurted suddenly,
gesturing toward the wall opposite, where there hung matching round framed pictures of Ariane,
Lily-Grace, and Thomas. The color drained from Ron's face, as everyone's eyes went to the
pictures, and turned back to him with varying degrees of comprehension. Mrs. Weasley made her way
around the table, and gave them both a tearful hug, speaking in an incoherent high pitch, which
seemed to be her standard operating procedure when confronted with news about a new grandchild.

There were murmurs of congratulations and squeals of excitement, which Harry interrupted by
laughing rather loudly.

“That's absolutely brilliant, Ron!” Harry said sincerely. “Eleven more years, and
there'll be a Potter and a Weasley being sorted together into Gryffindor again! Almost makes me
wish Snape *was* back at Hogwarts!”

There was another pause, while everyone sorted out exactly what Harry meant.

“Hermione, are you - ?” Ginny asked incredulously. Hermione smiled and nodded in response, and
the table erupted once again, causing little Thomas to startle and begin fussing in Penelope's
arms. Ron and Harry were talking animatedly to each other, obviously ecstatic that they would be
going through this together. Harry was saying something about,

“ - and whatever food she asks you to buy at three in the morning, don't argue about it,
just do it!” Hermione nudged him rather sharply in the side, and he grinned at her
unrepentantly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The afternoon was just beginning to deepen into twilight, when Hermione drifted out into the
garden, winding a scarf around her neck to ward off the chill, to where Ron was standing, staring
at nothing, leaning on the back gate.

“Knut for your thoughts,” she said softly, coming up, and resting her elbows on the gate, next
to him.

“You'll have to give me more than that,” Ron quipped, still not looking at her.

“I didn't get a chance to congratulate you,” she said softly, and then looked at him more
closely. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, great, really. It's just - I can't believe this is all
happening. It's so - so - ”

“Amazing? Incredible?” Hermione supplied. Ron looked at her then, grinned, and nodded.

“After everything that's happened - and only four, five years ago - and it seems like some
other lifetime…” he mused.

“You're waxing awfully philosophical tonight,” she teased him, nudging him in the side with
her elbow.

“He must have been hitting the Ogden's while nobody was looking,” came the voice of her
husband, as he joined them by the gate, stepping behind her and wrapping his arms around her
middle.

“I'll have you know I am perfectly capable of having philosophical thoughts,” Ron said, with
an air of one in high dudgeon.

“Congratulations on the baby, mate,” Harry said, smiling genuinely and letting the teasing
slide. “Get ready for no sleep for more than three hours at a time, nasty nappies, freaking out
every time they sneeze, no more hot meals - ”

“Why not?” interrupted Ron, horrified.

“Because you'll be busy feeding the sprog,” Harry said, as if it were obvious. Hermione
rolled her eyes toward him with a look that said, “*who* did the majority of the feeding?”
Harry continued, “And no more shagging!”

“Harry!” Hermione said, obviously having had enough of Harry's bleak picture, knowing that
he absolutely adored being a father.

“And when they start moving around - well, it's *all* over then. They get in your
stuff, break things, lose things…they always have sticky hands and a messy face. They never want to
eat when it's time to eat, but they'll wake you up at five wanting `bret-fuss'.”

“If there's no more shagging, then how did - ” Ron said, obviously hung up on that part, and
gesturing toward Hermione.

“It took awhile,” Harry said sagely, while Hermione glowered at him. The two men made it a
little bit longer, before succumbing to laughter.

“You two think you are so funny,” she muttered, while they both slung affectionate arms around
her.

“Seriously, Ron,” Harry said somberly, though his eyes were still twinkling with mirth.
“It's the - when Lily-Grace - she…there's nothing like it, mate. It's the most
unbelievable feeling in the whole world. It's - ” he shrugged, unable to put it into words.

“Better than shagging?” Ron teased, glancing at Hermione.

“Better than flying,” Harry said seriously, and Ron grew serious too.

“That brilliant, huh?” The trio stood in silence as the last dying rays of the sun flashed once
more and disappeared. “You'll be the godparents, won't you?”

Hermione and Harry exchanged glances and smiled.

“Of course, Ron,” Harry said. They all stared at each other for a moment, remembering the dark
years that their friendship spanned, and everything that it had withstood. They had been thrust
into adulthood early, but now stood there in their own right, moving on toward a new chapter…one
where they still remained essential friends.

“You're cold, Hermione,” Harry said, watching her shiver. She looked up at him, her dark
eyes shadowy in the vanished light, and shook her head lightly, even as her breath puffed out
cloudily in front of her face.

Harry and Ron moved to flank her, and she snuggled in between them, laying her head against
Harry's shoulder, as they moved back toward the house, in classic Trio formation.

She wasn't cold. Not anymore.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

*Excerpt from* **The Daily Prophet****,** *first page of the Sports section, May
3**rd**, 2020*

*Saturday,* *Hogwarts bore witness to perhaps one of the most remarkable games of
Quidditch - and certainly one of the longest in recent memory - between the two houses of
Gryffindor and Ravenclaw for the Quidditch Cup.*

*The game ran for sixteen and a half hours, and was scoreless for nearly four of those.*
*What ma**de* *this game so remarkable, however, was the well-known names of the
students involved.*

*Gryffindor'**s team had been* *the winner of the Cup for an unprecedented*
*eight years in a row, until Ravenclaw began a sudden dominance, taking it the previous two
years.* *This year, captained by Keeper Thomas Weasley, who is also the Head Boy, Gryffindor
had easily beaten Hufflepuff and Slytherin, and narrowly defeated Ravenclaw earlier this year. Also
of note on the Gryffindor team, stand-out third-year Beater, Brian Potter.*

*Ravenclaw'**s team is captained by their s**tar Chaser, James Weasley, cousin
to the rival Keeper.* *James* *is being recruited by several professional Quidditch
teams, and is one of the most outstanding flyers that this sportswriter has ever had the privilege
to watch. But the true gem of this match-up is Ravenclaw's Seeker, also the Head Girl, who won
the spot above all other takers, when she was only in her first year. Readers may remember when her
famous father also made Seeker on his House team in his first year, as well. Her name is Katherine
Potter, and she is planning to sign with the Chudley Cannons as their reserve Seeker, upon
graduation.*

*The game, despite James Weasley's best efforts, largely due to Thomas Weasley's
incredible saves, as well as those of Ravenclaw Keeper, Lucy MacMillan, remained scoreless for four
hours and five minutes, when Ravenclaw's Chasers, flying in a Exploding Wedge formation,
finally managed to get one in.*

*Both teams remained stingy with the scoring, although it did pick up after the eighth hour,
when many of the players began to tire. The game continued on through the night, illuminated by
wandlight, although finding the Snitch would be nearly impossible under such conditions.*

*Finally, just before lunchtime yesterday, Katherine Potter caught the Snitch, giving
Ravenclaw the win and ending the game. The dive she executed to reach the Snitch was flawless, and
she moved as if she were one with her broom, even performing a risky Krum Corkscrew to maneuver the
last few meters, scarcely two meters from the ground. The score before the Snitch was caught was
nearly dead even: Gryffindor 100, Ravenclaw 90.*

*Of course, sitting the stands were many student fans and proud family members. Most notably,
Harry Potter himself, now the* *manager* *for Puddlemere United, as well as Ronald
Weasley, who has just recently retired from the starting Keeper position with the Chudley Cannons.
Accompanying Harry Potter was his wife, Hermione, and his oldest daughter, Lily-Grace Potter, 20,
who is recuperating from a minor injury sustained while playing Chaser for Southampton, the team
that signed her straight out of school.*

*If the Weasleys and the Potters have begun peopling a new Quidditch dynasty, it is one that
this sportswriter is unashamedly eager to witness.*

**The End**

**Well, here it is, folks. I had real trouble with the epilogue for some reason,** **and
ended up completely scrapping and rewriting t****hree** **different versions****. I wanted
it fluffy and fun, but…well, I still don't know. I do like the newspaper article at the end,
because I wanted to give you all this information, but in a more oblique way, I guess.**

**I particularly loved that neither of the expected children from the epilogue ended up in
Gryffindor…that was just me having fun.**

**Anyway, it's been a great ride, and I should have an update on “Isle of Mists” pretty
soon.**

**`Til we meet again.**

**lorien**

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