Restoring Hope

Paracelsus

Rating: PG13
Genres: Angst, Drama
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 26/10/2005
Last Updated: 07/11/2006
Status: completed

Eleven years ago, the Trio defeated Voldemort, after spending a year in hiding. Only Ron survived the battle, holding a baby girl named Hope. Now, eleven years later, that girl learns things that rock the foundations of her world. AU after Book 6.

Chapters

1. I

2. II

3. III

4. IV

5. V

6. VI

7. VII

8. VIII

9. IX

10. X

11. XI

12. XII

13. XIII - Epilogue

1. I

(Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I just put them in my scenario and watch what happens.)

*

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

9 November 2004 – Year 6 P.V.

*

It was a half-decent class today, Ron Weasley decided. A couple of the firsties are actually showing some promise. But I swear to Merlin, if the Slytherin team captain makes one more request for the Quidditch pitch this month…! He sometimes marveled at how well Madam Hooch had put up with it all. Small wonder she'd retired.

He paused as he walked through the great gate, officially leaving the grounds of Hogwarts. He could Apparate the rest of the way home if he wanted to, but the Healers kept telling him he needed to exercise his leg more. ("Not for strength, but for flexure." Whatever the hell that meant.) Sighing, he tightened his grip on his cane and deliberately set a brisker pace as he made his way towards Hogsmeade.

Ron entered his home through the back door, as he always did – one never knew, after all, whether there would be goodies in the kitchen waiting to be gobbled. Today he knew, as soon as he walked through the door, that something was wrong. The kitchen looked too bare; there were no sounds anywhere in the cottage. He had a sudden moment of panic: Are the rumors true? Is Bellatrix back? Merlin, no! "Hello?!" he called out in a rising voice, gripping his cane tightly.

"In here," came the calm response from the living room. Ron felt his panic drain off, to be replaced by embarrassment. Git, he chided himself. Death Eaters wouldn't leave the kitchen this neat. He set his cane in its stand by the door and walked out of the kitchen into the living room.

There he found his wife and six-year-old daughter, sitting silently at opposite ends of the sofa. Their faces wore similar quiet expressions, but for entirely different reasons. Luna's face showed her usual serenity, which none of the world's worries could ever touch. Hope's face showed no emotion at all – not because she had no feelings, but because she was so good at hiding them.

"Hello, loves," Ron said to both of them. Normally he would kiss Luna before greeting Hope, but today he went straight to his daughter. He planted a kiss on the top of her head and put an arm around her shoulder. "Missed you today, princess."

That was all it took, evidently. Hope stretched out her arms and embraced her father, burying her face against his chest. That was the only sign of her distress, but it was enough to let Ron know she was hurting. Protectively he wrapped both arms around her. Bracing himself on his good leg, he lifted her from the sofa and held her in his arms for a long moment, as he shot Luna an inquiring look.

Luna shrugged slightly. "She wanted to wait for you."

Still holding Hope in his arms, he sat on the sofa closer to Luna and settled Hope in his lap. "Well, I'm here now," he said. "Tell me about it?"

At first, she wouldn't look at him – or at Luna. "Is Mum…? Is… is Mum…?" She can usually talk much better than this, Ron thought. She must really be upset.

"Is Mum what, love?" He waited a moment, then suggested gently, "Start from the beginning, Hope. Sometimes it works better."

Hope considered this. After a couple of seconds she responded, still with that lack of emotion on her face. "At school today. There was a lady. She wanted us all to talk about how we like school and everything."

"A lady?" asked Luna. "What kind of lady?"

"A r'porter lady," said Hope.

Ron tried not to scowl… that would give the incident more weight than it deserved. "I suppose she talked to you because you're the oldest?" he asked casually.

"A little," Hope acknowledged. "But she talked to the infants, too." Ron had never heard Hope refer to her classmates (most of whom were a year younger than she) by that term. Well, it is called infant school, isn't it?

But his flash of amusement vanished as she continued, "She talked to me 'n' Michelle 'n' Isabeau together. And we were all talking, and… and they said…" She took a deep breath and finally looked at Luna. "They were saying you're not really my Mum."

Ron gave a bantering half-smile. "Well, if you're not really our daughter, then I've been buying clothes for the wrong person." The half-smile disappeared when he saw it hadn't produced any smiles in return. He matched Hope's serious tone. "Princess, your mother and I are your Mum and Dad. You're our daughter, and we love you very much."

A renewal of her hug followed these words. But she kept it brief, pulling back slightly to look up at his face. "My hair is brown, Daddy," she explained patiently.

The seemingly random remark caught Ron off guard. "So's your cousin Lance's hair," he said, stalling for time.

"Only 'cause Aunt Gelina's hair is brown," Hope countered, using her name for Angelina. "It's a dom'nant trait."

"Uhhh…" Ron found himself at a total loss as to how to proceed. He had no idea where Hope had heard about genetics, much less how much she'd heard. Her statement left him gobstopped – not the first time Hope had done that to him, either.

Fortunately, Luna was there to save him. "True," she admitted calmly. "How does that make you not our daughter, sweetheart?"

Hope gave Luna an unexpectedly irritated, Do-I-have-to-spell-it-out-for-you? look. Luna paid no attention to it, but went on thoughtfully, "Other than the question of contributing to your hair color. Which you have to admit is a fairly minor point…"

"Compared to feeding you and raising you… tucking you in at night… just being with you," finished Ron. "Being here for you. Loving you."

"Oh," said Hope. She grew pensive, absently twisting a strand of brown hair around one of her fingers. "It gets all tangly, too…" she mused.

"When you're older, I'll show you how to fix it," Luna said.

"Okay," agreed Hope. She paused, and Ron began to hope that the crisis had been averted… or at least postponed.

"Then… then… you are my Mum… aren't you?" For the first time, Hope sounded hesitant, as though she wasn't sure whether she really wanted her question answered.

Ron and Luna locked gazes for just an instant. He'd been dreading this conversation for over six years. If he'd had his way, he would have continued to let his daughter assume that Luna was her mother. But Luna had made it clear before they were married: when Hope was ready to discuss her parentage, she deserved to hear the truth, as much of it as she could handle. Luna had been unconfrontational but absolutely unyielding – classic Luna, actually – and she'd persuaded him in the end.

Besides, if he was honest with himself, he wanted to acknowledge the truth to his beautiful, brilliant daughter. This part of it, at any rate.

"You have two Mums, princess," Ron said, trying to keep his voice cheerfully neutral. "One Mum brought you into the world… and the other Mum gets to raise you. Along with me, of course," he added helpfully.

Hope thought about it a moment longer, then said gravely, "Thank you." She snuggled comfortably into Ron's chest, tucking her head beneath his chin, letting herself be enfolded by his arms. Luna slid along the sofa to be next to her husband, and put her arms around them both.

The family sat like that for a few minutes, and Ron felt confident that the topic had been, if not forgotten, then dropped for the evening. "I love you," Hope murmured.

"We love you, too, Hope Justinia," said Luna.

"Is that… is that why I'm here, then?" asked Hope, and though her face didn't change, she could no longer hide the pain in her voice. "Did my other Mum not love me?"

Ron had his daughter by her forearms and at arm's length before he could stop himself. "Your other Mum did love you," he told her in a low, painfully intense voice. "Your other Mum loved you more than she loved her own life. Don't you ever, ever think anything else."

"Ronald," began Luna, laying her hand on his forearm. She spoke in the dreamy tones of her Hogwarts days, and her voice had its usual effect on Ron. He snapped back to the present moment, to see Hope staring at him, her blue eyes wide with… not fear, but certainly concern. He blinked rapidly, then brought Hope back to his chest and enfolded her in a bear hug.

"Oh, Merlin. I'm sorry, princess," he whispered. "I'm so sorry…" He felt Hope's arms go around his torso, returning the hug, and was reassured.

"It's all right, Daddy," she said. She pulled away to look at his face again. Her own expression had turned earnest, as she tried to comfort her obviously mentally disturbed father. "Really. Don't worry."

"All right. Don't you worry, either."

"I won't." She looked down at her feet. "It was just… I was scared that's why she gave me to you. 'Cause she didn't like me."

"Whatever made you think that?" asked Luna gently.

"Well… some people don't." She looked up at Ron again. "Aunt Ginny doesn't."

"Of course she does…" Ron began.

"She's always mad at me for some reason." Hope said it matter-of-factly, as though it were a natural phenomenon. Ron began to hear a penny dropping. Once Hope's down for the night, he promised himself, I have an arse to kick.

In the meantime, he needed to wrap up this discussion. Too many details weren't appropriate at the moment, but Hope needed to hear one thing clearly. Ron met her gaze squarely. "Hope, your birth Mum loved you very much. She wouldn't have ever let you go if she had a choice. But she died just as you were born. And no," he added swiftly, forestalling the worry that he knew was materializing in her mind, "she didn't die having you. Bad men attacked her. I got you to safety, but your birth Mum was killed."

He waited while she digested this information. Hope showed no sign of revulsion, or sadness – her face remained a calm mask. But that's the way she always looks, thought Ron, so that's a good sign…

"She loved you… and your Mum loves you. And I love you." Ron put all the compassion he could muster into his voice. "Nothing will ever change that." He continued to look his daughter in the face, hoping to see some reaction.

The tender moment was shattered by the sound of Ron's stomach rumbling – loudly. Ron tried to keep eye contact, but the mood was quickly dissolving. Luna gave a musical laugh, and Hope wrinkled her nose in mock disgust. "Oh, honestly, Daddy!"

"No, no, don't mind me. Dinner can wait," he said melodramatically, with the air of a martyr.

"I'm kinda hungry too," Hope admitted. She reached up and gave Ron a quick kiss on the cheek. "I really do love you, Daddy. Borborygmi and all. Thank you." She hopped down off his lap and headed for the kitchen.

"I'll take care of dinner, rainbow," Luna called. "You should go wash your hands." She watched Hope veer away from the kitchen and up the stairs to the bathroom. Once the child was out of sight, she sighed and gave her husband a slight smile. "I think that went rather better than we expected."

"I'd've liked some warning," Ron growled. Now that Hope was out of the room, he allowed his ill temper to show.

Luna ignored it. "Well," she observed as she came up to Ron and wrapped her arms around his waist, "I've noticed that life rarely gives us warnings." She paused, lost in thought. "Except for shoelaces. Sometimes shoelaces try to warn us they're about to break. But does anyone ever pay attention to their shoelaces?"

Reflexively, Ron smiled back as he wrapped his own arms around Luna, drawing her closer. He felt his ill humor fast evaporating away. "Uh, now that I think about it… no."

"Well, if you won't pay attention to your own shoelaces, how could expect to hear warnings from anything else?" Luna finished, kissing Ron's nose.

He was about to return the kiss – not on the nose this time – when her words sank in. Or, rather, the convoluted thought process behind her words. "My Good Love, are you trying to tell me something?"

"Only what you already know, My King," she replied. "Hope both needs and deserves to know everything about her mother. And it would be better for her to hear it from us – from you – than from gossip."

"I know! I do know! It's just…" Ron let Luna go and turned away to stare at the wall… or some point at infinity far past the wall. "Not yet," he said after a moment. "Just… not yet. She's so young…"

"But quite precocious. Don't underestimate her, Ronald."

"I try not to, but every once in a while she still manages to surprise me." He turned back to Luna with a sudden quizzical grin. "I mean, 'borborygmi'? She bloody well didn't learn that from me."

*

It was after dinner, when Hope was tucked into bed for the night and Luna was reading aloud to her, that Ron starting making Floo calls. Two quick conversations later, he stole out of their home, gathering his cloak around him against the winter chill. He drew a deep breath and, with a loud Crack!, Disapparated.

He appeared in a fashionable residential section of London – one might go so far as to call it "exclusive", since only those who were wealthy and wizards lived there. Ron walked down the well-lit street, stopping at the wrought-iron gates of one of the older mansions. "Ron Weasley," he told the gate. "I'm expected." The gate smiled at him and opened.

A flagstoned path led through manicured lawns to the front door. Walking up the path, Ron noted a few more magical sentinels watching him… they were unobtrusive, but he had no doubt they were as effective as the gate. Nor did he believe for a moment that the ones he spotted were the mansion's only protections. The rumors of new Dark magic were indeed spreading.

Upon knocking, the door was opened by an attractive woman in her sixties. Ron was mildly surprised… he'd been expecting a house elf, or even a human butler, not the mistress of the house. "Good evening, Mrs. Purvue," he greeted her. "Sorry to trouble you so late…"

"No trouble at all, Mr. Weasley," she replied graciously. "My husband is waiting for you in his study. Right this way…"

She led him through a tastefully opulent foyer and down a hall to a large oaken door. She tapped on the door and opened it slightly. "Ron Weasley, darling?" she said into the room.

"Thank you, Lydia," came the response from inside. She opened the door completely and ushered Ron into the study. Sitting at a desk was a wiry elderly man, bald but sporting a grey goatee. He wore reading glasses in an absent-minded sort of way. "Mr. Weasley," he said, rising and extending his hand. "Got your Floo call. Come in, come in, have a seat…"

"Thanks, Mr. Purvue," Ron said, shaking hands before sitting down. He rested his cane against the side of the chair and eased his bad leg out straight. "I really am sorry to bother you so late…"

"Well, I was a bit surprised to get your call," Purvue acknowledged. "But I was hoping you had some good news about Ms. Granger's journals. Only heard snippets so far, but enough to tantalize, oh yes."

Well, he got to the point straight enough. "Um, well, Professor Vector's just given them back to Professor McGonagall for a final review. I know it's taken a long time, but McGonagall says everyone's been astounded by the sheer volume of notes Hermione made. Like…" He broke off and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Like she knew she had to get a lifetime's worth of work done in one year." Purvue nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry for your loss, my boy, we all are. And the loss to scholarship was no less profound." He leaned forward, his eyes brightening with enthusiasm. "I've heard that some of her ideas will revolutionize magical research. Entire new fields of study, opened by a few short lines. Scholars everywhere will spend decades expanding on what she wrote!"

Purvue caught himself and smiled in apology. "You must admit, to the scholarly mind it's an exciting prospect." He leaned back in his chair and regarded Ron hopefully. "Does your visit tonight mean that you've selected Obscurus Books as your publisher, then? We'd certainly be delighted to include Ms. Granger's opus among our titles…"

"Um, no. I mean, no, I haven't made a final decision yet. I wanted to wait until her journals were in a final form, you know… maybe talk it over with McGonagall…" Ron stuttered to a halt and tried desperately to collect his thoughts. He couldn't come out and ask for what he wanted; somehow he had to ask without asking. He had to use his custody of Hermione's journals, as well as his fame as the friend of The Chosen One… without looking like he was using them…

If ever there were two words that were polar opposites, they were Weasley and subtlety. Ron hated playing this sort of game. It was so… so Slytherin, dammit, and Ron was just no good at it. Even Harry had been better at it than Ron – especially in his last year.

But for Hope's sake, there was nothing Ron wouldn't do.

"No… no final decision's been made about Hermione's journals. No, I wanted to talk to you about another one of your publishing houses. Witch Weekly."

Purvue blinked in surprise. "Granted it has the larger readership, I wouldn't have thought it quite the right forum for…"

Ron shook his head. "Something else entirely. No, seems Witch Weekly sent a reporter to Potter Primary School today. A Miss Fanshaw?"

"Ah, yes," said Purvue. "I understand the school's very popular. Well, after all, the time was ripe for a pre-Hogwarts curriculum. And it's rather an innovation, don't you think? It's not as though wizards have ever needed their own primary school. Most wizarding children have been home-schooled. I was, and I daresay you were…" At Ron's nod, he continued, "It's simply that now, with the Post V-Voldemort population boom," (he stumbled only slightly over the name) "we finally have the numbers to warrant a full-time schoolhouse. You must have read the Prophet's series when the Potter School opened… it was seen as quite the positive development…"

"Right, the wizarding world rebounding after the end of the War. I was there for the opening, I remember." Ron furrowed his brow. "But that was back in September. The school's been open two months now… can't really be considered news anymore, can it?"

Purvue was silent for a moment. "What is it that's troubling you, Mr. Weasley?" he asked quietly.

Ron gave a rueful half-smile and answered just as quietly. "See, my daughter Hope's been raised believing my wife is her mother."

"Ah." The word was a revelation. "And during Miss Fanshaw's visit to school today, it came out who her true mother was?"

"Luna is Hope's 'true mother'," said Ron, turning icy by reflex. "But yeah," he thawed as he continued, "it came out that she's not Hope's birth mother. That's all, so far. Hope still doesn't know that she's, um…"

"That she is the daughter of Hermione Granger, who merits her own chapter in Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century." Purvue regarded Ron in puzzlement. "Everyone knows the circumstances of your daughter's birth. You surely didn't think you could keep this a secret from her?"

"No, not really. We had a chat tonight, Hope and Luna and I, and I reckon we'll have more chats in the next few days. Mean to say, I should be the one to tell her… not Witch Weekly. The thing is…" Ron hesitated, trying to find the right phrasing that would win Purvue's sympathy. "What everyone also knows is that Hermione was Muggleborn... maybe it doesn't get shouted about, but everyone knows. And everyone knows that Hermione and I weren't married when she died – when Hope was born. That doesn't get shouted about, either, and I'd really like to keep it that way." He was blushing furiously by this time, but to his credit he was no longer stuttering.

"Surely no one would hold either of those facts against your daughter…" Purvue began.

Ron couldn't help but snort. "Tell that to the Death Eaters."

"Oh. Oh, yes, I see." Purvue sighed. "Yes, the War may have killed off some notable bigots, but bigotry never dies. And this girl, always in the public eye… I see, yes. Well, I don't normally abuse my position as publisher, but sometimes a certain discretion is called for…"

"Yeah! I'm sure Hermione'd agree," said Ron eagerly. "Discretion is… is just the sort of thing people look for in a publisher, right?" He knew he was making the offer clumsily by Harry's standards, but at least it was made. You pull any mention of Hope from your magazine, and I'll see that you get Hermione's journals.

"Perhaps a chat with my editor at Witch Weekly tomorrow morning, then," agreed Purvue. "There should certainly be enough material for a decent story without dwelling too much on one student."

He let out a deep breath as a flood of relief washed through him. "Thank you, Mr. Purvue. I was hoping you'd, uh, you'd understand. It’s just that I, y'know, worry so much about her…" Ron was reduced to waving his hands, trying to make his point. Judging from the way the publisher was smiling at him, it seemed to work.

"Not a problem, Mr. Weasley, not at all. Merlin knows, I worried enough about my own daughters when they were young…" Purvue's smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful look. "Have you spoken to a lawyer? About your daughter's legal status, I mean."

Ron gaped at him. "Her legitimacy," Purvue clarified. "I assume that's why you don't wish to advertise her out-of-wedlock birth?"

To tell the truth, not until that moment had Ron even thought about Hope's status in that light. In six years, no one had ever questioned that Hermione was her mother – that fact was too obvious – or that he was her father. "I… I…"

"You may be worrying unnecessarily. Wizarding law is fairly broadminded in this regard… unlike many wizards," continued Purvue, chuckling at his own joke. "As I recall, a couple who live under one roof for an extended period, and have a child, are deemed a married couple in the eyes of the law. A 'common-law' marriage, I believe it's called, or 'living tally'."

He rose from his chair, and extended his hand as Ron automatically rose as well. "But for your own peace of mind, you should certainly talk to a lawyer – you may need to sign some documents," Purvue finished, as he escorted Ron out of the study.

"Uh, yeah. I'll do that," Ron promised, while making a mental note to never, never discuss the possibility with any living soul.

*

Verity, recently promoted to store manager, was the only person at Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes at this hour. This suited Ron just fine. She knew him by sight and would let him inside to use their Floo without asking any questions – unlike Fred or George. Ron still intended to deliver an arse-kicking, but only if he could do it privately.

Unfortunately, the owner of the arse in question wasn't answering her Floo.

Ron sighed and was preparing to Apparate home when he thought of one more discussion he needed to have. He took up another handful of Floo powder and tossed it into the fireplace, while calling "Ma Maison!" in what he knew to be a terrible accent. When the fire turned green, he knelt before it and thrust his head in.

Once his vision cleared, the first things he saw were two twin girls. They were Hope's age (less a month) but with strawberry-blonde hair, wearing pyjamas and cute as buttons. The girls grinned when they saw him, and he couldn't help grinning back. One reached into the fire and attempted to grab him by his nose. The other turned to yell over her shoulder, "Maman! Il y a l'Oncle Ron à la Cheminette!"

"Merci, Michelle. Et pourquoi n'es-tu pas dans ton lit? Allez! Toi aussi, Isabeau, vite!" In a flurry of squeals, the twins scampered away. Seconds later, a pair of trim adult feet walked over to the fireplace. Fleur's face appeared as she leaned down to talk to Ron. "Hello, Ron. All's well, I hope?"

"Hi, Fleur. Yeah, well enough, but I need to talk to you or Bill. All right if I come through?"

"But yes," Fleur smiled, and stepped back. Back in Diagon Alley, Ron drew his head back from the fire, stood upright, and walked into the fireplace. He emerged, sprawling, from the fireplace at Ma Maison, home of Bill and Fleur Weasley.

"Should've just Apparated," he grumbled as he picked himself stiffly from the floor. "But nooo, I'd already used the Floo powder, mustn't waste it…"

"You sound like Ginny," laughed Fleur. "How are you, Ron?" She kissed him on his cheek, knowing full well that it would block any further grumbling… or any further speech at all. Fleur might have lost most of her accent over the years, but she could still reduce Ron to a moonstruck young calf, and she knew it.

Sure enough, it took a couple of moments for a red-faced Ron to mumble, "Er, fine, thanks." He cleared his throat a couple of times, drew a deep breath and went on in more normal tones, "Do you have a moment? I need to talk to you about Hope."

Fleur eyed him with concern. "I thought you said all was well."

"She's not sick," Ron hastened to explain. "But, um, she learned today about her mother." He looked Fleur in the eye and added, "At school. From Isabeau and Michelle."

"Oh." Now Fleur's face was perfectly neutral, as if she were preparing for a Weasley-type explosion. Ron couldn't help smiling.

"It was probably done in all innocence, Fleur. You know kids – most likely, they were just trying to impress a visitor with stuff they knew. I was just curious where they picked it up…"

"Probably at Sunday dinner," came a voice behind him. He turned to see Ginny standing in the doorway. Behind her stood Bill, who gave Ron a welcoming smile that sat oddly on his lean, lupine face. Ginny, by contrast, was scowling at her youngest brother. "That's when I was here last, and I imagine the subject came up then," she continued.

"Hi, Bill. Ginny." Ron tried to keep the smile on his face. The hoped-for arse-kicking might have to wait… or else be done very delicately. "Well, anyway, turns out that not only did Hope learn about her mother, it happened in front of a reporter. I've spent the evening, uh, minimizing the side-effects." He looked Ginny in the eye as he added, "Hope was pretty upset, as you can imagine."

"I'm surprised you could tell," said Ginny coolly.

"Yes," he bit off, "I could tell." Ron had definitely lost his smile by now. "Ginny, I know you don't much like Hope, but she is family, and it wouldn't hurt you to start treating her that way…!"

"Who says I don't like Hope?" Ginny seemed genuinely astonished. For the moment, the coolness in her voice was gone.

"Hope does."

"And where would she get that loony notion?" The coolness was back, chillier than ever.

Ron was sure her choice of words was deliberate. For once, he refused to rise to the bait. "It's nothing blatant, Ginny," he replied, trying to make her see his point. "You don't snarl at her or hit her or call her names. You're very civil to her. But kids are pretty sharp about feelings, even if they can't put a name to them."

She snorted derisively. "You're barking, Ron. And this isn't the time or place to discuss it." Ginny turned to Bill and smiled brightly. "Thanks for having me over again, Bill. My place next week?"

Bill flicked a glance at Ron before replying, "Can I give you a rain check, Gin-Gin? Other plans…"

"Sure. Fleur, dinner was splendid as always. Say goodnight to the twins for me. … Ron." With a curt nod at Ron, she Disapparated.

Ron rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Uh, sorry, Fleur. I shouldn't've brought this up in your house. I'm only trying to look after Hope…"

"I'm glad you did," said Fleur briskly, as though reaching a conclusion. She gestured for Ron and Bill to follow her to the kitchen. There she set a pot of water to boil for tea, and brought out some treacle tarts as they seated themselves around the table. "I always keep a supply of these for you, Ron. You see, I do learn."

Ron smiled as he took a tart and ate half of it in one bite. "So… what did you mean, you were glad I brought it up?"

"As you say, children are very perceptive. I think you made your point… with me, at least." Having provided her Anglais with their tea, Fleur proceeded to pour herself a glass of red wine. She gave Ron a wistful half-smile. "I love how Ginny spends time with us, and especially with Michelle and Isabeau. They adore her, you know. And I know how she plays with Lance, when she visits Fred and Angelina. It has taken us a while to see that she spends virtually no time with Hope."

"For a while," Bill put in, "we wondered if it was something you or Luna had done."

"Eh bien, Bill, it's obvious," chided Fleur. "Ginny blames Hope for Harry's death." She held up a hand as both Ron and Bill began to expostulate. "Not in her head, but in her heart. In her head, she knows You-Know-Who was to blame… but in her heart? It was Hope being born that brought Harry to St. Mungo's, to be killed."

"That's… that's…" Ron waved his hands as he tried to find words. He seemed to be doing that a lot this evening. "She might as well blame Hermione, then. Hell, she might as well blame me – I mean, I was there too!"

Fleur gave a small apologetic shrug. "I'm sure she does, Ron." She stood as the kettle began to whistle. Spooning some tea leaves into a teapot, she poured boiling water into the pot and covered it with its cozy. "I'll talk to her, if you like," she said after a moment. "Try to convince her to at least make an effort to be nicer to Hope. For Hope's sake, if for no other reason."

*

Luna was quietly closing the door to Hope's bedroom when Ron finally Apparated home. "Ah, there you are," she said with a nod, as though he'd just stepped out of the next room. "I've finally gotten her asleep. She was more upset than we knew…"

"I was afraid of that." Yeah, Ginny, some of us can tell. "Let me just look in on her… kiss her goodnight… I'll be right to bed, love." He flashed Luna a smile and slipped into Hope's room, shutting the door behind him.

He had his wand out even before he reached her bedside. A quick flick and it was done; he slid the wand back into his pocket as he smiled more grimly. All of Snape's sixth-year lessons on non-vocal hexes, and he was still lousy at them. This spell, though, he could do non-vocally with ease, almost in his sleep.

His face softened as he gazed upon his sleeping daughter. In sleep Hope's features relaxed, slightly, subtly – still a blank face, in a way, but peaceful rather than passive. Tonight she had a tendril of hair wrapped around her finger, and her brows were creased in a tiny furrow… as though she'd been thinking deeply just as she'd fallen asleep. Ron was struck by a sense of déjà vu – he'd seen this scene before. The exact memory eluded him for the moment, but he knew it would come to him…

"My King?" Luna had silently come into the room, and now stood behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned into his back. "Please don't wake her…"

"I won't. I was just looking at her…" He laid his hands over his wife's. "We're going to have to tell her, aren't we? Tomorrow."

"Yes, we can get it out of her system at one go. Perhaps we should finally bring out that photo you've kept in the cupboard," Luna suggested. "The one with you and Hermione in the center. A visual aid of sorts… they do say a picture's worth a thousand words, though I've always thought that was an exaggeration." She sighed contentedly and rested her head against Ron's shoulder. "This may have turned out for the best," she continued, ever optimistic. "Less of a shock than if we'd just sat her down and told her everything all at once."

"Which would still've been better than hearing about it at school," groused Ron. "I just wish everyone'd leave her alone. She hasn't done anything…"

"You said it yourself, she's the oldest. First of the Post Voldemort generation… even without her parents being the best friends of The Chosen One, that alone would bring attention." She kissed the back of Ron's neck. "As the population boom gets larger, she'll get lost in the crowd. The problem will solve itself, Ronald."

"Let's hope so."

"Although it occurs to me that we could do more to help the solution along."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked, just as he realized that Luna's hands had begun to trace slow circles on his stomach.

"Well, we need to do our bit to add to the population boom, don't you think?"

Ron turned in place, still wrapped in Luna's arms, and his eyes grew wide. Luna had changed into a blue peignoir the exact color of her eyes, and about as opaque as spiderweb. The effect was slightly marred by the numerous winged toasters that skittered across the fabric's surface, but Ron found he didn't care.

"My Good Love," he murmured, lifting her up with his hands under her buttocks, and carrying her to the door, "you do come up with the most wonderful ideas."

"Certainly worth a thousand words," giggled Luna. "Or else just one."

*

The errant memory did finally resurface, just before dawn, in a dream that seemed as vivid as reality:

Hermione had fallen asleep over a stack of open books in the study at Grimmauld Place. The rays of the setting sun through the window – or four months of pregnancy – gave her skin a soft, warm glow. Ron stood silently in the doorway, noting with amusement the tiny furrow in her brow, and how one hand had twisted a strand of hair, even in her sleep.

He was still debating whether to wake her when her lids fluttered open. "Oh, Ron. Drat it, I fell asleep again, didn't I?"

"You don't hear me complaining. It's the only sleep you seem to get anymore." He watched as she carefully stretched and rubbed the gunk from her eyes. "Besides, aren't expectant mothers supposed to take naps?"

"Not like this. None of the pregnancy books said anything about feeling so… so drained all the time." She abstractedly jotted a note in her journal. It was characteristic of Hermione that her handwriting was as neat now as it had ever been in her years at Hogwarts. "I think I've found something useful, though. It's an old treatise on the Expecto spell…"

"For making a Patronus?"

"That's how it's normally used… but if I'm interpreting this text right, it may not be limited to Expecto Patronum." Hermione grew more enthusiastic as she continued, "The Patronus is an embodiment of happiness, of joy… it takes a happy memory to create it. But there are other positive emotions besides simple happiness – what if they could be harnessed, made corporeal?" She looked at the open book she'd been using as a pillow and grimaced. "Ewww, I drooled…"

Ron laughed and moved to stand by her chair. "Oh ick, you've defaced a book with your Gryffindor slime. Have you no respect for the printed word? That's five points, speaking as a prefect."

"Prat." But she was smiling as she said it.

He put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of his head. "Hermione, as long as you can find answers like that, I'll let you sleep with the books all you want…"

And this was the point where, if Ron had his way, the memory would have stopped. On a happy, loving note, just him and Hermione. But Ron had no more control over the memory than he'd had over what had happened next…

There was a sudden pop of air downstairs. Simultaneously, Ron could smell the stench of burning flesh, hear a low guttural moan of pain, feel the flicker of magic through the house…

"Harry!" cried Hermione. "Something's happened!"

They both bolted for the door of the study, wands already drawn. Somehow, even though she'd been sitting and he'd been standing, even though Ron had longer legs, even though Hermione was in her second trimester, she managed to beat him down the stairs and into the kitchen. Ron stopped short at the sight that greeted him.

Harry was on the kitchen floor writhing in pain, his clothes on fire, while Hermione was dousing him with some white foam from her wand. The fire was quickly being extinguished, but Harry continued to moan… his jaw was clenched tight, as though it were only by great effort that he wasn't screaming. He held something in his hand, something that wasn't his wand…

"Ron," Hermione said without turning, "I need the jar of burn paste from my bedroom, as well as the green satchel with the St. Mungo's emblem. Hurry." She knelt at Harry's side and began to try to straighten his limbs. "Harry?" she whispered.

"Got… caught in… crossfire," Harry forced out. She had him on his back now and was trying to remove his burnt garments. They were fused to his burnt skin, and she had to use her wand like a scalpel to remove them, gently but efficiently. "Wait," he grunted.

"I'm sorry it hurts, Harry, I'm sorry, but I have to see how badly you're burned…"

"Take… this." He blindly reached out his hand, and Ron could now see what it held. A rat – a very familiar looking rat, he'd owned it for years – held rigid in a Full Body Bind. Its right forepaw gleamed with silver. "Put in… box… Unbreakable… question him… later…"

"Oh, well done, Harry," she breathed. She accepted the rat and fired off a few additional binding spells at it, before setting it aside and turning her attention back to Harry. "The paste, Ron," she added sharply. "NOW!"

And the merciless memory ended with Ron jumping to do Hermione's bidding, while she with infinite care prepared Harry's still-smoldering wounds for treatment.

2. II

(A/N: I was extraordinarily remiss, last chapter, in not crediting my sterling beta reader, Mary Caroline. Her insights have been indispensable… especially those into the social dynamics of prepubescent females. Sevenfold thanks, MC.

This story is strictly canon-compliant… which is to say, I took the situation that existed at the end of all six books as my foundation. To those who still wonder whether this story has been posted in the right place, I can only repeat what I said to one of my reviewers: Either I'm very stupid or I'm very, very clever. You make the call.)

(Disclaimer: Still don't own these characters. I do take a slight bit of credit for the plot.)

*********************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

2 February 2008 – Year 9 P.V.

*

It was a sign of the Death Eaters' confidence that they sent up the Dark Mark before they'd completed their mission. Certainly they had every reason to be confident: everyone on the team had killed many times before, and their leader had been a high-level Death Eater under the Dark Lord himself. Besides, how difficult could it be to kill a game-legged Quidditch teacher and his family?

"Stupefy!" roared Ron. A Death Eater fell unconscious, looking very surprised.

Ron crouched in the middle of his living room, his wand in one hand and his cane in the other. He spun, ducked a curse, and fired his wand at one of the remaining Death Eaters before blocking another attack with his cane. The cane had a permanent Shield Charm built into it, saving Ron's wand for offensive spells. He needed only a suit of armor to complete the impression of a medieval warrior.

Two Death Eaters down now. He whirled and struck again.

The remaining Death Eaters were probably regretting the Anti-Apparation wards they'd placed over Ron's cottage. Not only did the wards prevent their intended victims from easily escaping, they kept the Death Eaters themselves from retreating prematurely. Only their leader could lift the wards, and right now he seemed obsessed with killing Ron. Which has its good points and its bad points, thought Ron dispassionately.

Now they were trying to coordinate their attacks. There would be a moment's lull, then a flurry of curses in rapid succession. Ron had to struggle to block them all, and he was finding it harder to target his opponents. Time for a strategic retreat, my lad.

Ron continued to fire hexes as he backed away from the center of the room, towards one of the bookcases on the wall. The side of the bookcase would provide cover… from a frontal assault. But the open hallway nearby was ideally located for an attack from behind, if a Death Eater could get there unseen.

At least, Ron hoped they'd try it that way.

He fired a Stunning Spell into the open area beside the couch, just as a Death Eater tried to duck there. The timing was perfect. Three Death Eaters down now.

A sudden volley of spells caused Ron to press back against the wall. They were firing so many, so rapidly… without regard for whether he could spot their hiding places. And none of these curses were the Killing Curse, what was up with that…?

Distraction, you idiot! Ron dropped flat to the floor, just as a dagger thrust itself into the side of the bookcase at the level where his neck had been. The dagger's edge dripped with poison. Panic spiked through Ron's body, and he reacted without thinking: he pointed his wand at the empty air behind the dagger and cried "Reducto!"

The empty air screamed. There was a loud thump, and the Death Eater leader landed across the back of the comfy-chair, his Disillusionment Charm cancelled. Which made sense, since Ron's Reductor Curse had left a bloody hole where his lungs used to be.

It was supposed to be a set-up, remember, stupid? They were supposed to try to get at you from that direction. You were supposed to be ready. Ron nearly gave way to a fit of the shakes, before he pulled himself together. There were still two Death Eaters out in his living room…

And amid a quick series of popping sounds, the fight was over. Three Aurors had Apparated into the cottage – evidently the wards had dissolved with the death of the leader – and had taken the remaining Death Eaters by surprise. They lay on the floor now, unconscious and hogtied. "Weasley? You all right?" called one of the Aurors.

Ron nodded jerkily, then shouted, "Luna! Hope!" He bounded for the stairs and took them two at a time, ignoring his throbbing leg. One of the Aurors followed close behind.

Both the master bedroom and Hope's bedroom were empty. Ron stood there in the hallway, hyperventilating, as the Auror approached. "We had emergency Portkeys ready," Ron said, trying to control his breathing. "Luna must've activated them and gotten Hope away safely. O God, let it be so…"

"You can go to them in a few minutes. Right now I need you to answer some questions," said the Auror. It took Ron's adrenaline-charged brain a second to realize that he recognized her voice… He looked up.

"Tonks?"

She nodded without smiling, every inch the professional Auror. She kept her natural appearance almost constantly these days – light brown hair, face and body hardened by combat – as though to emphasize that the days of playful hair colors and cheerful optimism were gone forever. "So tell me what happened, condensed version."

"I was downstairs getting a snack… I left the lights out, Luna and Hope were asleep, and I can get around the kitchen in the dark, which was lucky, since I managed to surprise them when they Apparated into the living room, and I remember screaming for Luna…" Ron was babbling, and worse, he knew he was babbling, but he didn't seem able to stop. "Then they were around me, but in bunches, so I almost didn't have to aim, well, at least at first, when I thinned them out a bit, one bloke tried to knife me while Disillusioned, poisoned knife, I think… did I kill him? I didn't mean to kill him…"

"Slow down, Ron," interposed Tonks. "You're still wired. Slow down." She waited for him to take a few deep breaths. Only when she was satisfied that he'd regained control did she say, "Downstairs. I want to see what they've found in the way of spell residuals."

Back in the living room, they found the two remaining Aurors trussing up the captive Death Eaters. A couple of them had regained consciousness. "You're dead, you blood traitor," spat one. "The Dark Lady wills it. Her will be done."

Ron strode across the room to the Death Eater as he continued, "You will live in fear of her until the end, Mudlover. You will never again know peace URRGK!!"

His tirade had to stop at that point, since his larynx was in the process of being crushed by Ron's cane. "Dark Lady?" Ron yelled in the Death Eater's face. "Dark Lady?! Is that what she's calling herself now?!"

"Ron, no! You're choking him! We want him alive!" barked Tonks.

Ron didn't seem to hear her. "What's Bellatrix ever done, besides be Voldemort's toady? Voldemort was an evil bastard, but at least he was really powerful and a genius. Hell, he found a way to make himself unkillable before he even left school!" He pushed his cane harder into the man's throat. "And we killed him anyway," Ron finished viciously. "If Bellatrix ever crawls out from under her slimy rock, she'll be a joke compared to him. 'Dark Lady,' my arse."

He released the Death Eater, who was left coughing and glaring mutely at Ron. "I almost wish we could let you go, just so you could deliver that message," he muttered. "Almost." He adjusted his grip on his cane, handling it now as though it were a Bludger bat.

"Step away, Weasley..." Tonks's tone was a warning shot across the bow.

"Okay, okay. It was just a thought." Ron turned away and, using his cane as a cane again, limped back to Tonks. She was now examining the dead Death Eater, trying to pry off his mask. Behind him, the two Aurors watched him with undisguised admiration.

"Six to one," one of them said in a low voice, "and not a scratch on him." The other nodded approvingly before Stunning the prisoners again.

There'd been a time in his life when Ron's ego had craved such adulation… had envied Harry for getting it. He couldn't understand, then, why Harry had so hated the attention. He understood now, though. He understood perfectly. Because the price is too effing high.

By now, Tonks had succeeded in removing the dead man's mask. She gave a low whistle. "Merlin's beard, Ron," she said. "Do you know who this is?"

"Other than some sicko who tried to kill me? Sorry, no."

"Rodolphus Lestrange. He's like the number two man in the new Death Eaters… was, I should say. If Bellatrix didn't hate you before, she's really going to want your scalp now…" Tonks looked up to see Ron looking positively nauseous. "Self defense," she reminded him firmly. "Remember your wife and child. It was self defense."

"I… I… Right. Self defense." Ron stared at Lestrange's dead face – tried not to stare at the hole blasted in Lestrange's chest – tried hard to choke back bile. "Bloody wonderful."

She startled him by reaching up and briefly touching his arm. Her expression turned almost tender. "You were wonderful. You fought to defend the ones you love. And that's… that's the ultimate in love, Ron. Trust me." As she spoke, Tonks reflexively caressed the ring on her left hand. A delicate ring of gold, shaped like a spray of leaves and set with tiny alexandrites, it sat on her finger like a miniature garland of lupins. Ron knew it was the only jewellery she ever wore, and that she never took it off.

"Yeah," he agreed quietly, feeling the adrenaline rush finally draining away. "You'd know, at that."

Tonks nodded once, lost in memory, before abruptly turning professional again… her tender expression quickly gone. "Go. Make sure they're all right. We'll finish here, then take our new guests to their new luxury suite." Ron started at her words… as on top of all the shocks he'd had this evening, he began to feel a sickening sense of déjà vu.

She stood and jerked her head impatiently. "I said go."

Once Ron had Apparated away, Tonks turned back to her colleagues. "Right, then," she said in a hard voice. "You two have five minutes to get these nutcases back to HQ and dosed with Veritaserum. Maybe we can locate Bella's hidey hole before she finds out the mission failed." She barely waited long enough for the Aurors to say, "Yes, ma'am," before she began to cast Prior Incantato charms on the captives' wands.

*

"'The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place.'" Ron looked up from the bit of parchment as memories flooded back into his brain. "I remember now! I'd forgotten about it until I read… Harry, what the hell's going on?"

"Far as I can tell, when Dumbledore died last month, he took the secret of Grimmauld Place with him," said Harry, taking back the parchment and handing it to Hermione. "I remember Flitwick talking about the Fidelius Charm… he said the secret is hidden in the Secret Keeper's soul. Well, if the Secret Keeper dies and his soul leaves, the secret goes away with it, right?"

"It makes sense," commented Hermione. "When a Secret Keeper dies, either the secret dies too, or else it becomes available to be known again. Those are the only two possibilities. And if it were the latter, then there wouldn't be much point to having a Secret Keeper, would there? Take your parents, Harry – if all Voldemort had to do to find them was kill everyone who might have been their Secret Keeper, he wouldn't have had to depend on Wormtail's betrayal."

"Lucky I found that bit of parchment in the stuff Dumbledore left me," said Harry, retrieving it from her. "He wrote that when he revived the Order – he made a fair few copies, Moody showed me one when I first arrived at the Place – and without it, we'd never be able to remember the Place existed."

"So nobody remembers about Grimmauld Place at all – not Lupin, not Snape, not McGonagall – nobody but us?" Ron asked.

Harry nodded grimly. "And as the owner, I intend to keep it that way."

Hermione eyed him speculatively. "You're thinking it will make a good base of operation… while we look for the Horcruxes." It wasn't phrased as a question.

"Place to start, anyway… whoops, it's almost time." The clock in Harry's bedroom read 11:58. It was the thirtieth of July, 1997, and in two minutes Harry would be of legal age in the wizarding world – and the protections placed around number four, Privet Drive would crumble.

"Shall we?" Ron levitated Harry's trunk and moved it towards the door. It still surprised him that all of Harry's worldly possessions would fit into a single trunk. Except for Grimmauld Place, he reminded himself, but that hardly counts.

Together the Trio left Harry's bedroom. "I still say you shouldn't be Apparating," Hermione scolded Harry as they walked downstairs. "You may be of age at midnight, but you still don't have a license…"

"Neither of you can Side-along Apparate with me," Harry said shortly. Ron knew that very few wizards could carry another person with them while Apparating – his own father couldn't, he knew – but it still sounded like Harry was putting them down unnecessarily.

They paused in the living room to allow Harry to say goodbye to his loving guardians. The Dursleys were seated on their sofa, petrified with fear… as the rest of the furniture in the living room paced in front of them like lions, back and forth, snarling, watching them hungrily.

"Y-you… you can't d-do this," Vernon managed to stutter, as Hermione proudly patted one of the growling comfy-chairs. "You aren't a-allowed…"

"I'm not. But they are." Harry jerked his thumb at Ron and Hermione. "They're of age and everything."

"Don't worry, Mr. Dursley," Hermione said cheerfully. "If you stay very still, they won't try to attack you. The charm should wear off in a day or so. I think," she added. "It may recur spontaneously, every once in a while. But if that happens, just throw them some raw meat, and you'll be fine. You do keep raw meat in your house, don't you?"

"Brilliant," Ron murmured to his girlfriend. She beamed at him… then jumped as the clock began to strike twelve. From outside, they could hear a creaking sound, like a web of metal being stretched to its breaking point.

"Well, Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia," said Harry, "I'll say goodbye for now. I won't promise we'll never meet again, as much as I'd like to. It all depends on how Dudley's kids turn out, doesn't it?" The horror on their faces, when they realized that they might still have magic in their lives, warmed the cockles of Ron's heart to see. He could only imagine how good it felt to Harry.

"Meet you at our new luxury suite," Harry told them… and as the last stroke of midnight sounded, the Trio Disapparated away. None of them ever saw the Dursleys again.

*

"Of course it's no trouble," Fleur assured Luna yet again. "Stay as long as you need. Ma foi, we're just thankful you weren't hurt."

They were sitting in the kitchen at Ma Maison. Ron and Luna had chosen that destination for their emergency Portkeys: possibly no wizard alive knew as much about magical safeguards as Bill Weasley, and he'd put every bit of his expertise into securing his home. Ron had arrived the night before to discover Luna and Hope unharmed, and the three had spent the night together in the living room.

"Thank you," nodded Luna as she sipped her tea. "Ron's already gone back to the cottage. He thinks the damage was remarkably light, all in all – a few Reparo charms should take care of it." She blinked thoughtfully. "Daddy sent another owl asking for an interview, but I've already explained that things are rather hectic at the moment…"

Angelina rolled her eyes at this; Ginny only smiled. "I think that would be why he wants the interview, Luna." Ginny was clearly more comfortable with Luna's odd world-view than Angelina would ever be.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." Luna's wandering eyes came to focus on her sisters-in-law – the Red Hennery, as George had once called them (very imprudently and to his everlasting regret). They'd come to offer moral support for Ron and Luna, and Luna was grateful for their presence.

"Does your father still use owls, then?" Angelina asked. "Fred hardly uses them at all anymore. It's always the Speaking Glass these days. Men and their gadgets," she added with a snort.

"Owls are still better in some ways," Ginny reminded her. "They can track down people on the move, like Luna." She gave Luna a friendly wink. Over the last couple of years, she'd made an extra effort to be nicer to Luna, and especially to Hope. They were now on much friendlier terms as a result.

"It's the Floo Network that will become obsolete, not owls," said Luna. "Daddy says that's why Speaking Glasses are still so small. The Ministry is pressuring Speculum to not make full-length Glasses, so they won't replace the Floo. Otherwise the Floo Network Authority would become just another Centaur Liaison Office."

Ginny paused. "Y'know… for a conspiracy theory, that actually makes a certain amount of sense." Angelina began to smile, then paused and looked thoughtful.

"Please, do not mention the Ministry," begged Fleur. "Bill has been having a terrible time with them this week…"

Angelina laughed. "They must not be making their quotas or something. Fred's always being hounded by them. Little Tristam's sure his Dada's an international master criminal." She laughed again, then groaned and put her hand on her bulging stomach. "Ooops. Sorry, honey…"

"The little one's kicking again?" asked Fleur knowingly. "Tristam and Lance will soon have other things to think about than Fred's criminal record…"

"Uh oh, watch out, they're getting all gooey and Mum-like," Ginny smirked. "You and Ron'd better be careful, Luna, or you'll end up the same."

"Well, it's not like we aren't trying," said Luna. She spoke calmly enough, but there was an echo of wistfulness in her voice. Ginny immediately stopped smirking.

"Luna," she began anxiously, "I didn't mean…"

"Oh, I know," Luna said serenely. "I am starting to be concerned, though. I have to wonder if we're doing it right."

Ginny turned red. "I'm pretty sure you are. Well, uh, I mean, not that I'd know, of course…"

"The Healers haven't found anything wrong with either of us," continued Luna. "And we've tried all sorts of new techniques. Ron was very enthusiastic about some of them, especially the one with the balloons…"

"Too much information, Luna," said Angelina pointedly.

"We even tried eating some vervain-and-acorn mash that one of Daddy's readers recommended. She said it was supposed to promote fertility. It did turn out to be rather romantic: Ron and I spent the entire evening together, ralphing in the bathroom." Luna smiled reminiscently.

The other three witches exchanged uncomfortable glances. "Maybe you and Ron should just… not try so hard," Angelina suggested. "It's not as though Ron's in some sort of competition with his brothers."

"No, of course not," Luna readily agreed. "And we do have Hope, after all."

"In more ways than one," came a voice from the doorway. Bill stepped into the kitchen and snagged Fleur's cup of coffee. He grinned at the assembled ladies as he took a sip. "Hello, all. Glad you could be here – Ma Maison, ta maison. Luna, you holding up?"

"Is all well, Bill?" asked Fleur, rescuing her coffee. "You aren't normally home in the middle of the day…"

"Promised Ron I'd help with some new security spells on their house," Bill explained. "It made for a good excuse to get out of Gringotts for the day… it's pretty tense there right now. The Ministry and the goblins are about ready to go after each other, hammer and tongs…"

A sudden, loud shriek of rage echoed from another room of the house. "Maman!" cried Michelle. "Mamaaaaaan! Elle le fait encore!"

"Ah, zut," muttered Fleur, hastily rising from the table. "Isabeau, what am I to do with you…?"

"Mum?" came Hope's voice, "we need your help." She sounded determined not to shriek, but the strain was noticeable.

"Oh dear," blinked Luna. She followed Fleur out of the kitchen to deal with the unknown calamity.

Ginny watched them rush from the room, and couldn't help chuckling. "And that, lady and gentleman, is why I've avoided both matrimony and motherhood to this day. Sorry, Angelina."

"Just you wait, girl. Some bloke will hook you right and proper someday. And you'll marry him and get all sappy-eyed and gain twenty pounds overnight. And I'm going to throw your baby shower and remind you of what you just said, and I'm going to laugh."

"Pfft. Not gonna happen." Ginny looked up at Bill. "What's the deal with the Ministry, anyway? I've heard rumors about some problems they were having with the vampires, but I thought they left the goblins pretty much alone…"

"I imagine someone in the Ministry's getting greedy, and the goblins are responding by getting stubborn," said Bill. "It's all about Harry's estate."

Ginny immediately lost her smile. "Harry's estate?"

"Yeah… it's impressive. He started out well-to-do, you know, with the money his parents left him. Then when Sirius died, he inherited the Black fortune and properties. And then Dumbledore left him his money – a fair bit of gold there, you can save a lot in a hundred and fifty years – plus all those rare books and magical devices. Some of them were worth a fortune, all by themselves. Long story short, Harry was an extremely wealthy man when he died – and he died without leaving a will."

"And of course, he has no immediate relatives," said Ginny impatiently, "or at least none that matter. Wizarding law would exclude the Dursleys. We know all this, Bill."

"Fine. Do you also know what wizarding law says about people who die intestate? No will, no heirs… after ten years, if there are no legitimate claimants, all that money reverts to the Ministry. And trust me, the Ministry is quite eager to get its sticky little hands on it." Bill scowled as he again picked up Fleur's cup and took a deep sip.

"But it's not ten years, not yet," Angelina pointed out. "It's almost six months too early for that. Doesn't the Ministry at least have to wait until July before they ask for Harry's money?"

"As I said, someone's getting greedy. They want to start the process now, for some reason." Bill shook his head. "I can't really blame the goblins for getting their hackles up. Hell, I'm offended. But I have to play mediator between Gringotts and the Ministry, and I need to at least appear impartial. It's no fun, I assure you."

"Bill," said Ginny slowly, suspiciously, "if wizarding law says the Ministry gets Harry's money, how can the goblins ignore that? What possible argument could they give for not handing it over?"

Bill didn't immediately reply. "I couldn't say, Gin-Gin," he said after a cautious pause.

Ginny stood abruptly, all traces of friendliness gone. "I'd best be on my way. Good talking with you both. Angelina, tell Luna I hope she'll be okay." With a curt nod to them, she Disapparated and was gone.

*

In the twins' bedroom, meanwhile, the calamity turned out to be of a cosmetic nature. "Look at us!" cried Michelle. "Look at what she did! I look like a mini-troll!"

"I didn't do anything," Isabeau objected smugly. "You did it to yourselves."

"After you told us to! You said it would work! Ooohhh!" Michelle ran her fingers through her metallic green hair as though she wanted to tear it out by its roots. Her nose had expanded considerably, and seemed to have sprung a leak in its left nostril.

"Silence!" commanded Fleur. "Both of you! How many times have I told you to stay out of my cosmetic potions? This is why!"

Hope stood to one side, trying to avoid Fleur's wrath. Luna caught her eye. "Hope," she said calmly, "did you use your Aunt Fleur's potions without permission?"

"I thought we had permission, Mum," Hope replied, staring stonily at Isabeau. "It had been… implied." The stony expression was apt in this case, since Hope's complexion now resembled volcanic mud in color and texture. Her hair had been gelled into something akin to a sea anemone.

"No one made you…" began Isabeau, before falling silent at her mother's Glare of Doom.

Fleur allowed her daughter to steep in her own guilt for a minute, then said coldly, "Luna… if you would remain with this… this instigatrix, I will try to help her unfortunate guinea pigs. And you…" She gave Isabeau a fearsome look, promising dire punishment in store. "You should consider just what I'm going to do to you when I get back." Isabeau gulped.

Hope and Michelle were escorted to Fleur's room. "You two are not completely blameless here," Fleur told them, "but restoring you to normal will be punishment enough, I think." She rummaged through a drawer on her vanity and brought out a bottle of vile-smelling fluid. "Potions aren't meant to be combined, mes petites. I think we can deal with most of this quickly, but it will sting."

Fleur raised her wand. "Accio chairs. Accio towels." A pair of small chairs slid into the room, as a couple of towels flew in from the bathroom. "All right, sit there." She covered the girls' shoulders with the towels. "Hold your breath and try not to move… Scourgify!"

"Ow! Ow! Maman!" yelped Michelle. "Owwww!" Beside her, Hope gave a sibilant hiss of pain.

"Almost… I think that does it. Now one last step – Finite Incantatem!" Fleur lowered her wand and gestured towards the vanity mirror. The girls saw that their faces, at least, had returned to normal. Their hair, on the other hand, still looked like wigs from a nightmare.

"And this should take care of your hair," said Fleur, handing the bottle to Michelle. "Shampoo with it, then rinse very thoroughly. You can use my bathroom. Yes, I know it smells," she added unsympathetically, as Michelle wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Consider it a reminder to not do whatever your sister tells you." Giving them a final stern look, Fleur left to deal with Isabeau.

The two young witches sat silently for a moment. "She said it was okay," Michelle grumbled. "She told us she'd tried the potions herself."

"No… she only let us think that," said Hope evenly. "She was very good."

Michelle looked askance. "You admire her for that?"

"No, no, no. Just noting that we'll have to be better." Hope cocked her head curiously at Michelle. "Or don't you believe in revenge?"

Michelle grinned wickedly. "Only when it's sweeeeeet."

"I think I can promise that." Hope gave Michelle a tiny, secret smile that boded Isabeau no good. "I have some ideas."

"You always do, brain." Michelle sighed and looked at the bottle in her hand. "Best to get this over with. I'll go first." She went into the bathroom, dragging the towel behind her, and closed the door.

Waiting her turn, Hope examined herself in the mirror. Her face was just the same as before… nothing wrong with it, but nothing exciting about it, either. She knew what Mum would say: that she shouldn't care so much about her appearance. Which was easy for Mum to say. Mum didn't look so boring. She scolded herself for falling for Isabeau's trickery, while wondering why Michelle had done so. Michelle had no reason to be insecure about her looks, she had as much Veela blood as Isabeau…

Her train of thought stopped suddenly. Hope leaned closer to stare at her reflection. Had the mixture of potions had a permanent effect after all? Her eyes were no longer blue, like her father's and Mum's. They'd turned green – brilliant emerald green.

She leaned closer still and stared deeper into her own eyes, almost as though she were mesmerizing herself. Not until she heard Michelle open the bathroom door did Hope tear her gaze away from the mirror. She kept her eyes lowered as she took the shampoo from Michelle and went into the bathroom. Hope didn't need more attention drawn to her looks today – she'd suffered quite enough, thank you very much.

*

When she awoke the following morning, her eyes were blue once more. She decided it must have been a side-effect of too many cosmetic potions, and redoubled her plans for vengeance.

*

Ron and his family moved back into their home a week later, before the pre-teen skirmishing could escalate into all-out war. (Hope and Michelle had had the last word, something involving Isabeau's inappropriate choice of underwear. Ron had made a conscious effort to not know all the details of that one.)

All the damage to the cottage caused by the Death Eater attack had been tracelessly repaired… and a few new additions had been made. "Bill arranged for some special doors for us," Ron explained proudly. "Apparators stop at these doors, guaranteed. And here…" He gestured at a new mirror hanging by the kitchen door.

"A Speaking Glass?" asked Luna in amusement. "May I assume this is a gift from Fred?"

Ron looked puzzled. "No, why? This is from Speculum, the firm that makes them. A complimentary gift, you might say."

It was Luna's turn to look puzzled. "Complimentary, Ronald?"

"Well, yeah. Seeing they're also paying us royalties on each one they sell…" Ron paused. "You didn't know? Speaking Glasses are the first practical application of the new research from Hermione's journals. Speculum wanted to call them Granger Glasses, but I vetoed that idea."

"Ah. I see." Luna looked perfectly composed, as always – an outsider would have thought nothing amiss – but Ron had been married too many years not to notice her sudden coolness.

"I thought I'd told you, love," he said contritely, putting his arms around her. "I must've forgotten… I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to keep it secret from you."

"Just as well," she smiled. "You're appalling at keeping secrets." She kissed his nose to show that she wasn't upset, then tilted her head in thought. "So… any other discoveries based on Hermione's journals will likewise bring us royalties?"

"Part of the contract with Purvue," nodded Ron, glad he'd diverted her. He started to tell her about the other security spells Bill had used, in an effort to change the subject, when fate changed the subject for him.

"Mum? Dad?" Hope called from her bedroom. "What's all this?"

Luna looked at Ron. "More additions?"

He shrugged, mystified. Together they went upstairs to Hope's room. There they found Hope standing amidst half a dozen large boxes. She'd opened one; it appeared to be full of books.

"Where'd these come from, sproglet?" asked Ron.

"They were here when I came into the room," said Hope. "Didn't you bring them in? With everything else?"

Ron shook his head. He hesitated a second before recalling all the newly cast security spells – there was no way these boxes could pose a danger. He leaned over the open box and looked inside. Some of the books looked vaguely familiar to him…

He pulled a volume out and read the title on the spine. "Hogwarts, a History. Don't tell me…" He quickly opened the book and read the bookplate on the inside cover. "These are Hermione's old school books!"

"Are they indeed?" asked Luna coolly. "I wonder how they got here." She was opening another box as she spoke.

"I have no idea. I certainly didn't bring them in…!"

"There was a note attached to the top box," offered Hope. "'To Hope Justinia, when she's ready.' What's that supposed to mean?"

"Let me see, Hope." Luna took the bit of parchment and examined it closely. "Hogwarts stationery," she said after a minute. "With some sort of notification charm on it. Hermione must have left all this at the school and trusted someone to deliver it when the time was right. I wonder who."

Ron snorted. "Given that this all was delivered to our house without being seen… my money's on Dobby."

"You're probably right, My King," she replied, smiling again. "You should thank him tomorrow." She reached into the box she'd opened and brought out a set of brass scales. "All your mother's old school supplies are here, dear. She wanted you to have them."

"Did she write anything else?" Hope selected another book at random and flipped through its pages. They were all pristine and unmarked. "No class notes? No scribbles in the margins?"

"We've had bad luck with books that had scribbles in the margins," said Ron darkly. "And anyway, your mother would never have sullied a book by writing in it. She practically considered the printed word to be sacred."

"But no other messages?"

"Apparently not," said Luna. "Though the gift is a message in itself, isn't it?"

"I s'ppose. Well, it'll be nice to have my own copies of these books. I won't have to…" Hope broke off what she was saying and kept her eyes glued to the contents of the box.

Luna regarded her thoughtfully. "Hope," she said after a moment, "have you been reading my old school books?"

"Um… some of 'em, I guess." Hope looked up. "You aren't angry, are you?"

"Not that you've been reading about magic. A little hurt that you didn't ask permission, perhaps. You do seem to be making a habit of that." Luna waited until Hope had mumbled an apology, then smiled encouragingly. "Talk to me about anything you don't understand. And I'd prefer if you restricted yourself to reading only… no experimentation." She lifted a small pewter cauldron out of the box she held. "Or do I need to remind you how dangerous potions can be?" No longer smiling, Luna looked deadly earnest.

"No, Mum, I understand. No experimentation." She glanced at Ron and gave a startled cry. "Dad?"

Ron had backed away from the boxes and was leaning against the wall. His face was white; his hands were shaking. He was staring at the cauldron in Luna's hands. Luna immediately dropped the cauldron back into the box, out of sight, and rushed to hold her husband. "Ronald, what is it? Ronald?"

"That smell," he whispered. "It's Polyjuice…"

Luna sniffed carefully. The cauldron did have the stink of Polyjuice Potion, but that shouldn't make Ron react this way. "But it's only Polyjuice…" she tried to reassure him.

"We used it… hunting the Horcruxes…" Ron pressed his lips together as he saw how Hope was paying close attention. He took a deep breath and managed a shaky smile. "Sorry about that… didn't mean to be such a drama queen. Excuse me?" He gently removed himself from Luna's embrace and left the room quickly.

Luna and Hope looked at one another helplessly. It had been happening more frequently, as the tenth anniversary of Lord Voldemort's defeat approached. Some stray image, or scent, or sound, would remind Ron Weasley of his Terrible Year… the year he disappeared with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, fighting in secret against Voldemort. The year that had ended with the deaths of his closest friend and his all-but-fiancée.

Hope was coming to realize what Luna had known for years: that Ron really needed to talk about it someday, and that he never, ever would. "Hot chocolate, Mum?" she suggested instead.

"Laced with firewhiskey," Luna nodded. "Don't worry, ducks, your father will be all right."

"'Course he will. He's got you."

Luna blinked, then gave Hope a bright smile. "Thank you, love. Now why don't you start putting away your new books while I help your father relax?" She kissed her daughter on the forehead before leaving the room to find Ron.

*

"Our problem," Hermione told them the day after they'd settled in Grimmauld Place, "is that we know nothing about Horcruxes."

"Don't really want to, do we?" Ron asked. "I mean, they're really Dark magic according to Slughorn. I can't think it's too healthy to know too much about them."

"About how to make them, perhaps, I agree. But there are some things we do need to know about them." Hermione ticked off the points on her fingers. "How to locate them. How to identify them. And most important, how to destroy them."

"Without frying ourselves in the process," added Harry, "like Dumbledore did to his hand." He slid his glasses up onto his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Unfortunately, the spells he used were not among the memories he left me in his Pensieve."

"He left you a Pensieve?"

"Among other things. Lots of pretty memories there, but nothing really practical." Harry replaced the glasses over his eyes and sat up a bit straighter. "Dumbledore told me there were originally six Horcruxes. There's four left: Slytherin's locket, Hufflepuff's cup, Voldemort's snake, and something that used to belong to either Gryffindor or Ravenclaw. Finding them will be the real problem. Well, finding them and getting them. Finding them, getting them, and destroying them…" He let out a frustrated groan.

"That's what we have to discover," said Hermione, keeping them on topic. "The Hogwarts library had virtually nothing on Horcruxes. And given the injury he suffered to his hand, I don't think Dumbledore really knew that much about them, either. He certainly didn't know how to destroy them safely."

"It's Dark magic, Hermione," Ron objected. "I mean seriously Dark magic, the kind that can corrupt your mind just by knowing about it. The only real expert is You-Know-Who, and it's not like we can walk up and ask him."

Hermione furrowed her brow in thought. "But even Voldemort had to learn about Horcruxes from somewhere," she said slowly. "He didn't invent them. So there must be a source for the information we want. If it isn't at Hogwarts, and it isn't in Dumbledore's collection – and I'll check the books here at Grimmauld Place, but I'm betting it isn't here either – then we have to go where they do have the information."

Ron and Harry looked at each other in confusion. Hermione tsk'ed impatiently. "What school were we always told catered more to the Dark Arts than was healthy?"

"Durmstrang," said Harry promptly. "You think the Durmstrang library…?"

"Its Restricted Section, certainly. It's worth a shot, anyway." Hermione dove into her bag to bring out a roll of parchment, giving her an excuse to avoid Ron's and Harry's eyes. "I've written a letter to Viktor, asking him for help… without giving away any secrets, Harry, don't worry! He hates the Dark Arts as much as we do…"

"Krum? You're asking for help from Viktor Krum?!" Try as he might, Ron couldn't keep the outrage from his voice.

"Whose help would you suggest, Ron?" Hermione shot back. "If we're going to travel to an Unplottable school, we need someone's help to get there!"

"What makes you think Krum's interested in helping us? He didn't do anything against Karkaroff, did he? Even though Karkaroff was a Death Eater! Why should he help us?"

"He'd help me! We've been friends for years, and I think I'm a good enough judge of character…"

"You mean, like Kreacher? Snape? Oh, did I hear someone say Lockhart?"

The argument was interrupted by the sound of Harry furiously slamming his open hand on the table. Once he had their attention, he ruled, "I agree we should try Durmstrang's library, see what they've got on Horcruxes. Ron, that means we have to have Krum's help: we don't know anyone else who can get us into Durmstrang. Hermione, I'd prefer to involve Krum as little as possible – for his own safety, if nothing else." He waited a beat, then asked more quietly, "So how were you planning to go about it?"

"I thought… well, everyone knows that Krum and I are friends…"

Ron muttered something about grown men snogging fourth-years. When Hermione glared at him, he glared right back – but he stopped muttering.

"You were planning to have him escort you to Durmstrang, as his guest? Just paying a visit to the old alma mater?" Harry thought about it for a second. "He wouldn't really have any reason to visit, other than to show you the place. Problem is, everyone also knows that you and I are friends."

"He's always offered to show me Durmstrang, if I ever came to visit him," Hermione replied, blushing but holding her head up – and pointedly ignoring Ron's renewed grumbling. "I don't think the school staff would be that suspicious. And if I go there before term begins, I won't run into as many people."

"No, they'll still be suspicious of you. C'mon… they're so paranoid, they made the whole school Unplottable. You can't tell me they welcome visitors." Harry held up a hand to forestall her counter-argument. "And if they do let you on the grounds, they'll watch you. Even if you weren't my friend, you are Muggleborn. You wouldn't be allowed into the library, let alone the Restricted Section."

Hermione looked crestfallen. "I hadn't thought of that… You're right, they wouldn't leave me alone for a minute. Does this mean we have to ask Krum to look in the library for us, after all?"

"We still don't want to involve him," said Ron with an edge of snide satisfaction. "For his own safety, don't you know."

"Hold on, just a moment…" Harry thought hard for a minute, then nodded. "C'mon, let me show you something. I have an idea."

Mystified, Ron and Hermione followed Harry up the stairs to his bedroom – what had once been the master bedroom/study of the House of Black. Ron saw a large stone basin, which he assumed from Harry's descriptions to be Dumbledore's Pensieve… there were some bizarre silver contraptions, and piles of old books… "Did Dumbledore leave you all this junk, Harry?"

"Yeah. It was here when we arrived. I reckon he arranged for Dobby or someone to bring them from his office at Hogwarts." Harry dug through the clutter until he came up with a flask full of grayish liquid so thick it was almost sludge. "Polyjuice Potion. Merlin only knows what Dumbledore was using it for… maybe to search for all the memories he showed me last year…"

Hermione looked puzzled. "I don't understand, Harry. You surely aren't suggesting that you Polyjuice into Viktor, are you? Because you wouldn't be able to search the libraries at all efficiently…"

Harry shook his head. "No," he said, fighting to keep from smiling, "I'm suggesting that you Polyjuice into Viktor. We'll get some of his hair, and he can tell us how to get to Durmstrang, and there his involvement will end. That'll keep him safe enough."

"And what excuse do we give for Vickie popping up at Durmstrang?" asked Ron.

"The same as before," replied Harry, and now the smile had broken out full force. "He's showing the school to his good friend Hermione Granger."

Hermione blinked twice before she began to return his smile. "And while everyone's attention is focused on Hermione, keeping her from learning anything, Krum will be free to search the library at leisure."

"Not quite leisure, but yeah. What d'you think?"

"I think you're going to need a crash course in how to walk and talk and act like a lady. I've a reputation to maintain."

"Keep my legs crossed when I sit down, and chew with my mouth closed. How hard can it be?" Harry grinned and flipped an imaginary head of hair behind him. He furrowed his brow and chewed his lip anxiously. "Oh no," he said in a breathy falsetto, "I mistranslated that rune as 'ehwaz', it should have been 'eihwaz', I just know I'll lose points for that…"

"Shut it, you," Hermione grinned, with a friendly swat to Harry's arm. It had taken that long for Ron to catch on to their plan: Hermione would go to Durmstrang disguised as Viktor Krum – and Harry would go disguised as Hermione.

Looking back and forth at them as, amidst friendly banter, they discussed how they would contact Krum, when they would make the trip, what sorts of diversions they might attempt, Ron felt as though he should raise some sort of objection to their plans. But by the time he could verbalize anything that didn't sound churlish and petty, the plans were already set.

*

Hope was still sorting through her boxes a week later. The books had mostly been removed from the boxes, but hadn't yet made their way to the bookshelves: they were stacked in piles on the floor of her room. It seemed like the full seven-year Hogwarts syllabus had been included… she looked forward to reading some of the more advanced books later. At the moment she was pawing through the one box that contained no books. It contained school supplies instead: the scales and cauldron that Mum had found, a telescope, some Potions ingredients neatly labeled, a circular Arithmancy calculator…

And a small package wrapped in dark paper, sealed with wax. Hope turned it over in her hands thoughtfully. It didn't look like a school supply… looked, in fact, like something secret. On the other hand, it was in a box addressed to her, so presumably it was intended for her. Which meant her parents didn't need to know about it, did they?

Nodding at her own impeccable logic, she broke the seal and unwrapped the package. It was a cabinet portrait, slightly larger than her hand – a painting, not a photograph – in an antique bronze frame. It showed a bushy-haired young woman, her eyes closed and her face peaceful. In one hand she held a closed book; her other hand was pressed low against her stomach.

Hope recognized her at once. Even if she hadn't sought out pictures of this woman (ever since she'd been told her birth mother's name), the face could be found in dozens of history books. This was Hermione Granger – her mother.

"So hello there," she whispered to the portrait. "Thank you for the books."

And then, to her surprise, the portrait moved. The figure stirred, blinked its eyes as though awakening from a long sleep, and squinted up at her. As the figure's eyes focused, it began to smile. "You must be Hope," said the portrait. "And you're entirely welcome."

3. III

(A/N: Once again I thank and praise Mary Caroline, who beta-read this chapter for me, and without whom this story would be greatly diminished.

For those of you who've reviewed the story so far, my boundless gratitude! Your comments keep me on my toes, which is the way I like it.)

(Disclaimer: I'm not making a cent off this story… in fact, Jo, if you're reading this, feel free to adopt these ideas for your last book, with my compliments. Heh.)

***************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

1 March 2008 – Year 9 P.V.

*

Ron held the bit of pasteboard as though it were made out of precious crystal… as though it might break if not handled just so. "Agrippa," he said in soft wonder. "It's Agrippa." He fell silent, sitting in the living room at the Burrow, just staring at the card.

Hope watched him carefully. Only a slight flutter of her eyelids betrayed the nervousness she felt. "Do you like it, Dad?" she asked eventually.

"Like it?" With a wild whoop, Ron leapt from his chair and grabbed his daughter. He hugged her tightly as he swung her around him, pivoting on his good leg. "This is the Agrippa card! It's about the rarest Chocolate Frog Card there is! Do you know how long I've been looking for this card? I could never find it, never – how did you…?"

"You do like it, then." Her face relaxed – for a moment, she actually broke into a relieved grin. "Happy Birthday, Dad. You can set me down now."

"Nah, I'll just keep you here. I know how much you love flying." He swung her around again for good measure. His balance was perfect, thanks to ten years of practicing this particular maneuver.

"Ronald Weasley, if you make that girl sick, I'll make you clean it up. Without magic." Molly Weasley's scolding was at odds with the amused smile of an indulgent mother-cum-grandmother. None of those assembled for Ron's birthday party took her at all seriously.

"Yes, Mum. Right, Mum. Whatever you say, Mum." Ron gave Hope a final buss on the cheek and set her on her feet. "Thank you, princess." She made her escape with as much dignity as she could muster, while surreptitiously wiping her cheek. She quickly ended up by Granddad's wheelchair.

"He started collecting those when he was younger than you," Arthur Weasley confided to her in a low voice. They watched as Ron approached his gift from Fred and George with justifiable caution. "He was so determined he'd have the complete set someday… typical Weasley stubbornness."

"Tell me about it." Hope paused and furrowed her brow curiously. "What else was he like… when he was my age?"

Granddad Weasley smiled slightly as he considered her question. "Oh, probably a little self-conscious… we had less money in those days, and so much of what he owned were hand-me-downs. And too, he felt completely overshadowed by his older brothers. Then he met Harry… hmm. Accio picture." A framed photograph flew into his hands. "By the end of that year he'd stopped You-Know… I mean, V-Voldemort," (Granddad gave an involuntary shiver) "and made the two best friends he'd ever have." He offered the photo to Hope.

It showed three kids, a year or two older than her, standing in a row with arms draped over one another's shoulders. A very young Dad was on one end, waving madly at the camera, and Hermione Granger was on the other end. Between them was a scrawny kid with messy black hair, wearing glasses. He grinned hesitantly, as though not sure whether it was permitted.

"Your father, and your birth mother," clarified Granddad. "At the end of their first year at Hogwarts."

Hope touched the center figure with her fingertip. "And Harry Potter, the Boy With A Lot Of Names. Funny, there aren't a lot of pictures of him around. In the history books. Anywhere." She traced the shape of his jaw, noted his bright green eyes… her fingertip finally stopping at the scar on his forehead. "Marked by Voldemort, my teacher says."

"A mark of bravery, you might call it."

She nodded and moved her hand to her mother's face. "My mother. Hmm… I seem to've got her hair, but not her teeth."

"That picture was taken before she had her teeth altered… Ron says it was done magically during their fourth year at Hogwarts. They looked much better when she got older… But you're right, you seem to have got your father's mouth." Granddad beckoned her closer. Hope leaned over his chair as he whispered, "You know, I collect Chocolate Frog Cards, too. Where did you find that Agrippa?"

"Pure luck," Hope replied. "Sorry, Granddad. I knew Dad didn't have Agrippa, but no one told me how rare it was." Her face, as usual, gave nothing away. And besides, she was telling the strict – if incomplete – truth.

*

"So, did he enjoy it?"

"Ohh, yeah. Just like you knew he would."

In the dark hours of the night, Hope lay in her bed, the cabinet portrait of Hermione in her hand, whispering a description of the day's events. It had taken a fortnight for Hermione's image to come fully "awake"… in the first few days after she'd been unwrapped, she'd been slow to speak and seemed very confused about her surroundings. Hope had talked with her every night, answering the same questions over and over: What year was it now? Her parents were Ron and Luna? They lived in Hogsmeade? Lord Voldemort was dead? Ron Weasley was her father? He taught Quidditch at Hogwarts? And on and on.

The talking had brought her more fully to life, and now she could converse as easily as any of Hope's friends… only a lot more intelligently.

"It was a little awkward, when everyone kept asking where I got the card," Hope continued. "Where'd you get it, anyway?"

"Well, they've a club at Hogwarts where they do nothing but trade Chocolate Frog Cards. I'd started some inquiries through them, to national collectors. This was, mm, near the end of our sixth year… I'd just started dating Ron. I'd hoped to have the card for him by the next Christmas, but it didn't arrive."

"It did arrive, though. It was in the box of school supplies you left me. I showed it to you."

Hermione's image shrugged. "Then it arrived after I was painted. I'm afraid I don't know about anything that happened after this picture was done."

Hope thought about that. "When was that?"

"Christmas break, in what would have been our seventh year. Hogwarts remained open that year, you know… there'd been talk it would close after Professor Dumbledore's death, but it was still one of the safest places in the wizarding world." She smiled thinly. "Especially once Harry was no longer in attendance. So the school stayed open despite everything."

"But Harry Potter didn't attend, you said. And neither did you, or Dad…"

"We had things to do that were more important than school," Hermione said sternly. She looked surprised, then flashed a sudden grin. "Oh my, if Ron ever heard me say that, he'd never let me live it down."

"So what was more important than school?" Hope asked as casually as she could. The mystery of Ron's Terrible Year had puzzled everyone for a decade: no one knew anything, except that The Chosen One and his friends spent the year fighting the Dark Lord, in total secrecy. The only ones who knew what the threesome had done that year were dead – except Ron, who refused to speak of it.

Maybe, thought Hope to herself, maybe someone will finally tell me something.

She was, however, doomed to disappointment once again. Hermione's image narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Hope," she said after a moment, "have you told Ron and Luna about me yet?"

Hope didn't reply. "As I told you to?" Hermione pressed.

"But… but they'll take you away from me," Hope protested. "And you were left to me. I think I should have a chance to talk to you a little while before I tell them."

"Hiding things from your parents is never a good idea," Hermione admonished her. She grimaced. "Though I say that as shouldn't, I suppose. In my case, however," she went on hurriedly, "it was a matter of life and death. That's not the case with Ron and Luna."

Hermione waited a beat. "Similarly, although I may have given birth to you, Ron and Luna are the ones responsible for raising you. It's up to them whether you're told about… certain topics."

"No one ever tells me anything." Hope indulged in a theatric sigh. "I'm not a baby any more, you know. And I'm not stupid. I'm top of my class at Potter, and…" The declaration would have been more effective if it hadn't been interrupted by an enormous yawn.

"Potter Primary School." Hermione shook her head in amazement. "Poor Harry would have had a stroke. He was almost militant in his modesty. It was just one of his many wond… admirable qualities."

"'Sanother thing," Hope said sleepily. "I wanna hear 'bout Harry Potter. Real stuff. All we get in school's the same ol' porridge. You'll tell me 'bout him, won't you?"

"Someday. I promise," smiled Hermione. Hope smiled back as she tucked the portrait under her pillow. "Good night, daughter."

"G'night… mother," whispered Hope, and in seconds was fast asleep.

*

16 April 2008 – Year 9 P.V.

*

"Mum? Why don't they teach magic at school?"

Luna paused to look at her daughter. Hope was busy setting the table for supper, a task that was both suitable for her age and better done by hand than by magic. She was methodically arranging the plates, aligning the silverware perfectly parallel – and, though not looking at Luna, quite obviously waiting for a reply.

"They do teach magic at school, elephant's child. That's what Hogwarts is, isn't it?"

"I mean at Potter. We learn grammar and maths and All Things Muggle, but no magic." Hope looked up. "And it can't have anything to do with the Blah Blah Blah of Underage Blah Blah, either. Hogwarts students are just as underage."

"'Blah blah'? Lance and Tristam are definitely a pernicious influence." Luna gave the sauce another stir with her wand. "As I understand it, most magical children show only a few bursts of accidental magic as they're growing up. I remember my first magic, when I was five… my Brussels sprouts kept turning into chocolate truffles. I'm not sure why," she added musingly. "I like Brussels sprouts."

"Maybe you didn't then," Hope suggested. I sure don't, she added silently.

"Mmmm, that may be it. Anyway, by the time you start at Hogwarts, your accidental magic has mostly faded… but you're ready to begin learning magic in a systematic way. That way, you can use the magic reliably as a grown-up." As if to demonstrate, with a flick of her wand Luna transferred the sauce into a gravy boat.

"Even if they tried to teach magic at Potter," she concluded, "you wouldn't be ready to focus it. That's why they concentrate on things you need to know that you can learn. You'll be writing a lot of essays at Hogwarts, you'll need that grammar…"

"If I had my own wand to focus…" began Hope eagerly.

"No," Luna declared with a finality unusual to her. "We've discussed this already, young lady. You'll have a wand when you're ready to start at Hogwarts. It's dangerous for you to have one until then."

Hope's expression came as close to a sulk as it ever did. She finished placing the goblets on the table, then glanced at the kitchen clock. It had been a gift from Gran and Granddad Weasley: it contained a hand from their clock, the hand with Dad's name on it. Now it had three hands… hers and Mum's were pointing to Home, while Dad's hand was pointing to Still at school.

The fact that Dad wasn't yet on his way home renewed her determination. This conversation would be ten times more difficult if he were part of it. "I promised you I wouldn't experiment with Mother's old potion supplies," she said quietly. "And I've kept my promise."

Luna froze in place. She said nothing, but waited for Hope to continue… waited almost warily for what she knew was coming…

"I know about Gran Lovegood," Hope continued in a rush. "I would never do that, Mum. I promised, didn't I? You can trust me." She fell silent, fearing she'd said too much. She knew she'd said it badly.

Luna still said nothing. She was blinking rapidly, her eyes fixed on something far away, but otherwise not a single facial muscle moved. Hope waited as her mother brought out a pitcher of pumpkin juice from the icebox.

"Somehow," said Luna at last, and fell silent again. After a moment, she resumed dreamily, "Somehow, the memory of finding my mother, after her Potions accident… doesn't disturb me nearly as much… as the fear of finding you after your Potions accident." She smiled brightly at Hope. "I wonder why that is?"

Hope shook her head to show she didn't have an answer.

"Potions books, cauldron, ingredients… all there in your room. It must have been quite the temptation," Luna continued, growing more thoughtful. Abruptly, her gaze was intent, and fixed on Hope's face. "No wand magic," she said warningly.

Hope held her breath.

"I have to approve in advance of any Potions to be made," Luna decreed. "And you don't do anything unless I'm with you."

Hope nodded mutely.

"Well then," Luna finished, and she smiled again, "in that case, tomorrow after school we can try a simple Potion for boils. It would be one of the first Potions you'd learn at Hogwarts." Her attention was drawn to the kitchen clock, as Ron's hand clicked noisily from Still at school to On his way. "And it might be a good idea if you let me broach this subject with your father. He was always a bit leery of Potions lessons, as I recall."

*

"She said yes," Hope reported that night. "With conditions."

"I thought she might," nodded Hermione. "Luna's quite intelligent, deep down."

"Sometimes she looks like she's half in the Other World," confided Hope, "but I can't hardly ever get anything past her. It's frustrating, sometimes."

"Perhaps you shouldn't try to get so much past her," Hermione countered dryly.

Absently, Hope twisted a strand of hair between her fingers. "Who painted you?" she asked, changing the subject.

"A wizard named Dean Thomas," said Hermione. "He was in our year… he dated your Aunt Ginny for a while… and he was quite the artist when he had the opportunity. He was one of the few of our year who actually returned for seventh year. I wonder if he got any NEWTs…"

"So he was there at Christmas break?" Hope prompted.

"Sketching everyone, yes. Ginny, of course – Ginny was his favorite model, even after they broke up. The professors. Me. Ron. Even Harry, though Harry tried to avoid it. Well, when I saw the sketch he made of me, I asked if he could paint my portrait. A magical portrait, with the potions in the paint to capture the essence of the subject. He'd never tried that before, but I made the potions for him and he agreed. We only had time for three sittings, but I think he did a brilliant job."

"I think so, too," Hope said, pleased at the amount of information she was receiving. She wondered if she dared try for more…

In for a Gobstone, in for a Galleon, she decided impulsively. "So why were you at Hogwarts for Christmas?" she asked. "Taking a break from your Horcrux hunt?"

The image of Hermione went so still that, for an instant, Hope was afraid the magic of the painting had suddenly worn off. "Who told you about the Horcruxes?" she finally demanded in a low, very menacing tone.

"Dad," Hope said as though it were obvious. She saw no need to add that Ron had only mentioned them in passing, during a panicked flashback. She didn't even know what a Horcrux was… but she had hopes of learning.

Hermione swore under her breath… Hope could only make out the words Ronald and something that sounded like zithering boron. "Horcruxes are extremely Dark magic," Hermione told her severely. "A witch your age shouldn't even know about such things…"

Hope waited a moment, then began again. "You were hunting Horcruxes," she led off, as though she already knew the story.

Hermione sighed heavily. "Yes, we were hunting Horcruxes," she conceded. "Voldemort had stored his soul in six of them, and two had already been destroyed when we started. We found the third quickly enough – it had actually been hidden at… at the place we were staying. It was Slytherin's locket… we'd nearly thrown it in the waste bin, thinking it was trash, but Kreacher kept it back and hid it. I wouldn't let Harry hurt Kreacher, but Harry managed to get the information out of him anyway."

"So… that left three…" Hope encouraged.

"Yes, and it's just as well I was there," said Hermione, warming to her topic, "because Harry was on the wrong track. To be fair, that's because Dumbledore was on the wrong track. He thought Voldemort's snake was one of the Horcruxes. And at one point, Harry got the idea that he might be a Horcrux, too. But a little common sense would've shown them how wrong they were." She stopped and looked at Hope expectantly.

Hope's face was calm, but her mind was racing. If she admitted she wasn't familiar with Hermione's story – at least a little bit – then Hermione would stop talking, she was sure of it. But Hope wasn't familiar with the story – that's why she was asking questions!

Horcruxes, she reasoned feverishly. Voldemort stored his soul in Horcruxes, she said. Why?

If his soul wasn't in his body… could he be killed? I bet not. Okay, that's why.

So… why would using a snake as a Horcrux, or Harry Potter, be 'on the wrong track'?

"Voldemort wouldn't've put his soul into anything that can die," said Hope. She tried to make it sound not like guesswork.

"Exactly," said Hermione triumphantly. "Even if nothing else went wrong, Nagini was mortal. She was going to die sooner or later, and when she did, Voldemort would become that much more vulnerable. Silly notion, really."

"But then… why did Harry Potter…"

"You don't have to use his full name every time you say it," corrected Hermione.

"Why did Harry think he might be a Horcrux at all?" Hope asked, refusing to be sidetracked.

Hermione bit her lip as she considered. "Well, actually, it wasn't that farfetched a notion – if you assume that Harry was made a Horcrux accidentally. Harry and Dumbledore believed that Voldemort came to Godric's Hollow that night to create a Horcrux by killing Harry and his parents. And Harry was convinced he must have succeeded, even though the Killing Curse rebounded. And given the connections between Harry and Voldemort – the curse scar, the Parseltongue, the ease with which Voldemort could project his mind into Harry – it did sound reasonable that part of Voldemort's soul was inside Harry. But that idea was disproven when Voldemort himself kept trying to kill Harry, which he certainly wouldn't have done if Harry were a Horcrux."

Hope nodded, just as though she understood everything Hermione was saying. She wished she could take notes, but that was impossible. She'd just have to be careful to remember everything, and think on it later when she had a chance…

"As for Nagini… Dumbledore was sure that Voldemort failed at Godric's Hollow, that he needed the sixth Horcrux immediately upon his return… and that when he murdered an old Muggle, he made the Horcrux out of the only thing available to him. Nagini, his snake." Hermione gave a derisive snort. "This, from the same Dark wizard who was willing to delay his resurrection nine months, because only Harry's blood would do. Voldemort would never have settled for an imperfect Horcrux, one that had to die eventually."

"But… but Dumbledore was, like, the smartest wizard alive! Dad's always saying how he seemed to know everything…"

"Ah," said Hermione smugly. "But I had something Dumbledore didn't have: Harry's memories."

*

"You're not concentrating, Harry," Hermione said with what she considered to be remarkable patience. "Now try it again."

Harry's rolled eyes and martyred sigh suggested what he thought of Hermione's patience. He touched his wand to his temple and closed his eyes. After a moment, he slowly drew his wand away from his temple.

Nothing happened.

"One memory, Harry! You have to concentrate on a single memory! Watch!" Hermione put her wand to her own temple and, after a moment, easily drew forth a long silvery strand of memory. She let it hang in midair for a few seconds before placing it back into her head.

Ron was eating a sandwich as he watched from a safe distance. "Can't you just do that to Harry? Draw out the memory yourself?"

"Dumbledore might've been able to," admitted Hermione, "but I daren't. I might take too much and cause serious damage." She turned coaxing. "Harry, it's no different than producing a Patronus. Try that. Try concentrating on whatever happy memory you use for your Patronus."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "That might work." Wand at his temple, he concentrated again – and this time was rewarded with a shining gossamer strand, flowing and floating.

"Well done!" Hermione gestured invitingly towards the Pensieve.

"Oh no," objected Harry. "Nobody gets to see this." He copied Hermione's movement and replaced the memory in his head. "Nice try."

"Oho," Ron crowed with a grin. "Now you've got me wondering what your happy memory is. Could it be Umbridge's sacking? Winning the Cup last year? Or…" In a flash he was scowling. "Tell me you aren't thinking of Ginny when you…!"

"No," said Harry curtly. He closed his eyes, putting an end to the discussion, and raised his wand to his temple again. He waited… he waited… and slowly drew forth another silvery memory. He opened his eyes and hastily deposited the thread into the Pensieve. "Got it. I warn you, though, it's not pretty."

"I didn't expect it would be," Hermione sympathized, waving for Ron to join her and Harry. Together they poised their hands over the Pensieve's gently roiling contents. "All right, on the count of three… one, two…"

And they found themselves inside Harry's vision of the murder of Frank Bryce. The old Muggle was talking to the back of a chair, while Wormtail looked on fearfully. Ron walked around the chair and stopped. "Oh, gross!" He stared in sickened fascination at the tiny abomination that was Lord Voldemort before his return.

"Don't pay any attention to what's happening here," Hermione ordered them. "It has to play itself out… we can't affect it. Remember, we're here for a reason."

Harry, after a disgusted glance at Wormtail, started searching the room. "It would have to be close to hand, wouldn't it? If Voldemort were going to make a Horcrux, shouldn't it be right here?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, Harry," said Hermione. She waited while Wormtail turned the chair around so that Voldemort could face Bryce, then quickly searched the chair cushions. Meanwhile, Ron looked Wormtail over carefully; he couldn't put his hand in Wormtail's pocket (or rather, the Pensieve image of it), but he could check to see if there was a suspicious bulge there.

"Half a mo," called Harry. He was standing in front of the fireplace, intent on the area above the mantelpiece – which, since the fireplace provided the room's only light, was shrouded in shadow. Hermione and Ron joined him as he pointed to what was resting there. It was a long knife, with a black handle worn smooth with age, and a polished silver blade. The handle's pommel ended in an eagle's head. "I didn't see that, the first time I had this vision…"

"The whole point of Pensieves, isn't it?" asked Ron rhetorically. "So… the knife?"

"That's the knife Wormtail used to cut off his hand, the night Voldemort got his body back. 'Flesh of the servant, willingly given'… he cut off his own hand, and dropped it in the cauldron. And he used that knife."

"A ceremonial knife, used in a magical ritual," said Hermione slowly. "An athame." She peered more intently at it, and raised her hand to almost touch the carved pommel. "Eagle? And it's so old… I think we can assume this was…"

"Rowena Ravenclaw's athame," Harry finished along with her. "Okay, that makes a lot more sense than a snake." He gave her a grateful smile. "Right again, Hermione."

She tried to respond with a 'told-you-so' smirk, but ended up not able to meet his gaze. Instead, she felt her face grow warm as he continued to smile… she turned away and motioned upward with her wand. Within seconds, the three were out of the Pensieve and back at Grimmauld Place. They looked at one another solemnly, and a silent consensus was quickly reached: it was time for lunch.

*

"The athame was last seen in Wormtail's hand, at the end of our fourth year," concluded Hermione. "Harry reasoned that, if Wormtail didn't still have it, he'd certainly know where it was. He and Ron went hunting for Wormtail, off and on, over the next few weeks… they were still looking when I was painted. It took up a lot of their time, but evidently it was worth it."

"Wowwww," breathed Hope. As bedtime stories went, this was absolutely brilliant. And nobody knew any of this except Dad… and now her.

"And that, I think, is all for tonight," Hermione said briskly. "Time for sleep."

"No, please, one more question. Once you found all the Horcruxes, how did you destroy them?"

Hermione gave her a penetrating look. "Ron didn't tell you?" No reply. "Hope, how much did Ron tell you?"

Busted! Hope tried to put a good face on it. "Not as much as I can actually handle."

"Uh huh. I think we'll postpone any more discussion of Horcruxes. You shouldn't even know about them, young lady. Now good night."

With a resigned nod, Hope snuggled under the bedcovers. She started to slip the portrait under her pillow… then stopped, struck by one last thought. "Did Harry ever tell you what his happy memory was?"

The corner of Hermione's mouth quirked upwards. "I figured it out eventually."

*

31 July 2008 – Year 10 P.V.

*

"You shouldn't move so much, love," Luna told Ron as she fastened his collar. "You'll strangle yourself, and then how will you be able to give your speech?"

"Sounds perfect," growled Ron. "Let's try it."

"Professor Weasley," came the tart voice of the Headmistress of Hogwarts, "if I must put up with this exercise in commemoration, I assure you that you must as well." That voice had never failed to wring obedience out of Ron – or any other Hogwarts student, past or present – and it didn't fail now.

"Right, Professor McGonagall," he replied. As a member of the Hogwarts staff, Ron could have addressed her as "Minerva" if he chose – but it didn't even occur to him to try. A Gryffindor, yes, but not a bloody idiot.

Luna finished adjusting Ron's robes, then patted his cheek fondly. "Hope and I'll be in the audience, My King. And afterwards we can all go to Diagon Alley and celebrate Hope's birthday."

"I'd rather be doing that than this," Ron groused after his wife had left. "Tenth Anniversary of Lord Voldemort's defeat. Lots of bigwigs, lots of boring speeches, sno-o-ore. How much d'you want to bet that at least one person says 'You-Know-Who' in their speech?"

"I've never accepted a sucker bet in my life, Professor," replied McGonagall dryly, "and I'm not about to start today." She lowered her voice as the rest of the Hogwarts staff began to join them in the entrance hall. "If it serves to remind everyone that we're still fighting a war, then I for one will sit through this whole ceremony without batting an eye."

Chastened, Ron followed the Headmistress out the doors and down the school's front steps. Professors Grubbly-Plank and Sprout, the only other teachers in residence during the summer, walked behind them as they made their way to the Quidditch pitch. A long dais, with a podium, had been erected at one end of the pitch, facing rows of seats set on the grass. Canopies strung overhead protected them from the summer sun.

Already, Ron could see carriages pulling through the gates and converging on the pitch. They carried an array of dignitaries and well-wishers from Hogsmeade. A pair of Aurors stood on either side of the gates to the grounds, casting quick security scans on each carriage as it passed through.

That's why we're doing this at Hogwarts, thought Ron as he took his seat on the dais, instead of the Ministry or someplace. No Apparating into or out of Hogwarts. Security is easier to maintain here. Let's just hope it's enough.

The Hogwarts staff stood at their chair on the dais, as the Headmistress welcomed the dignitaries as they arrived. There were representatives from the Ministries of Britain and Ireland, from the Dark Forces Defense League, and from other high-level institutions. One by one, they took their places on the dais as the seats filled with spectators. Ron spotted a flash of red hair – the Weasley clan was always easy to locate – and gave a discreet wave to Luna and Hope.

Minister Scrimgeour, predictably enough, was the first speaker. He waited for the audience to be seated before stepping to the podium and opening his mouth. Scrimgeour was scheduled only to welcome the crowd, to "introduce" the other speakers… but as his remarks lengthened, Ron began to glower where he sat. He's making it sound almost like he took out Voldemort personally! That Harry worked under his leadership! That glory-hogging…

Ron didn't have a chance to finish the thought. With a reverberating crack, over a dozen figures materialized around the assembled populace. Masked figures wearing dark robes… who seemed misshapen, somehow, almost hunchbacked. They pointed their wands into the crowd and in unison cried, "Crucio!"

He reacted from pure reflex. He dove flat onto the dais, letting the spell hiss over him, and threw himself into a roll. He tumbled over the side of the dais and landed on his good foot and his cane, wand out and aimed at the closest of the attackers… who promptly Disapparated.

But… that's not possible! Ron shook his head to clear it and ducked randomly to his left. Another Death Eater re-Apparated near where he'd been – she fired a curse at him and quickly Disapparated. He blocked the curse with his cane's built-in Shield Charm and continued to dodge, all the time making his way towards Luna and Hope.

Several innocents in the crowd were down now, unconscious or worse, and the rest of the crowd was quickly turning into a panicky mob. The Death Eaters were picking them off with ridiculous ease: they'd Apparate, fire a curse, and immediately Disapparate. They weren't using the Killing Curse for some reason, but that didn't make their attacks any less deadly.

Luna was trying to keep Hope by her side as the crowd surged this way and that in its panic. In her peripheral vision she saw a robed figure raise a wand. She swung her own wand in response. "Protego!" The hex ricocheted away as the figure Disapparated.

"Stay low, cygnet, and stay close," she said rapidly, crouching down. Her eyes flicked back and forth, bulging almost as much as they did in her school days. Hope nodded nervously and likewise crouched down.

The ground next to them suddenly exploded. Hope was showered with dirt and grass; it got in her eyes, she couldn't see, she had to brush it off… When she looked up, Luna was nowhere to be seen. "Mum?" she called, her voice rising. "Mum?!"

Another explosion. Across the pitch Hope saw Granddad Weasley fall over, trapped in his wheelchair. Where was Gran? Where were her uncles? Someone had to help him! She began to make her way towards her grandfather, trying not to get trampled by adult feet.

Her ears were suddenly assaulted by a loud, high-pitched shriek, like a banshee's wail. The sound made her whole skull vibrate… it staggered her for a second, until she clapped her hands over her ears. When she looked up again, several more people had collapsed around her. Hope had a clear path to Granddad – if she could get there without attracting a Death Eater's notice.

She took a deep breath, lowered her head, and sprinted as fast as she could towards her grandfather. Evidently she wasn't as tempting a target as the grown-ups: she made it to Granddad's side without being hit by curses.

Granddad didn't appear to recognize her at first… he was in shock, or something. "Percy," he moaned softly.

"No, Granddad, it's Hope. Uh, can we get you out of your wheelchair? You, you weigh too much, I can't set it up while you're in it…" She tugged vainly at his hand.

With a nod, he seemed to collect his wits. He planted both hands on the ground, put his weight on them, and began to drag himself out of the chair. Within seconds, Hope's other grandfather joined them. "Arthur? You hurt?" asked Granddad Lovegood anxiously.

"A little dizzy, Leo…" he replied, his voice a thin thread.

"Right. Hold on to the arms of your chair." Granddad Lovegood took a step back. "Mobilisella." The chair picked itself up from the ground, with Granddad Weasley gripping tightly to the arms, and gently set itself upright. "Now we need to get you out of here, Arthur," Granddad Lovegood continued grimly, "you're too easy to hit…"

He pushed the wheelchair in the direction of a cluster of Weasleys: Uncle Fred and Aunt Gelina, with Uncle George and his date herding Lance and Tristam. Uncle Fred was holding their new baby, Ygraine, while swinging his wand back and forth; Aunt Gelina was digging frantically in her purse. Hope followed closely behind her grandfathers as they made their way through the mob…

…and a robed figure suddenly materialized not six feet away from them. He pointed his wand at them and said coldly, "Reducto." Granddad Lovegood was thrown backwards, away from the wheelchair, to lie motionless on the sward. The Death Eater swung his wand to point at Granddad Weasley.

In desperation Hope did the only thing she could think of: she closed her eyes, jumped in front of her grandfather, and waved her arms wildly as though swatting away flies – while she screamed the spell her Mum had used. "Protegoprotegoprotegoprotegoprotego!!" It was not, she decided on later reflection, the mature action appropriate to a young woman who'd that day turned ten, but it seemed to confuse the Death Eater. He Disapparated away, leaving them both unharmed.

On the other side of the pitch, Ron had nearly joined up with Luna when a Death Eater appeared right between them. He started to curse Ron, only to be stopped by Luna's cry of "Stupefy!" The Death Eater sagged a moment, but didn't fall unconscious… but in that moment of distraction, Ron let loose with his own "Stupefy!" The second spell had its affect, and the robed figure collapsed to the ground.

"Luna! Are you all right?!" gasped Ron, as he quickly knelt to tear off the Death Eater's mask. No one I recognize…

"Of course," she replied, her voice perfectly tranquil… though her eyes still looked wildly about.

Ron opened the Death Eater's robe and cried out in surprise. The "hunchback" was actually a normally built wizard – with a house elf strapped into a harness on his back. Luna's Stunner had knocked the elf out, while his own had knocked out the wizard himself. Ron peered more closely…

Even though unconscious, the house elf's features bore the glazed look of a being under the control of the Imperius Curse.

All the details clicked into place in Ron's mind. That's how they Apparated into Hogwarts! The wards don't affect house elf magic! And when Luna stunned this one's elf, he couldn't escape...

And as he realized this, he also became aware of new arrivals on the Quidditch pitch: Aurors. They took only a moment to orient themselves, pocketing small office supplies, pens and erasers and such… then they whipped out their wands and launched themselves into the fray. Portkeys, Ron thought dizzily, they've all got Portkeys… In the distance Angelina smiled in satisfaction as she put away a cosmetic mirror.

Ron stood up and tried to shout his discovery to the arriving Aurors. "Everyone…!" He coughed once, hoarsely, then pointed his wand at his own throat. "Sonorus! Everyone listen!" his voice boomed over the tumult. "Shoot at their backs! They've got house elves on their backs! Shoot at their backs!" He immediately took his own advice and fired at one of the Death Eaters who'd Apparated atop the dais. Behind him he felt Luna's presence as she took her station, her back to his.

Whether it was the arrival of the Aurors, Ron's pointing out the best targets, or something else altogether, the tide of battle began to shift within moments. The crowd were still unruly, but no longer a mob – several of them, including the Minister, had recovered their wits and were fighting back. Five more Death Eaters were struck down, their house elves disabled, before the remaining assailants Disapparated away permanently.

But the ruin they'd left behind was devastating.

Ron and Luna turned to look at one another for a second. Ron looked disheveled, Luna looked serene. The one look was enough to reassure them both. With a flick of her wand, Luna cancelled the Sonorus spell… then as one they turned and went in search of Hope.

They found Leo Lovegood first. He lay dead on the grass, his chest horribly damaged by the Reductor Curse. Ron stared, aghast, at his father-in-law's bloodied body, and could feel his own gore rise. "Oh Merlin, Luna," he choked, "I'm so sorry…"

"Why?" she replied, puzzled. She knelt beside Lovegood's body and wiped a trickle of blood from his face, ignoring the pools around his chest. "He's been wanting to get together with Mum for years," Luna continued in a dreamy tone. "I would've liked him to stay with us a little longer, but I think that may just be selfishness on my part." Her voice began to break, but she continued with determined cheer, "I am going to m-miss h-him, th-though…"

Luna's voice broke completely at this point and she began to sob. Somewhere in the distance, the Minister was talking, Aurors were shouting, the Headmistress was giving orders… and Ron wanted none of it intruding on them. Instead, he lifted Luna and held her tightly as she cried into his shoulder. Awkwardly, he kept one arm around her as he used his other hand to unfasten his cloak… it came free at last, and he draped it over Lovegood's form. Then both arms went around his wife and they stood in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, saying nothing, letting her tears subside on their own.

Ron had no idea how long they stood there. He only knew when their bubble of solitude was broken, by the arrival of the Weasley clan – but they brought the person he most wanted to see. "Hope?" he called shakily, and held out one arm as she came running to him. Her face was spattered in mud; she was shivering as though it were January instead of July. He held her tightly as he said, "Hope? Thank God you're all right…"

"I'm sorry, Mum," she chattered to Luna, "I'm really sorry, but the man attacked so fast, and he was pushing Granddad Weasley's chair, and…"

"Shhhh, little lioness, shhhhhhh," Luna murmured as Ron stroked her hair. "You were very brave, just like him…"

"Yes," said Arthur Weasley in an odd voice. "Yes, she was."

Luna's eyes went up to Arthur, flicked over to Molly and the others. "None of you were hurt?"

"No, thank Merlin," said Fred. "Once reinforcements arrived, the Death Eaters ran like rabbits. That, and your announcement about them using house elves… once we knew what to aim for, it was obvious we could take them out."

"They just… attacked for the sake of attacking," George went on. "Did they want to just slaughter everyone here? I couldn't tell if they were aiming for someone in particular…"

Ron shrugged. "Take your pick. The Minister. McGonagall. Me." He gave a violent shudder and went on quickly, trying to act normally, trying to pretend he wasn't going to be sick. "Actually, it might've been me… Bellatrix hates me now. I killed her husband. Mind you, he was trying to stab me with a poisoned knife at the time…"

Abruptly, impatiently, Luna shook her head. "You're all wrong. They were trying to kill Harry."

Her family stared at her as though she'd gone off her onion… again. "My Good Love," Ron told her gently, "Harry's been dead for ten years. That's why we were trying to have this memorial today…"

"Harry's alive, as far as they're concerned," Luna declared. "They're scared of Harry, love. Bellatrix is scared of the very thought of Harry Potter. That's why they want to kill him… by killing his memory, killing what he stood for. And they never will." She gave them a wide, wicked smile very unlike her. "Harry Potter defeated the most feared, most powerful, most unkillable Dark wizard ever. They're so scared of him now. You know how some of us still can't say 'Lord Voldemort'? They can't say 'Harry Potter'."

It seemed no one could find a response to this pronouncement. Ron didn't doubt Luna was right, but there didn't seem to be a lot to say after that…

"'kay. Then we have to make them more afraid," said Hope, as though it were obvious. She'd taken her cue from Ron and got her shivering under control… and she seemed determined not to let her calm mask slip again. "If they're so scared of Harry Potter…"

Stooping down, Hope rubbed her finger across the ground, wetting it in the blood that still pooled there. Then she stretched up and with her fingertip drew a lightning bolt on Ron's forehead.

Before he could react, she drew another lightning bolt on her own forehead.

"A mark of bravery, you said, Granddad," she murmured. She raised her chin and looked around defiantly. "I'm Harry Potter," she announced for everyone to hear. "I fight the Death Eaters."

Ron stared at her in shock. Luna, however, nodded her head in approval. She raised her own finger, still marked with Leo Lovegood's blood, and drew a lightning bolt on her forehead as well. "I'm Harry Potter," she said matter-of-factly. "Death Eaters should be afraid of me."

Fred and George shared a widening grin. "We're Harry Potter," they cried gleefully. "We eat Death Eaters for breakfast!" A knot of wizards standing nearby burst out laughing when they heard that… then grew solemn as they recalled the attack of moments before. They nodded to one another slowly.

"Mum," Lance said to Angelina in a stage whisper, "can I be Harry Potter too?"

"Only if you're brave enough," said Angelina, in wonder at the scene unfolding before her.

For here and there around the Quidditch pitch, the cry was being taken up. Scattered individuals, saying it in their own way, but always the same credo: "I am Harry Potter, and I fight for the Light." Scrimgeour had stopped in amazement at the surge of confidence, rapidly spreading through what minutes before had been a panicked mob. Two reporters began scribbling furiously on their notepads, trading knowing looks.

And Ron Weasley could only stand frozen, staring at Hope, and trying desperately to put down the feeling of horror that was rising in his gullet.

4. IV

(A/N: First, I want to again thank Mary Caroline for agreeing to beta-read this story for me. There are times when I need that second viewpoint, trust me.

Second, let me thank all of you who reviewed the last chapter! I am inexpressibly grateful for every comment I get.

And finally, to ears91, who reviewed and wondered exactly how Ron and Luna got together: thank you for making me think! You'll see the results of that below.)

(Disclaimer: Insert standard boilerplate about not owning these characters here. Sigh.)

*******************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

13 August 2008 – Year 10 P.V.

*

"Of course we want to keep the piece on Myron Wagtail's three wives," explained Luna patiently. "But we also need the exposé on the Ministry, and we need it for this issue." She fixed her senior copy editor with a tranquil look that, nonetheless, conveyed to him that his only acceptable response was Yes, ma'am.

On the other hand, Quintus Tenpenny had worked at the Quibbler for many years under Leo Lovegood. This was hardly the first time he'd had to face down the editor-in-chief, and young Luna wasn't her father. "Scrimgeour's not the buffoon that Fudge was," he pointed out. "He'd never fund secret heliopath armies, or plot against the goblins, and our readers know that."

"But his administration has been suppressing the production of full-size Speaking Glasses, merely so the Floo Network Authority won't become obsolete." Luna waved at the newly installed Glass on her office wall. "This is the only size they're allowed to sell."

Tenpenny shook his head. "That's S.O.P for the Ministry… nothing new there. Hardly sensational enough to get people's attention, that."

"If we had full-size Speaking Glasses, we might've gotten help a lot faster two weeks ago, when Hogwarts was attacked," Luna told him.

"The way I heard it, it was because we don't have full-size Speaking Glasses that your sister-in-law was able to call for help," retorted Tenpenny.

Luna sighed. It was true that Fred had been experimenting with Speaking Glasses, hoping to change their size with Engorging and Reducing Charms. The results had been rather catastrophic for anything that tried to pass through an altered Glass (particularly if it had been Engorged), but a Reduced Glass could still be used for talking – and it fit in Angelina's bag just fine. So much for not being able to find people as they travel, she thought.

"They're still interfering with Speculum's business, just to preserve an entrenched bureaucracy. We need to hit the Ministry for that. And… for those who worry I might have a personal stake in arguing Speculum's interests…" Luna thought hard for a minute. "All the royalties Ronald and I'd normally receive from Speculum will be donated to a special relief fund, for the families of the people who were killed at Hogwarts."

Slowly, Tenpenny nodded. "Now that should get readers' attention. I'll add your statement to the piece and run it."

"Thank you, Quintus. Now let's see what else we have here." She spread the story slips out across her desk and started looking them over in detail. "Fergus? Another interview with the Middlesex Medium?"

Young Fergus Ferriter nodded enthusiastically. He was the Quibbler's best investigative reporter, and he seemed to do everything enthusiastically. "She's been in touch with the Beyond, and the spirits have told her why Bellatrix won't permit Avada Kedavra to be used."

"Well?" asked Tenpenny sharply, as Luna read the story slip. "Don't drag it out, man!"

"Because…" Ferriter let the pause stretch dramatically, just to irritate Tenpenny. "Because Bellatrix has made a deal with the ghosts! They'll join her side in the conflict if she agrees to stop using the Killing Curse!"

"That makes no sense…" began Tenpenny.

"Actually, it does," said Luna vaguely. "Avada Kedavra is too clean, too final… a person killed by it can't possibly become a ghost. The more it's used, the fewer ghosts are made. I can see they'd be concerned about a reduction in their numbers… but…" Her gaze came up to meet Ferriter's. "When you say 'they'll join' Bellatrix, Fergus, who do you mean?"

"The ghosts, of course… Ah."

"Yes, ah. Nobody speaks for the ghosts as a group except our own Ministry. Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Spirit Division, I believe. Unless Scrimgeour's changed things."

Tenpenny passed the story slip to Ferriter. "Get a statement from the Ministry responding to this. We'll run their denial along with the Medium's claim." He smiled cynically. "Actually, their denial will make her claim sound that much better."

"Right, then. What else?" Luna continued to scan the story slips. "Vampires in Albania… new uses for soapwort… good, another article about house elf abuse, we need to stay on top of that after what happened…" Suddenly she snatched up a slip and waved it at Tenpenny. "Quintus? I thought we discussed this one yesterday."

"She's news, Chief," said Tenpenny imperturbably. "As much as you might like to pretend otherwise, she's news."

"Which the Prophet is running very nicely. We're supposed to be the alternative to the Prophet, not its echo." Luna crumpled the slip and dropped it in the waste bin, which swallowed it and burped. "And Hope is not the next Chosen One! No prophecy was ever made about her!"

"People are interested…" Tenpenny stopped short as he was struck with a freezingly cold glare. Luna's eyes were like two chips of blue ice.

Luna gave it a moment before she slid the remaining story slips back to Tenpenny. "There will be no stories about my daughter in the Quibbler. This discussion is closed." Her voice was light, one might have said sweet, were it not for her eyes.

And Tenpenny found that the only response he could make was, "Yes, ma'am."

*

Her assistants had finally left her office. Perhaps she could relax for a moment. She leaned forward over her desk, resting her elbows on the desktop and her head in her hands. "Oh, Daddy, I miss you so much. How in the world did you manage this madhouse?"

The Speaking Glass gave a soft, low chime… someone was calling her. Ronald, of course, Luna thought. That's why he wanted me to have a Glass in my office, after all. Angelina was right… men and their gadgets…

She stepped over to the Glass and touched its frame with her fingertips. Her reflected image blurred, and became Ron's face. "Hello, My Good Love. I was just wondering if you'd make it back to Ma Maison for dinner tonight."

"I'm sorry, My King, it looks like another late night for me. I'm still learning the ins-and-outs of Daddy's job." Luna sighed and rubbed her nose ruefully. "Tell Bill and Fleur not to hold dinner for me…"

"Oh no, you don't get off scot-free," Ron said, and held up a wrapped sandwich. "You have to eat, Luna. If you don't eat, the Aciculate Vacuoles will be attracted to your hunger and make your joints hurt." He was smiling slyly, watching for her reaction.

Which, she had to admit to herself, must have been gratifying to watch. Luna wasn't often dumbfounded.

"You remembered," she finally squeaked.

"How could I forget? I may be thick as a Bludger," Ron told her, "but I'd never forget that. Ten years ago this week, wasn't it?"

Luna looked as happily excited as a child on Christmas morning. "Tell me, beloved. Tell me the story."

He couldn't help laughing. "All right, let's see… you found me at the Burrow, trying to get Hope to sleep…"

"While you yourself hadn't slept for days," remembered Luna, too excited to let him tell it. "A month since your brother Percy died, and your father still in St. Mungo's… Fleur ready to give birth at any time… Ginny gone to pieces over Harry's death… and you weren't much better, My King, you have to admit. You were a wreck… and you had a newborn daughter to care for."

"So you Apparated right into the Burrow, took Hope from me and got her right to sleep, led me to the kitchen, and warned me about the Aciculate Vacuoles," finished Ron. His look was tender now. "But this time, you've lost a loved one. This time, you're the one who's not taking care of herself. So here… let me…" The Glass gave another chime, lower in pitch, as Ron requested the Glasses to switch to open mode.

Luna touched her frame again, confirming the request… the mirror's surface faded and became intangible. Ron reached through the Glass and handed Luna her sandwich. She likewise reached through, to put her free hand behind his neck and pull his head forward. They shared a long and very thorough kiss. "Do you know," asked Luna when they were forced to break for air, "do you have any idea how much I love you?"

"You'll have to keep telling me, I guess," Ron smiled broadly. "See you when you get home." The Glass clouded for a second, then returned to its normal reflective state. Luna smiled at her image and absently brushed back a strand of hair.

I will tell him, yes indeed. Tonight. When we're alone. Goodness, it might take hours. She smiled dreamily and set the sandwich on her desk.

Where she spotted the final-draft layout for the upcoming Quibbler – with its lead article on the Ministry and Speculum. Oh, no, she thought in dismay as she was reminded of it, I forgot to tell Ronald about donating our Speculum royalties to the relief fund… oh dear.

Well, I should tell him that tonight, too, she reminded herself. Afterwards. I'm sure he'll understand, after all. The Quibbler has to uphold its reputation for impartiality. And besides, we're committed now.

And one last thought came unbidden (and she felt shamed for thinking it, but she couldn't help it): And at least, no royalties will mean one less thing to remind us of Hermione.

*

"We're trying not to make a habit of this," Ron told Bill and Fleur as they gathered for dinner that evening. "Imposing like this, I mean."

"Nonsense," Bill shrugged. "Ma Maison is secure, and your cottage isn't anymore. Not now that the Death Eaters've started using house elves for Apparation." He held up a hand. "But don't worry, we'll upgrade your wards. My boss Brasslock, compassionate soul that he is, insisted I install Gringotts-level wards here… I daresay we can do the same for you. And nobody beats the goblins when it comes to security."

"Wow. Curse breaking must be doing well, if the goblins like you so much they don't want you hurt."

Bill gave a mirthless smile. "Hardly any curse breaking for me these days, Ron. It's all mediating between the goblins and the Ministry… I seem to be good at it."

"For whatever reason," interposed Fleur, "we're grateful for it." She turned her attention to their other guest for dinner, who stood in the door to the dining room with unusual meekness. "It means we can offer a safe haven whenever any of our family needs it."

"Um… yeah." Ginny cleared her throat nervously, then stepped into the room. "Hi, Ron… Hope."

"H'lo, Aunt Ginny. Did you like your birthday present?"

"I did, thanks." Ginny smiled hesitantly. "Um, I'm sorry your birthday turned out so badly."

"Yeah," admitted Hope. "It was pretty sucky." At her father's reproving scowl, she insisted, "Well, it was! I just wish everyone would stop talking about it!"

"After the little speech you made? I think not, petite," smiled Fleur. "It's been on everyone's lips. Even we heard about it…"

"Course you did. Thank you, Daily Bloody Prophet." Ron muttered something about being grateful for no photographers.

"Yeah… I imagine the day went downhill from there." Ginny held out a small, colorfully wrapped package. "But, in the spirit of 'better late than never'… Happy Birthday, Hope."

Hope carefully unwrapped the gift ("Tcha! Just tear it open already!" cried Isabeau impatiently) to reveal a bottle of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. "I can show you how to use it, too," offered Ginny. "If you'd like, I mean." Everyone in the room recognized the conciliatory nature of the gift, and the offer.

"Yes, I would," said Hope, with a rare smile. "Thank you, Aunt Ginny." She set the bottle aside as everyone took their seats for dinner. The children – Hope, Michelle, Isabeau and two-year-old Ghislaine – were kept at one end of the table. There the twins enviously pressed Hope for more details of the attack on Hogwarts, while taking turns feeding little Ghislaine her food.

"Actually, I wish you had been there, Gin," said Ron. "You'd've been a big help in the fight."

"Yeah… sorry about that. I just couldn't bear to be there… you might say I don't do well in crowds on that day." Ginny gave a quick glance at Hope. "Particularly not with everyone saying they're Harry… although I appreciate the sentiment," she added hastily.

"I suppose," Ron replied gloomily. "I just wish someone besides Hope'd come up with the idea."

"It has certainly caught the public imagination," Fleur commented. "'I am Harry Potter' has become almost a battle cry. And perhaps it will stiffen some sadly limp spines… inside and outside the Ministry."

"Oh, the Ministry's got nothing but problems," said Bill dismissively. "Even if they caught Bellatrix and her Death Eaters tomorrow, there'd be something else. Dragonpox vaccinations, or stabilizing the Galleon, or vampire uprisings…"

"Vampire uprisings? That's really happening, then?" asked Ginny in surprise. "I thought it was just another rumor."

"The local vampires have been quiet enough," Bill allowed. "Albania's been having problems, though, and they've asked our Ministry for help. And of course, since our vampires have been quiet for so long, there's not much we can offer in the way of advice." He shrugged.

"Blood Replenishing Potion," said Ron abruptly. He was staring at his plate, not seeing the food piled there.

"Hmmm?" Bill waited a moment for Ron to elaborate. When Ron continued to stare at his plate, Bill said, "That won't help vampires, you know, Ron. You need to have blood in the first place, if the potion's going to work…"

"If we send them blood, and Blood Replenishing Potion, then the uprisings will stop." Ron stood up. "If we don't… they may start preying on humans again. Maybe even Muggles." He was perspiring, and his breathing was labored, but he managed quite a normal looking smile. "Back in a sec," he added, leaving the table and making for the bathroom.

Hope broke off from her conversation with the twins to watch her father in concern. "Uh oh," she said.

"Hope?" Fleur asked in concern. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

"I think Dad's going to have more bad dreams tonight," Hope told her. "And Mum's not here to calm him down."

*

Ron's dream that night was one of the worst he'd had in years. What made it so terrible was that it was no nightmare but a living memory:

"Albania in December?!" cried Ron. "Whose brilliant idea was this?" He wrapped his cloak around him more snugly, trying to shield himself from the cold winds. There were only a few snowdrifts on the ground, but he could feel the snap of snow in the air, ready to fall.

"If all you're going to do is complain, Ron Weasley…" began Hermione waspishly.

Harry stopped the argument before it could escalate, with a raised hand and a stern look. The look told Ron and Hermione that Harry had – there was no other word for it – taken command. He'd been doing it increasingly often, since they'd started their intensive training sessions at Grimmauld Place… in a way, he'd begun on the day of Dumbledore's death. He was truly growing – had grown – into his role of leader for the side of the Light.

For their parts, Ron and Hermione now knew that they should have listened more to Harry, before and during that battle. They were determined not to make the mistake again: they now recognized that when Harry gave a command, it was important – and they responded to his wishes.

Though not always without question.

"We need a Warming Charm," Harry said after a moment, "over as broad an area as possible. This whole clearing, if we can." He had his wand out and was taking aim at the far side of the glade. Hermione and Ron immediately followed suit.

"Good idea, Harry," Ron said through chattering teeth. "Keep us from freezing to death…"

"I don’t want it warm for us," said Harry. "I want it warm for the locals."

"Like I care why."

"The locals?" asked Hermione, fixing on his words.

Harry nodded. Already the remaining snow had melted away. The air temperature had risen appreciably… steam was rising from the damp forest soil. He looked around carefully, then approached a large lichen-encrusted boulder. Crouching before it, he began to hiss gently, almost caressingly.

Parseltongue, Ron realized.

After a few seconds, a serpent wound out from under the rock and faced Harry. They hissed at one another for a bit, then the serpent turned and disappeared back under the rock.

"Didn't he like us?" asked Ron.

"That one couldn't help us," said Harry. "He's too young. He's gone to fetch someone older. Someone who remembers when Voldemort was last here."

Minutes passed, and the Trio had to renew the Warming Charms to keep the glade temperate enough for reptiles. Finally, a reddish-brown viper emerged from under the boulder. It coiled half its four-foot length on the ground in front of Harry, raised its head and neck erect, and regarded Harry irritably. Harry hissed at the snake, but it didn't reply.

"I think Voldemort actually possessed this one while he was here," Harry said to Ron and Hermione, without taking his eyes off the viper. "I reckon he's not right chuffed with humans."

"Perhaps he can be bribed?" suggested Hermione. "Accio mouse!" A terrified field mouse came flying from the underbrush, and she hastily added, "Stupefy!" before it reached her. She caught the unconscious mouse and, holding it by its tail, approached Harry cautiously from behind.

"He won't strike," Harry reassured her, sensing her concern. He took the mouse from her, his gaze still not wavering from the viper's, and hissed some more.

The viper hissed back for a moment and flicked its tongue at the mouse. Harry shook his head and hissed again. The negotiations went on for a few more minutes before the snake turned and glided out of the clearing. "He says there's a spot where Voldemort's spirit would always return," Harry reported. "It's close by. He'll show us where it is, and then he gets the mouse."

The Trio followed the viper as it slithered through the forest. Harry led the way, followed by Hermione, with Ron keeping watch on the rear. There was a moment when the trees grew too thick to be passable by humans… Harry had to hiss at the snake to wait for them as they tried to find a way around the trees. Harry and Ron were about to blast out a path with the Reductor Curse before Hermione, with an exasperated snort, simply Apparated around the trees. Sheepishly, Harry and Ron did the same.

"Honestly," she huffed as they resumed their trek, "not every problem has to be solved by blowing things up." The boys wisely chose not to challenge this statement.

Eventually, they came upon the remains of a ruined chapel, overgrown with vines and weeds. "Romanesque architecture," Hermione commented. "By the looks of it, this has been around since before the Crusades."

They continued to follow the viper as it glided through the ruins and into an abandoned graveyard. Ron began to look around nervously. "I've got a bad feeling about this…"

"Shhh!" said Harry and Hermione together, as the viper entered a small, heavily weathered mausoleum. Stairs led down into an underground crypt, dank and with nitre-encrusted walls. In one corner, a trickle of water poured into a stone basin. At the end of the crypt was a large stone sarcophagus, the top carved into the figure of an ancient knight with a wizened face. The knight lay with his sword held point down atop his breast… and with a stone snake entwined around the sword.

Sitting on the stone block, at the knight's feet, was a small two-handled golden cup engraved with a badger.

Harry tossed the mouse to the viper, which caught it in mid-air. It swallowed the mouse whole, pausing only to let it work partway down its gullet. Then, with a final hiss, the snake left the crypt through a crack in the wall.

"I recognize the face," said Harry, approaching the carved figure. "It's the same as in the Chamber of Secrets. That's Salazar Slytherin… well, I guess we know where he went when Godric Gryffindor kicked him out of Hogwarts."

"Which is why Voldemort kept returning to Albania, not once but twice," noted Hermione, taking out her wand. "We knew this place must hold a special meaning for him, for some reason. And the cup would be…?"

"Helga Hufflepuff's cup," finished Harry. He likewise had his wand out, moving it slowly around the cup. "Just like in the Pensieve memory Dumbledore showed me."

"Look, all this is fascinating," Ron interjected urgently, "but can we just take the cup and go!? I really don't think this place is safe…"

"I'm using the spell we brought back from Durmstrang," Hermione said, "to verify that it is a Horcrux." She gave Harry a quick look. "And it is."

"And I'm checking for protective spells," said Harry. "The cup must have something to guard it, just like the locket had. Voldemort wouldn't have left it just sitting here!"

"Der! Graveyard? Moldy crypt? Can you say 'Inferi'!?"

"I don't know," came a new voice from the stairs. "Can you say 'vampires'?"

All three of them whirled. Lounging in the entrance to the crypt was a pale slender man of indeterminate age. He was watching them with a mixture of amusement and boredom. "We don't often get visitors here," he greeted them pleasantly.

"It is a little off the beaten path," Harry agreed. He stood warily, his wand at his side… as long as the vampire made no overtly threatening moves, neither would he. His quick sidelong look told Ron and Hermione to do the same.

"My manners," murmured the vampire. "I am Dzaferi, and I welcome you to my home." His voice had only the merest trace of an accent.

"Thanks." Harry made no move to introduce them to Dzaferi. "Sorry, we didn't mean to intrude on your home. We only came to, um…"

"To find a relic of Helga Hufflepuff," put in Hermione, unwilling to lie to a vampire, but knowing the danger of the full truth.

"The cup," nodded Dzaferi. He straightened and spread his hands regretfully. "Alas, I'm afraid I cannot allow it to leave these premises. It's very important, you see."

"Listen, I don't know what Voldemort told you about the cup," Harry started to say.

"Voldemort? Oh, you mean that Riddle parvenu? That's right, he tried to get us to call him that when he first gave us the cup. I believe he's been here a couple of times since then in spirit form, too. Persistent devil, I'll grant him that."

"'Us'?" Ron whispered to Hermione. Looking to either side, he saw wisps of fog seeping through cracks in the crypt's walls. The wisps condensed into more vampires: at least a dozen of them, leaner than Dzaferi, and hungrier-looking.

"Whatever he told you," Harry insisted, "you have to listen to us. We need that cup."

"As do we, my young friend. No, we do not do Riddle's bidding. He wanted the cup kept here safely, yes, and we do that, but not for him. We need Lady Hufflepuff's cup. We cannot let it go."

The newly arrived vampires were slowly beginning to crowd the Trio. Nervously, they took a step back until they bumped against the stone sarcophagus. One female vampire, who might have been beautiful if she hadn't been so gaunt, was giving Ron a slow, seductive smile.

"Tikja!" chided Dzaferi. "Behave! These are our guests… for the moment." Ron didn't like the use of the qualifier.

Hermione pursed her lips. "As guests, then, are we free to leave?"

Dzaferi raised an elegant eyebrow. "Well, there is such a thing as a permanent guest… Oh, don't misunderstand me," he added with a low chuckle. "We're not looking to feed on you. This is why we must keep the cup. With its magic, we don't need to drink your blood to survive." He gestured at another vampire, who stood near the end of the sarcophagus. "Enver?"

The vampire Enver picked up Hufflepuff's cup and handed it reverently to Dzaferi. "Are you familiar with the ritual of the Mass?" Dzaferi asked, raising up the cup. "Where the water and wine are said to become the blood of Christ? The magic of Lady Hufflepuff performs a similar miracle for us." Dzaferi walked to the stone basin and filled the cup with water. He waited a moment, then poured a dollop onto the floor of the crypt.

It splattered red.

"We drink from Lady Hufflepuff's cup, and are satisfied," said Dzaferi. "We need never depend on living prey while it is here… and so it can never leave. You understand, I'm sure."

Ron understood, all right. This was a far better protection for the cup than anything the Dark Lord could devise. Even if the vampires didn't work for Voldemort, they'd keep the cup safe out of their own self-interest… a much more reliable motive. "Right," he said. "Well. Sorry to've troubled you, then. We'll just be on our way…" He took Hermione's arm, concentrated and tried to Disapparate.

Nothing happened. Bloody wonderful, thought Ron, he's got Anti-Apparation spells on the crypt. We have got to start scanning for those things…

"Oh, but you've just arrived," smiled Dzaferi. A cat eyeing an unsuspecting sparrow might smile like that. "We cannot let you depart without showing you our hospitality…"

The vampire nearest to Harry began to lunge forward – only to stop abruptly as he found the end of Harry's wand pointing at his heart. "Permanent hospitality is a little overwhelming," Harry said. "And we've got things to do, that we can't do if we're undead. You understand, I'm sure."

Hermione and Ron had their wands up, too. Each of them knew spells for fighting vampires, of course – vampires had been only one of the Dark threats they had trained all autumn to fight – but they were cornered, with no means of escape, and quite outnumbered. And the vampires were edging closer…

"Wait!" cried Hermione desperately. "What if… what if you didn't need the cup anymore? What if we found you a way to survive without it? Would you let it leave then?"

"But why should it leave, when you are staying with us?" laughed Dzaferi. His laughter died abruptly as Harry slashed his wand across and down, like a scythe. A line of flames sprung up on the floor, encircling the Trio and forcing the vampires back a pace. Non-verbal Flagrate spell, Ron deduced. Nice and dramatic, that.

"Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier," said Harry formally. "My name's Harry Potter... Oh, you've heard of me, have you?"

The vampires had, indeed, heard of Harry. They retreated still further, watching him fearfully. Dzaferi snarled for an instant before he could restore his urbane expression. "Your legend precedes you, milord Potter. Had I known who graced us today, I would not have been so insistent on offering hospitality."

"We can leave, then." Harry made it a statement of fact.

Dzaferi nodded regally. "But Lady Hufflepuff's cup stays." Equally a fact.

"Let me ask it again," interjected Hermione. "If you didn't need the cup to survive, would you let it go?"

The vampire regarded Hermione curiously. "Without the cup, we would have to prey on the local human population, as we did half a century ago. You surely don't countenance that?"

"Hermione, what're you doing?" Ron whispered. "You can't reason with them, they're vampires!"

Hermione ignored him. "Will you let me try something? If it doesn't work, you'll be no worse off than before."

Dzaferi smiled indulgently. "I'm agog with curiosity. By all means, proceed." He leaned against the crypt wall and watched them under half-closed lids.

Hermione looked around for a working space, then stepped to Slytherin's sarcophagus. Reaching into her pocket, she brought out a small box, which she set on the slab. A tap of her wand, and the box began to expand rapidly. Within seconds, a full Potions laboratory was laid out before her, complete with a cauldron, scales, and stockpiles of ingredients. Ron and Harry looked on with amazement.

"And in your other pocket, you probably have Greenhouse Three," joked Ron.

"Some of us believe in being prepared." Hermione lit a blue fire under the cauldron, then opened one of the largest flasks. "These are professional Potion bases," she explained to Dzaferi as she emptied the contents into the cauldron, "normally used by commercial Potion manufacturers. You'd be surprised at the number of Potions that can be produced, quickly and in quantity, using one of these as a starter."

"You mean… all those Potions we made in Snape's classes… from scratch… we could have taken a shortcut and used these instead?" Harry looked disgusted.

"Yes… just as we could have used a Quick-Quotes Quill instead of ever learning how to write," Hermione retorted scathingly. "The point of Potions class was to learn the theory and the techniques, Harry, not just the recipes. Another reason you should never have relied on the Prince's book."

He bowed his head momentarily, accepting her rebuke as he always did… then he tapped his fingers on the rim of the cauldron, bringing them back to the matter at hand. "So what are you brewing here?"

"Blood Replenishing Potion," Hermione replied. Her fingers flew with dexterous speed, measuring out crushed herbs and noxious extracts… no hesitation, no wasted motion, her manner exact and efficient.

"I regret to point out that vampiric magic is not the same as human magic," said Dzaferi blandly. "Any magic we used as humans is lost to us… including Potions. We wouldn't be able to brew…"

"You only need a sip at a time. This batch alone will last you six months," Hermione cut in. "We can arrange for a large supply of Blood Replenishing Potion to be delivered… enough to last for many years." She met Dzaferi's gaze squarely. "We won't abandon you."

"Yeah, well, there's one other minor problem, Hermione," said Ron. "They're vampires. There's a reason they drink blood. They don't have any blood! Blood Replenishing Potion won't help them a bit."

Hermione didn't immediately answer. She gave the cauldron a final stir, then extinguished the flames. "When vampires have just gorged," she said at last, "there's blood in their veins. Their flesh fills out… their skin changes color. If, at that moment, they start taking Blood Replenishing Potion, they never need to drink blood again."

Despite himself, Dzaferi looked impressed. "Most ingenious, milady. I find your logic compelling."

"All right, then." She brought out a medicine cup and ladled a spoonful of Potion into it. "So who'll go first? Drink from the Hufflepuff cup first, to get your blood level up, then this dose is all you'll need to maintain it…"

"No," interrupted Dzaferi firmly.

Hermione shook her head in confusion. "What? But… but you said…"

"If we're to use your Potion to replenish blood," declared Dzaferi, "we shall begin with true human blood." He smiled smoothly, evilly. "I must insist."

"There's… there's too many of you. We couldn't possibly give enough blood…"

"But you've just brewed Blood Replenishing Potion, yes?" Dzaferi countered in triumph.

Hermione, Ron and Harry traded helpless looks. It was obvious that Dzaferi wouldn't simply let them walk away with the precious cup… not unless they sacrificed something in return. He wanted his pound of flesh – or more precisely, of blood. And he took a predator's pleasure in knowing that the Trio, having come this far, would be forced to give it to him.

Glancing at the supplies laid out on the sarcophagus, Harry picked out a small beaker. Decisively, he cancelled the ring of flames and strode out to confront Dzaferi, beaker in one hand and the dose of Potion in the other. "Hold these," he commanded Dzaferi, who accepted them without comment. Then he pulled up his left sleeve. "How much?" he asked over his shoulder.

"A full pint, I'm afraid," Hermione replied nervously. "For each of them."

He nodded and squeezed his left fist, so that the veins stood out on his forearm. Placing the tip of his wand against a vein, he muttered "Diffindo" and sliced his wand downward. As the blood spurted from the opening, he retrieved the beaker from Dzaferi and held it to catch the flow of blood. "And when this is done," he told Dzaferi in a hard voice, "we leave. Unmolested, and with Hufflepuff's cup."

Dzaferi's nostrils flared as the metallic smell of blood filled the crypt. "Agreed," he said. As soon as the beaker was full, he snatched it from Harry's hand. Harry immediately applied pressure to the wound, staunching the flow.

The vampire leader inhaled deeply over the beaker, as though savoring a fine wine. He took a sip, swallowed, and smiled appreciatively. Deeply, eagerly, Dzaferi drank the rest of Harry's blood, and chased it with the Blood Replenishing Potion. He licked his lips, smiled again and gave a contented sigh. "Your blood is… wonderfully potent, milord," he said, as he handed the empty beaker to the vampire next to him. "My compliments."

"Um," said Harry, taken aback by this display of gastronomy. He stepped back to the cauldron, where Hermione quickly dosed him with Potion. As Harry went to the next vampire to donate another beaker of his blood, he could hear Ron and Hermione rolling up their sleeves behind him.

*

Hope was growing impatient. She refused to let herself fall asleep until she could speak with Hermione… difficult to do as long as they were staying at Ma Maison. She had to sleep in the same room as Isabeau and Michelle, and they insisted on lying awake in bed and chattering. And even after they'd fallen asleep, Dad had come into the room to check on her. Hope had had to pretend to be asleep, too, until he eventually left.

But now, finally, maybe she could get some more answers. She slipped the portrait out from under her pillow, tucked it into her nightdress, and scuttled for the bathroom. She passed the room where Dad and Mum were sleeping and could hear Dad tossing restlessly in his sleep. Bad dream again. I knew it. I have to find out why, so I can help!

A small candle in the bathroom gave just enough light to see by. Hope locked the door, then brought out Hermione's picture. She put her finger to her lips to indicate quiet, waited until Hermione nodded her understanding, then began without preamble. "Tell me about Albania," she whispered.

"Albania is a mountainous country on the Adriatic Sea, with one of the sparsest wizarding populations in Eastern Europe…"

If it had been safe to scream in frustration, Hope might have vented. Instead she laid her hand flat on the portrait, covering it completely, and waited until it fell silent. When she removed her hand, she saw Hermione glaring at her, absolutely furious. "Some little respect, young lady, if you please," she snapped – quietly enough.

"Tell me about vampires in Albania," Hope said. "And you know what I mean."

Hermione continued to glare for another minute. "One of the Horcruxes was a cup that had belonged to Helga Hufflepuff," she finally began. "Voldemort had given it into the care of a group of Albanian vampires – they were using its magic to stay alive, so they fought to protect it. We persuaded the vampires to give up the cup, in exchange for a better way to stay alive…"

"Blood Replenishing Potion?"

"Yes, exactly. And we had to give them some of our own blood as well. They agreed, and we brought the cup home."

Hope waited. "That's it?" She'd got a lot more details when Hermione told her about finding Ravenclaw's athame!

"Please trust me, Hope, when I say you don't want specifics." Hermione pinched her lower lip. "Now tell me, what prompted the question?"

"It sounds like your vampires are in revolt… and nobody knew it was because they've run out of Potion and blood. Dad had to tell Uncle Bill that we need to send more Potion… and now he's having one of his bad dreams again." Hope ducked her head for a moment. "He won't tell me the details, Mother. I don't know what causes his flashbacks. All I want to know is how to stop them."

Hermione didn't seem to be listening for the moment. "I thought we arranged for Blood Replenishing Potion to be supplied every year," she said to herself. "I suppose the deliveries could've been disrupted… the new Death Eater attacks could've done that…"

"Uncle Bill will see that the right people know what to do," Hope told her. "I want to know how to help Dad. What was so bad about your trip to Albania?"

"You've never met vampires, have you, Hope?" When Hope shook her head, Hermione continued, "They're not alive, technically speaking. When you're with them, you know they're not living people. Their body language, their eyes… they're cold, physically and emotionally. And they were so close around us..." She shivered. "Harry, Ron and I had to give them our own blood, pint after pint of it, and watch them drink it… we might as well have been cattle to them, or sheep. That's pretty… humbling."

She flashed a sardonic smile. "And when all the vampires would much rather drink Harry's blood than mine or Ron's, that's pretty humiliating."

"So that was it?" Hope pressed. "That's all that happened?"

Hermione sighed. "That was it for the trip to Albania, itself. Of course, there was the aftermath…"

*

"I'm telling you, I'm fine!" Hermione insisted, just before she threw up again.

"Yeah, and we believe you," said Ron. "'Cause, y'know, medical experts agree that heaving up chunks into the loo is a sign of perfect health." He stood behind her, holding her hair up and out of harm's way. Harry handed her a glass of water as she raised her head again.

"It's because of the blood we had to give yesterday," continued Hermione. "It's made me a bit nauseous, but that's typical for blood donors. And we did give so much – and the Blood Replenishing Potion wasn't meant to be overused that way…" She took a sip of water, swirled it around in her mouth, and spit it into the toilet. Then she drank the rest of the glass thirstily.

"It wasn't the most hygienic of locations, though," Harry said worriedly. "The cold, the crypt… the undead… Maybe we should all get checked by a Healer."

"Heyyy…" Ron began.

"Just in case," added Harry.

"I thought we were trying to be, oh, I dunno, secret and undercover," objected Ron. "Hard to do that when we're all marching into St. Mungo's and asking for private consultations. You know what'll happen, Harry. The first sighting of The Chosen One in six months? They'll be on you like doxies on a honey pot."

"I just don't want us falling sick, Ron," said Harry… but he was looking at Hermione as he said it.

"We're not falling sick, Harry," Hermione said stubbornly.

"No, of course we aren't." Harry thought for a moment. "Christmas break is coming up at Hogwarts," he said nonchalantly.

Hermione looked at him suspiciously. "Yessssss?"

"It'd be perfectly in character if we were to show up at Hogwarts over Christmas break," he continued. "Just for a quick visit. You know: See all our friends again. Consult the library. Confer with McGonagall about the Order." He paused. "See Madam Pomfrey."

"Say hello to Ginny," Ron added in the same tone.

Harry refused to rise to the bait. "Yes, I'm sure you've missed her. She being your sister and all."

"We can visit Hogwarts for Christmas if you like," conceded Hermione. "But we don't need to see Madam Pomfrey. At least I don't. A good night's sleep and I'll be…"

"Hermione." The way he said her name, somehow rough and tender at the same time, brought her up short. He waited until he had her full attention, then took her hand. "Please?" he asked simply.

She felt she was losing herself in those pleading green eyes, floating in an emerald free-fall. It took a long moment for her to find her voice again. "All right, fine," she said crossly. "If you insist. But I'm telling you, all she'll say is that I'm low on electrolytes."

*

"And of course, Madam Pomfrey said nothing of the sort," Hermione added wryly.

"Christmas… and I was born in July… Oh." Hope's eyes went wide. "That's when you learned…"

"That I was having you, dear daughter." Hermione smiled, bringing back the memory. "I didn't tell any of our friends during our Christmas visit… there would've been far too many awkward questions. Heavens, I put off telling Harry and Ron as long as I could. I knew they'd never let me out of the house once they learned I was pregnant. And I absolutely refused to be sidelined, merely because I was having a baby."

Hermione raised one eyebrow as Hope tried to suppress a yawn, with only limited success. "A baby, I might add, who should be in bed asleep. Come on, off to bed with you."

Hope nodded in acquiescence and unlocked the bathroom door. She was about to slip the portrait back into her nightdress when she thought of something else. "Mother? Didn't you say you were painted during that Christmas break?"

"I wondered if you'd spot that." Hermione smiled and pressed her hand against her lower stomach, the pose she'd held when she'd first been unwrapped. "I rather wanted to be painted before I started to show. If I'd waited too long, this portrait would always be showing signs of pregnancy. Can you imagine suffering from mood swings and a squashed bladder, forever?"

5. V

(A/N: Once again I have to thank Mary Caroline for her help. I depend on her to tell me when my ten-year-old heroine sounds older than ten.

I appreciate every review! Please do let me know what you think. Not that I expect a lot of readers, what with A Certain Movie giving you all better things to do than read this…)

(Disclaimer: The Potterverse belongs to Jo. The plot belongs to me. The characters belong to themselves.)

**************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

30 August 2008 – Year 10 P.V.

*

"Wow!! Comet Boards! Thanks, Uncle Fred!" Isabeau and Michelle threw themselves at Fred and Angelina and hugged them enthusiastically.

"They're from Uncle George, too, and you're both welcome," laughed Fred, extricating himself. "Happy Birthday, you two." Angelina gave Fred a discreet nudge in the ribs with her elbow; when he looked at her, she nodded towards the twins' mother and grandmother.

For two women so different in appearance, in upbringing, and in personality, it was remarkable how similar Molly and Fleur looked just then. They were each giving Fred and Angelina a pinch-lipped stare that was quite easy to read: Are those things safe?

"They're no different than Muggle snowboards, really," Fred said to them, answering the unspoken question. "Except they've got racing broom charms put on. Including Braking, Cushioning, and Foot-Grip Charms. I think Comet's going to recoup their reputation with these boards… the P.V. Generation loves them, prefers them to brooms."

"And Lance is already practicing cartwheels on his," added Angelina proudly (as Lance groaned "Mu-umm!"). The implication that she, Lance's mother, thought the Comet Boards safe enough, was not lost on the room.

Certainly not on Fleur. "Well, they do look like fun," she conceded, then raised her voice ever so slightly and added the special Mother-Is-Watching harmonic. "Although I would hate to be forced to confiscate them for being flown in the house." Isabeau, who'd been about to mount her Comet Board, hastily jumped off and tucked the board under her arm.

"Besides," added Bill, watching with amusement, "there's still cake." As always when the Weasley clan were gathered, food proved a more than adequate distraction. The 'young ones' (and this included Ron) rushed over to the table where the cake stood, ready to be cut by the birthday girls, while the 'elders' (and this included Ginny) looked on with indulgent smiles.

Eventually Ron emerged triumphant from the throng, and looked around for an empty space where he could eat his cake in peace. He found it next to Ginny. "Aren't you going to get any?" he asked, gesturing with his fork.

"Mum's chocolate mousse cake? Of course I will… when I can make my way to it." She watched Isabeau and Michelle take charge of slicing and serving the cake, laughing with each guest who came to the table… "Oh my. Look at them, Ron. They're… flirting with everyone! When their Veela powers kick in, they're going to be dangerous."

"If we're lucky, they'll be in Gryffindor… where I can keep an eye on them." At Ginny's questioning look, Ron went on, "Yeah, McGonagall's chosen me to be the new Head of House. I was hoping she would… Old Man Winsock was absolutely terrible."

"Not to mention he won't be coming back this year. Or has McGonagall yet managed to get rid of the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position?"

Ron smiled slyly. "We've come up with a way around it," was all he'd say.

"Good. Hogwarts is going to need all the competent Defense teaching it can get." Ginny sighed. As though thinking in parallel, Ginny and Ron both glanced over at Hope, sitting quietly by the cake table. She was watching the festivities, and seemed to be enjoying herself… but she had an air of reserve, or rather, more reserve than normal.

"Yeah," commented Ron. "I'm hoping she'll be in Gryffindor, too."

"Oh, let's hope not." At Ron's expression of indignation, she grinned impishly. "Bad enough her Dad's a Professor. Having her Dad as her Head of House, too? Can you imagine having had Mum instead of McGonagall when we were at Hogwarts?"

"Ewwww," they said together, and shared a laugh. It's been a long time since we've done that, Ron thought happily.

But Ginny quickly sobered as she continued to keep an eye on Hope. "Ron? Have you been reading the Prophet recently? Have you seen what they've been saying about Hope?"

"Don't get me started," said Ron bitterly. Since last month's attack on Hogwarts, the newspaper had run numerous articles spotlighting several of those who'd fought or been injured there… before settling on Hope as the media-proclaimed Heroine of the Day. Her dramatic gesture and her "I am Harry Potter" credo had made it easy for them to do so.

"I won't, but… how's she handling it?" Ginny seemed genuinely concerned; Ron told himself he was imagining an underlying edge to her voice.

"She won't talk about it much, but she really doesn't like the attention," Ron told her. "I'm almost afraid of what'll happen when she goes back to Potter Primary in a few days." He thought of the new precautions the primary school had been forced to implement – making the school's new location Unplottable, for instance, and issuing customized Portkeys for each student– and set his cake aside listlessly. He no longer had any appetite for it.

Now that was a bad sign.

"I've tried talking to the Prophet's editors, but they wouldn't listen," he continued. "And as much as I'd enjoy threatening reporters with rectal splinching, Luna tells me it wouldn't stop them in the long run."

Ginny considered. "Mm, blackmail remains a possibility…"

"I doubt they're all unregistered Animagi, though." Ron gave an exasperated sound that was halfway between a groan and a growl. "Okay, I can understand needing to rally public confidence, but do they have to focus so much on Hope's personal life? Merlin, I'm almost tempted to…" He stopped short.

"To do something flashy to draw attention to yourself, and away from Hope?" asked Ginny shrewdly.

"Yeah. Look at me, everyone… I'm Ron Weasley, Harry Potter's friend. Hell, Ginny, sometimes I think I'm turning into Harry! I've got a crazy Dark magician out to kill me, I've made money from the deaths of those I love, and I hate the media! Why shouldn't I try and draw attention from Hope?"

"Only it wouldn't work, would it?" Ginny noted with a shake of her head. "You'd just become a father-and-daughter media darling. At least now you understand what Harry went through." Her eyes flicked back to Hope as her expression turned grimmer. "Let's hope she never does."

She turned her attention back to Ron. Her voice was lighter as she added, "And frankly, I don't think you should do anything that would help the Prophet sell papers."

"Ah, excellent point. Here." Ron picked up his cake and handed it to her. "You deserve a reward for that."

"Hey!" came Bill's voice, as he walked up with two servings of cake. "I was going to give her one of these." He handed a serving to Ginny as Ron retrieved his own cake. "What are you two conspiring about?"

"Just thinking about Hope going off to school," Ron shrugged. Having shared his worries with Ginny, he suddenly found he didn't want to spread them to the entire party.

Bill smiled. "Empty-nest syndrome, Ron?"

"Oh, you can gloat. This time next year, the twins may be gone, but you'll still have Ghislaine. Luna will only have me." Ron's eyes found Luna as she sat across the room, conversing with Angelina and Verity, who'd come to the party with George.

"Ah well, you've still got a year to put a bun in the oven," Bill reminded him. "I know Luna would love to have a second child around your house."

"Yeah," admitted Ron with a rueful half-smile. "Hey, it could happen. Hope springs eternal."

"Well, tell her to stop," said Ginny with a perfectly straight face. "She's obviously distracting you."

Ron ignored the pun. "Or I could just wait until she goes off to Hogwarts before mentioning your kind suggestion to Luna."

"Wouldn't help," Ginny riposted, still deadpan. "You'd really be Hopeless then."

This second pun proved too much to ignore, and Ron was forced to respond by threatening Ginny with a forkful of chocolate mousse cake. Bill watched as Ginny squawked in mock terror before grabbing Ron's fork hand and redirecting the cake towards his own face. The ensuing tell-off by Mrs. Weasley ("Ronald and Ginevra!! What kind of example do you two think you're setting?!") was like an echo of an earlier, happier time. Bill loved it.

It made it easier to keep some things to himself. Bill couldn't bear to ruin the happy moment by talking about developments at his job… certainly not to Ron and Ginny. The fact had gone unnoticed by the wizarding world, overshadowed by the other events on that day… but on 31 July, when the Potter legacy was scheduled to revert to the Ministry of Magic, Gringotts Bank had formally declined to turn it over.

*

"Everyone keeps worrying about me," Hope complained that evening. "I really wish they'd stop."

"Shouldn't they worry?" asked Hermione. "From what you told me, you've practically declared yourself the new leader of the Order of the Phoenix. I really wish you'd told me about it sooner."

"It was hard to find privacy at Aunt Fleur's house."

Hermione didn't say anything, but her expression was eloquent. If you'd told your parents about me, as I told you to…

"And I didn't declare myself the leader of anything," Hope went on. "I was trying to get the grown-ups to get it together and do something."

The portrait sighed. "Well, you've a year before you begin at Hogwarts," allowed Hermione. "Perhaps you'll be eclipsed by some other media star before then. Otherwise, you may learn for yourself what Harry went through in his first year." She paused. "So. Speaking of Hogwarts: Do you want to revise some more from The Standard Book of Spells tonight? You're up to book 3…"

Hope shook her head.

"Do you want to talk, Hope?" asked Hermione more gently. "You can always talk to me, you know… if things get to be too much."

Hope hesitated, but in the end she shook her head again.

"Well, if I can help you in any way…" Hermione persisted.

"Okay," said Hope, seizing the opportunity. "Tell me about the fourth Horcrux."

Hermione blinked in surprise, then scowled furiously. "That's not what I meant, young lady!"

"I know you don't think I should know about Horcruxes," said Hope hurriedly. "But I already do. I just think it's important that I know what you had to do to defeat Voldemort. I'm sure of it. I don't know why, but I am."

"You don't know…" Hermione began, but couldn't complete the sentence. "Hope…" she began again, and her voice was somehow both stern and anxious.

"Mother? Please?"

The two determined witches matched gazes for a long minute before Hermione relented. "Well, actually, there's not much I can tell you," she said. "We hadn't yet located the fourth Horcrux when I was painted. At that point, we'd found two – Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup – and identified a third, Ravenclaw's athame. The fourth one was a matter of some debate…"

*

"He came to Godric's Hollow to make a Horcrux," Harry declared. "It'd fit with his psychology if that particular Horcrux was from Godric Gryffindor."

"Fine," conceded Ron. "What was it?"

"Haven't a clue."

They were in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts, the day after Christmas. Harry had insisted on continuing their training regimen, even though they were on holiday; the Room had responded by arranging itself to look as it had during the heyday of the D.A. They'd taken turns shooting hexes and blocking them – Hermione had proven exceptionally good in her shielding, even by her own standard – and were now taking a break.

Conversation had turned to the same topic it always did, recently: the remaining Horcrux, as yet unlocated and unidentified. Hermione and Harry were on their feet, pacing and talking, burning off the nervous energy left over from their exercises. Ron, by contrast, was sprawled in a comfy-chair, idly flipping through one of Lavender's Tarot decks (which annoyed Hermione on multiple levels).

"Let's say you're right," began Hermione. "Let's say Voldemort succeeding in making a Horcrux when he killed your parents… before his attack on you backfired."

"I can't prove it," Harry admitted. "But I'm sure of it. I don't know why, but I am."

"The only known existing artifacts that belonged to Gryffindor," Hermione continued didactically, "are the Sorting Hat and Gryffindor's sword. The Hat has been kept in the Headmaster's office since before Tom Riddle was born – it never leaves except for the Sorting. And the sword was hidden in the Hat. Nobody even knew it still existed until you pulled it out of the Hat to kill the basilisk, Harry."

"Then the Horcrux had to be something else of Gryffindor's," argued Harry. "'Known existing artifacts' implies there are unknown artifacts existing."

"Oh, brilliant, Harry. Something that might exist, but we don't know what, and we don't know where," scoffed Hermione. "If it exists at all. That certainly narrows it down."

"We do know where," said Harry, ignoring the sarcasm. "If Voldemort brought it to Godric's Hollow, to my parent's house that night… then it's still there. He couldn't've taken it away once he was disembodied, right?"

"No, but others could. Someone obviously retrieved Voldemort's wand from the wreckage – why not the Horcrux as well? Wormtail could've done it easily… we don't know what he was doing between the time your parents died and the time Sirius confronted him."

Harry shook his head. "Yeah, but that was after. I'm sure Voldemort came to Godric's Hollow alone. He kept the Horcruxes secret, after all, even from his own followers. Or do you think Lucius Malfoy would've given the diary to Ginny if he'd known what it really was?"

"Oh yes, Ginny. I'd almost forgotten what an important part she's played in all this," Hermione said heatedly.

"Huh?"

"In fact, I'm sure she's got some valuable insights that she's waiting to share," Hermione continued, becoming shrill. "You'd probably much rather be with her than with… with us!"

"Hermione?!" asked Harry incredulously. Unconsciously he took a step towards her, reaching out…

She was immediately contrite. "I'm sorry, never mind me... I guess I've got the megrims today, that's all."

"Yeah," put in Ron, "I know what you mean. It's been nice seeing everyone… and Christmas breakfast was fantastic…!"

"It sure was," said Harry, his eyes on Hermione. "And it was the most interaction any of us've had with Ginny these last few days."

"But y'know," Ron opined, "between being cooped up at Grimmauld Place and cooped up at Hogwarts, there's not much to choose." He gathered up the cards, shuffled them, and started flipping through them again.

Harry nodded, as though reaching a decision. "Well, then," he ventured, "after we leave here, let's not go straight to Grimmauld Place. I'd like to go back to Godric's Hollow and search my parents' house again. I'm sure the Gryffindor Horcrux is there, somewhere. It.. it feels right."

"We searched it once already, back in September," Hermione felt obliged to point out. "It would help if we had some idea what to look for…"

Ron flipped another card, then paused. "You-Know-Who was obsessed with the Founders, right, Harry?" he asked slowly. "Stuff they used to own?"

"They were the only ones worthy enough to provide him with Horcruxes," confirmed Harry.

"And he's big on patterns, right, Hermione? Numerology, symbolism, that sort of thing?"

"Precisely. Seven soul fragments, because of the magical significance and stability of the number seven," said Hermione, growing impatient.

"Well, then…" Ron started laying Tarot cards on the table, face up. "Four suits in the Tarot. The cup. The sword. The pentacle or jewel." He turned another card. "The wand."

Hermione and Harry looked at each other. "If the sword is cognate with the athame… and the jewel with the locket…" Hermione admitted.

"It would fit with how Voldemort thinks," Harry finished, nodding slowly in agreement.

"Right, then," Hermione said, becoming her usual brisk self again. "Gryffindor's wand it is. At least, we can use that as our working assumption. And if we do find anything, we can use the Durmstrang spell to test it." Smiling warmly at Ron, she reached over and squeezed his hand. "Well done, Ron."

Ron blushed and looked away, feeling very pleased.

"And we'll go to Godric's Hollow again… and as many times as you think we need to, Harry," she concluded, turning to him. He looked so thankful… she knew that this was the best moment she'd ever have to tell him, tell them, of her condition. She took a breath and summoned courage…

And Harry surprised her utterly by gratefully taking her hands in his own. He didn't just hold them, or squeeze them as she had Ron's… instead, he brought her hands up and touched his lips to them, exquisitely gentle.

And, momentarily losing all power of speech, it was her turn to blush and look away.

*

6 December 2008 – Year 10 P.V.

*

"But Mum, I've got to go shopping," Hope protested. "Christmas is almost here." She was careful not to let her voice pitch upwards into a whine… that would be beneath her dignity. If all else failed, then she'd try whining.

"Christmas isn't for three weeks," said Luna.

"Nineteen days."

"You won't win any sympathy points that way, my girl."

"Sorry." Hope stood silent for a moment, then tried a different tack. "Nobody's attacked Hogsmeade yet, Mum."

Luna sighed. "The operative word being yet, diamond. It'd be just like Bellatrix to target Christmas shoppers. I'd simply rather you not wander through town alone. Couldn't you hold off on shopping until your father or I can accompany you?"

"Um… that'd make it hard to shop for you." Hope brightened, pretending to have an idea. "How about if I go with Aunt Gelina? Would that be all right?"

"Angelina's busy taking care of Ygraine…" Luna paused and looked thoughtful. "On the other hand, I suppose she might welcome an opportunity to be away from the baby for a couple of hours. Especially with the outbreak of Danish Lactophages… All right, but only if she agrees."

"Yes, Mum, I promise," replied Hope, conveniently neglecting to mention that she'd already Spoken to Angelina, days ago, and that Angelina'd already agreed. "Love you, Mum."

"Love you too, Hope. I'll see you tonight," said Luna. The Speaking Glass shimmered and became a simple mirror again.

Hope dashed back to her room and opened the box of Potions supplies. With Luna now working full-time at the Quibbler, their after-school Potions classes had been put on hiatus. Hope felt incredibly guilty about breaking her promise, brewing potions without Luna's supervision. But this was the only opportunity she might have, and she had to seize it while she had it.

And besides, she tried to rationalize, these potions are perfectly safe. All the books say so. Hope took the flasks, filled with the potions she'd brewed, out of the box and slipped them into her knapsack. She added an eyedropper, an atomizer, and a couple of odds and ends, then ran back downstairs to the Speaking Glass. She tapped the frame and called, "Angelina Weasley?"

After a second, her reflection morphed into the image of her Aunt Gelina. "H'lo, Hope. You all ready?"

"Uh huh. I can use the Floo Powder and come right over…"

"You have your house's Floo password, so you can get home again?"

Hope nodded. She couldn't keep from blurting, "Were you able to find him?"

Angelina smiled. "In the Greater London telephone directory."

*

An hour later, Angelina and Hope were walking through Muggle London, and Hope was doing her best not to gawk in wonder. A couple of years ago, her class at Potter had taken a field trip to Edinburgh, as an exercise in Muggle Studies – but that trip in no way prepared her for the crowds, the traffic, the noise, the excitement of London.

"Where are we?' she asked, as they approached a block of what might have been either small shops or large flats.

"Fitzrovia," Angelina told her. "Soho's just south of us, if you're interested. Stay close to me, now." She was, Hope noticed, keeping a watchful eye on any passerby who approached too near. Hope took her aunt's hand and stayed close.

Eventually they came to a nondescript door squeezed between two shops. It opened onto a narrow flight of stairs, leading up to another door. Angelina didn't bother with the bell, simply knocking sharply. She waited a moment, then knocked again. "Dean?" she called through the door. "Are you there?"

Footsteps sounded within. The door was opened by a very tall, very thin man wearing a paint-daubed shirt. "Angelina? Lord, is it really you?"

"Sure is. May we come in?" They were ushered into an echoing artist's loft. Its high ceiling was filled with broad skylights; a door led to a back room, presumably an office or a bedroom. Three or four easels with painted canvases stood under the skylights, and sundry art supplies were scattered about haphazardly.

Angelina and Dean traded a short but heartfelt hug, then turned to Hope. "Dean," said Angelina, "may I introduce my niece Hope Weasley? Hope, this is Dean Thomas, your dad's dormmate at school."

"A pleasure," said Dean, extending his hand. Up close, Hope could see that one side of Dean's face was crisscrossed with thin scars, as if sliced by many tiny scalpels. "Hope Weasley, is it? I remember hearing about it when you were born."

"A lot's happened since then," said Angelina. There was a reproving note in her voice.

Dean either didn't notice it or chose to ignore it. "So what brings you fair ladies to my humble studio today?"

"Oh. Uh, I'm sorry… you must not've got either of my owls…" began Hope. She'd used her teacher's owl at Potter, a clever ploy to avoid parental questions.

"Those were your owls?" Dean gave a half-shrug of apology. "I got them… I, er, just didn't answer them. I don't… well, these days I live like this."

"Dean retired from the wizarding world after leaving Hogwarts," Angelina explained brusquely. "Do you live completely as a Muggle now, Dean?"

"As much as I can," replied Dean, slightly defensive. "It suits me fine. I make a good living here now. Calendar work…" and he gestured at the canvases with their half-finished landscapes, "and some commissions. And no Death Eaters to come a-calling, which truly suits me fine."

"We could've used your help these last few years, any number of times," said Angelina.

"I just didn't feel up to helping a society that looked down its nose on me as a Muggleborn," Dean told her. "Funny, that."

"You've only traded one kind of racism for another," Angelina retorted bitingly. "Wog."

Dean smiled without a trace of humor. "'Least no one's tried to kill me this year. And you?"

Angelina had no ready reply to that. Dean nodded and turned back to Hope. "So, as I was saying…"

"I was hoping to, uh, buy some art from you," said Hope. "To give for Christmas?" She didn't completely understand the adults' exchange, but thought that now might be a good time to play peacemaker.

"Mmm. It's a little late in the season to commission art in time for…"

"Actually," Hope put in quickly, "I was hoping you kept some drawings you made back where you were at Hogwarts. Some sketches of my Aunt Ginny?"

Angelina looked surprised, while Dean looked astounded. "I do still have portfolios full of sketches from back then," Dean said after a moment. "How did you know…?"

Hope shrugged one shoulder. "I heard someone say it. You were sketching people during Christmas break, your last year at Hogwarts, right? I thought Aunt Ginny might like to have one of them… if it's okay, I mean."

"It may take me a moment to dig them out," said Dean. Brows lowered in concentration, he retreated to the back room of the loft. Angelina and Hope were left alone in his studio.

"I wanted to do something special for Aunt Ginny this year," Hope explained. "She's been really nice, and I'd like to be nice back."

"Especially since… your birthday," commented Angelina, referring obliquely to the attack on Hogwarts. Publicly, Ginny had been acting much better towards Hope since July: spending more time with her, offering advice on everything from hair care (which Hope greatly appreciated) to Quidditch broom selection (which Hope, who hated flying, had suffered without complaint). Hope seemed to enjoy the new attention from her aunt.

In private, though, Angelina couldn't help wondering about Ginny's change of heart. It was welcomed by the entire Weasley clan, but Angelina and Fleur had compared notes: both thought they sensed an underlying tension still present. A sort of watchful hardness, whenever Ginny was with Hope.

"Well, this will be a very thoughtful gift," Angelina assured Hope. And if it helps remind Dean of his ties to the wizarding world, she added to herself, so much the better.

Dean's head reappeared in the doorway to the back room. "I found 'em. More than I can carry at one go, though… what year are you most interested in?"

"Don't bring them out… I'll come back there," Hope volunteered, and quickly moved for the door. "Be right back, Aunt Gelina." This was turning out perfectly.

Once she and Dean were alone, she said, "The sketches you made, your last year at school? They were more than just Ginny, I know. You sketched lots of people, didn't you? Like my birth mother?"

"You mean Hermione? Yeah…" Dean flipped through the loose leaves of the portfolio. "I make a lot of sketches, and I never throw them out. It's not unusual for artists to do that… you never know when a particular idea will be needed." He turned up a set of pencil drawings: not a lot of detail, but recognizably Hermione. Hermione reading a book, Hermione chewing on a quill, Hermione glaring directly at the artist…

"Here are some of Ginny." There were many more sketches of Ginny than of Hermione. They seemed to run the gamut of emotions: laughing, wistful, irritated, focused, sleepy. One, more detailed than the others, showed Ginny sticking her tongue out at a smirking Ron. It had been lightly colored with pastel charcoal.

"That’s a good one," Dean commented, noting her interest. "Is that the one you'd like?"

Hope hesitated. "Well, yes, but… actually… what I'd really like is…" She took the portfolio from Dean's hands and began flipping through the pages. Some drawings of Ron, a few of adults she assumed were teachers, two girls she didn't recognize, an owl and a pussycat…

And there it was. A pencil sketch of a thin young man, dark-haired and bespectacled. The lightning-bolt scar on his forehead was almost hidden amidst the bird's-nest of his hair. He was in profile, one arm stretched out, palm upwards. A few inches about his hand floated a small winged ball – a Golden Snitch, Hope realized. The only color in the drawing was a touch of green, added to the eyes.

She looked closer. This sketch was far more detailed than any other she'd seen: Dean had spent extra effort to capture this subject. There were lines of care worn into the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the barest suggestion of premature grey at his temples. His eyes were fiercely intent on the winged ball – yet he wore a hint of a smile, as though this was a relaxing activity that he hadn't enjoyed in months.

"This one," Hope announced, pulling it out of the portfolio and showing it to Dean.

"Man, I'd forgotten I had this." Dean smiled in reminiscence. "Harry didn't give me many opportunities to draw him, but in this case he was concentrating on the Snitch. You want this one for Ginny, too?"

"No," said Hope boldly. "I want it for me. I want you to paint it."

Dean looked sharply at Hope. He didn't say anything for a long, terrifying moment, and Hope felt her boldness oozing away through the soles of her feet. "You don't mean ordinary paint, I take it," he finally said, his voice cold and flat.

"Uh, no," she mumbled. Unslinging her knapsack, she set it down on the floor and brought out the flasks of potions she'd brewed. She looked up silently at Dean, quite unable to say any more.

Dean maintained his sharp look. "You have Hermione's portrait," he deduced.

She nodded. She still couldn't say anything, but she refused to give herself permission to look away.

After another long moment, Dean sighed. "Even with the right potions, I couldn't paint a living portrait like Hermione's. I can't work from a drawing, or a photo… I need to have the subject physically present. I have to capture his essence…"

Hope nodded again. Reaching back into her knapsack, she brought out the atomizer. She filled it from one of the flasks, then carefully sprayed a fine mist of potion over the sketch.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then the image's hand darted up to pluck the Snitch from mid-air. His head turned slightly to give the viewer a sly sidelong look, as though to say he'd known all along that he was being watched and sketched… and his smile at catching the Snitch was both exultant and, oddly, self-effacing.

The tiny spurt of magic spent, the image stopped moving. Hope looked back at Dean, still silent, but with desperately pleading eyes. Dean returned her gaze for a moment before turning his attention to the drawing.

"I'd have to use that sketch," he said, very slowly, thinking it out. "Paint directly over it… no transfer. Can't use oils, they'd bleed, so I'd have to use gouache… which isn't permanent…"

"Tempera?" she suggested meekly.

"Might pucker the paper," Dean replied absently. "Unless I faced it…" His eyes came back to focus on Hope. "I can't promise anything," he told her bluntly. "I don't know if the drawing has enough of his essence. I don't even know if I can still do magic, after so long. I don't know…"

"But you'll try?"

Dean looked again at the sketch, noting the jawline and facial bones… then his artist's eyes returned to Hope's suddenly eager face. His voice grew gentle as he replied, "For Harry, how can I not?"

*

25 March 2009 – Year 10 P.V.

*

Tonks waited with crossed arms while O'Houlihan, the Aurors' curse-breaker-in-residence, walked slowly back and forth on the hillside. Slightly up the hill was their destination, a cave opening barely tall enough for a person to stand erect. "Definitely a Muggle Repelling Charm," she reported at length. "But with an added layer, projecting… Aversion? Terror? Circe, this is a work of art…"

"Just get us through it safely," snapped Tonks. They were standing deep in the Cambrian Mountains, and she felt exposed… vulnerable. The other two Aurors, Featherstone and Oakley, were keeping watch for any attacks, by air or land, but that was small comfort.

Tonks hated standing in the open like this… but there'd been reports of Muggles fleeing in fright from this area, and the magical protections surrounding the cave were proof that someone was hiding something here. Since the Ministry had nothing here – and Tonks knew that the Order of the Phoenix had nothing here, either – it had to be something to do with Bellatrix and her crowd.

O'Houlihan was still inspecting the hillside, shaking her head. "I can't… mmm, I can't localize any additional curses here. No barriers… no Anti-Apparation Jinxes… if there's something else here besides the Repelling Charm, it's very well hidden." She reached out her hand tentatively, as though feeling for an invisible wall. "Aha, there you are…!" She twisted her hand slightly, and a wave of warmth flashed through the assembled Auror team.

"Good to go," O'Houlihan announced. Tonks immediately summoned her team with a curt hand gesture, and they approached the cave entrance. They positioned themselves, waited for the curse breaker to give the all-clear… then Featherstone and Oakley jumped through the cave entrance and immediately pivoted right and left, fanning out. Tonks was right behind them, taking the center point.

Candles sconces bolted into the rock flared into light as they passed through the entrance into the cave. A mattress rested against one wall, some empty food tins and butterbeer bottles were scattered across the floor… all covered with a film of dust. The cave had evidently been abandoned years ago.

At the back of the cave was a massive metal door, with a circular window of thick glass set into it. "I don't believe it," said Oakley, inspecting it closely. "This thing looks goblin-made!"

"I'm guessing that means a simple Alohomora won't open it," Tonks replied. Mentally, she tried to compile a list of wizards to whom the goblins would give (or sell, she amended) such an impressive magical item. It was a very short list… the goblins jealously guarded their skills at Artifaction. They might sell some of their lesser Artifacts – but this? It could easily have been used as a Gringotts vault door.

Topping the list was Bill Weasley, whom the goblins regarded as favorably as any human alive. But even he wouldn't have access to this level of goblin magic…

Strike that, Tonks thought suddenly. Why limit it to the living? The cave's been deserted for who-knows-how-long. A better guess would be Dumbledore – the goblins certainly trusted him, everybody did – but what would Dumbledore be doing with a door like that? In the middle of nowhere?

Well, the middle of Wales, but it was the same thing.

"I don't see a keyhole on the door. Look around," she ordered. "There has to be a latch somewhere to open this."

"Found it. Them, I should say," called Featherstone. She gestured to two long levers set into the rocky wall of the cave, several feet from the metal door. One of the levers was painted bright red.

"Two?" Tonks looked through the door's window. Sure enough, there was a second door behind the first one, likewise set with a circular window. Whoever'd built this was dead set on keeping something safe.

They waited for O'Houlihan to run her wand around the edge of the door. "Clear," she reported. Then Featherstone pulled the first lever. With a slight hiss of escaping air, the outer door opened. Tonks swung it back.

"Let the air circulate," she told the others, while she examined the inside of the door. The edge was sealed to be airtight; Tonks was sure the inner door had a similar seal. There was a peculiar mechanism attached to the inside of the door, at waist height: a spring arm with a cup on the end. Experimentally, Tonks pushed the arm down until she felt a catch click. She took her hand away and waited, while O'Houlihan did her scan on the inner door.

Just as the curse breaker was turning to say the inner door was clear of curses, the catch let go, and the spring arm popped away from the door with a spung! If anything had been in the cup, it would have been tossed well away from the door.

"So… whoever built this…" said Oakley slowly, "they'd open the first door, put something in that… that catapult… snap it in place, shut the first door, open the second door…"

"And wait for the catch to release… tossing the whatever-it-was inside," finished Tonks. She looked through the inner door's window, but saw nothing. "Wands ready," she said anyway, and nodded to Featherstone.

Featherstone pulled the red lever, and the inner door opened. Immediately, they were hit with an incredible noxious stench, like a combination of rotten eggs and maggoty meat and fermented vomit. Tonks nearly gagged before placing a Bubble-Head Charm over herself. "Lumos," she whispered, and stepped into the innermost chamber.

Lying against the far wall was the collapsed, crumpled body of a dementor. A dead dementor. "I didn't even know those things could die!" Tonks exclaimed.

Oakley was right behind Tonks, Bubble-Head Charm in place. "Well, they breed," he commented. "They're born. So they must die, sooner or later." He approached the dementor's body cautiously, and gave it a tentative prod with its wand. "Wasted away. I'd almost think it starved to death." He stood and examined the rocky walls of the chamber. "Yeah… the walls have been fused into glass. They're airtight. With the doors closed, even a dementor couldn't get out of here. This place wasn't made to keep intruders out, but to keep the dementor in."

"And it's been years since anyone was here… with the thing trapped inside, no emotions to eat… yeah, I think you're right. It starved to death." Tonks was looking around the chamber. "Still doesn't answer the question of who'd keep a caged dementor in the first place…"

"Chief," interrupted O'Houlihan urgently, "we should leave. A spell's just been set off. Not a curse," she added quickly, as Tonks looked ready to chew her out, "or I'd've spotted it earlier. But something… triggered when we opened the inner door." She looked out, through the double doors, to the cave entrance. "An alarm, I'd bet."

"Fine. Two can play that game. Oakley, O'Houlihan, put everything back the way it was. Featherstone, I want our own alarm spell cast on this cave. Let's see who comes to check on their pet dementor." Tonks was headed out of the chamber when she spotted some items on the floor, hidden in darkness. She shone the light of her wand on them.

A locket, a cup, and a knife.

Was the dementor set as a guard over them? she wondered as they re-sealed the massive doors. That would explain the extra wards outside the cave… but the items didn't look particularly valuable. And if they were valuable, why weren't they set together carefully, instead of lying on the floor any-which-way?

Tonks still wondered this hours later, hours spent keeping the cave entrance under surveillance, waiting to see if anyone would respond to the alarm spell. No one showed up. Eventually, Tonks assigned Oakley to wait there until midnight, just in case. She and the other Aurors returned to their offices at the Ministry, they to turn in reports on the day's raid, she to write an owl to McGonagall. Thereafter, the Aurors relied on their own alarm spell to warn them, should anyone enter the cave again.

*

Ron nearly dropped his wand when it began to vibrate gently in his hand. He knew what the buzzing meant… and there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it at the moment.

"No, Brocklehurst, not like that! You try casting a Protego like that and you'll be flat on your arse. Make your moves short, exact and to the point." Ron demonstrated the proper wand motion for the Shield Charm without casting it. "Now try again, you lot…"

Technically, this was a meeting of the Defense Association, the Hogwarts student club that Ron had sponsored this year. But the new, improved D.A. met several times every day, bringing together all students fourth-year and higher – for whom membership was mandatory. Ron was very involved with the club, showing all its members how to cast hexes, erect shields, and stay alive when confronted with Death Eaters.

It was, for all practical purposes, the Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

The Headmistress had devised this way of avoiding the curse on the Defense Professor's post. The curse only affected the Defense Professor – not necessarily anyone who taught Defense. Harry had taught more Defense Against the Dark Arts in their fifth year than Ugly Umbridge ever managed. Snape had taught Defense twice, briefly, before actually getting the post in Ron's sixth year: as an 'assistant' to Lockhart, and as a substitute for Lupin. It wasn't until he was officially given the Defense Professorship that the curse came down on him.

So, for this year, Professor Flimworthy taught the younger students the basics of Defense, and on paper was in charge of the curriculum for the older students. Actual training, however, took place in the Defense Association, the student club headed by the Quidditch instructor. That the Quidditch instructor had learned his Defense skills fighting for the Light alongside The Boy Who Lived didn't hurt a bit.

His wand buzzed again, and Ron slipped it into his pocket. He knew what it meant: someone had stumbled onto their cave, managed to get through the wards, and opened the inner door to the dementor's cell – triggering Hermione's alarm spell. But he had over sixty students in his care at the moment, half of whom were tossing curses while the other half tried to block them. He couldn't leave them to investigate. It would just have to wait.

Ron could only hope that, whoever it was at the cave, they weren't so stupid as to open both doors…

*

"And just be careful not to open both doors," Hermione finished.

"Thank you for the bleedin' vote of confidence," muttered Ron. "Maybe you should rig it so that both doors can't be opened at once."

"If I did that, we couldn't get the dementor into his cell, could we?" Hermione gave a final look around the cave. "Everything's ready, I think. As soon as Harry arrives, we can go out and find a dementor."

"Yeah. Unfortunately, they're not that hard to find, these days," said Ron. "Still breeding like mad, from what I hear. Even the Muggles are noticing something's not on."

Hermione nodded. "The hard part may be finding just one. We may have to split one away from its, um… swarm? Herd? Whatever." She stopped, obviously unwilling to bring up the sore point that had come between them all week.

Ron tried to approach it obliquely. "Harry and I can probably do that. You can keep this place ready for it when we bring it…"

"Ron," said Hermione sharply, "have you learned to summon a corporeal Patronus?"

"Hermione," Ron shot back, just as sharply, "did you think Harry and I were letting a dementor anywhere near you? In your condition?"

"I'm pregnant, Ron, not crippled!"

"Five months pregnant, Hermione! You really want a dementor near your baby? For once, dammit, just stay behind! And oh, for your information, I can make a corporeal Patronus!"

"That little dog? You did it once, Ron. With no dementors in sight, let me remind you."

Ron spluttered a moment before he retorted, "Doesn't matter, anyway! Non-corporeal Patronuses will do fine for what we need today." He turned away from her to face the cave entrance. "Not everything has to be perfect, y'know. It only has to be good enough."

"Well, guess what, Ron? We don't always know what will be 'good enough'. Trying for 'as good as possible' at least gives us some leeway." Ron turned back to answer, and Hermione jumped in, "And in this battle, Harry needs every bit of advantage we can give him."

Ron scowled at her. "That's a low blow, 'Mione," he said, using her hated nickname.

Hermione allowed herself a small smile. "Whatever it takes, Won-Won," she replied in kind.

She stopped abruptly and stiffened, as if listening. Simultaneously, she and Ron turned to the cave entrance in horror. They both felt the approach of numbing coldness, felt all happiness draining from their souls, felt as though their lives were pure misery and pain and not worth the living…

And faintly, from outside the cave, they heard a hoarse bellow: "Expecto Patronum!"

Trembling, Hermione steeled herself and started out of the cave. Ron grabbed her arm and dragged her back. "Think of your baby," he said soberly, then left the cave at a run.

Only to come face to face with a towering hooded figure, black and chilling. Behind it, a shining silver stag was prodding it up the hill, like a sheepdog herding a recalcitrant sheep. Nearby, Harry was in the process of taking off his invisibility cloak. "It was threatening the Muggles in Llanwnog," he shouted. "I had no choice, I had to stop it."

"And as long as you had to stop it, why not use it, right?" Ron moved to one side and brandished his own wand. He felt awful, like he wanted to lie down and die, but he forced himself to recall his triumphal procession from the Quidditch pitch after winning the Cup in his fifth year. "Expecto Patronum!" He got a silvery cloud to shoot from his wand… not as effective as Harry's stag, maybe, but few Patonuses were, and it did the job.

The dementor wailed angrily, unable to resist the Patronuses' prodding but resenting it nonetheless. It tried to glide past the cave, and nearly made its escape… then recoiled as a silver otter darted out of the cave and began nipping at its feet. Hermione hastily emerged from the cave behind the otter, and put some distance between her and the dementor. "Right, then," she said, determinedly brisk, "one last push, gents."

Bounded on three sides by the cloud, the stag and the otter, the dementor was forced into the cave. The stag followed close behind, its head lowered to fit through the entrance, with Harry right behind that. His face was haggard and drawn, and Ron knew the horrible things his friend was hearing and imagining… but Harry was long past the stage where he would let that stop him.

Hermione and Ron stood outside the cave for a moment, waiting… until they heard the metal doors clang shut, one after the other. The feelings of foreboding and depression lifted from them.

Wordlessly, they turned and looked at one another. Ron nodded a curt inquiry towards Hermione's stomach; she patted it and smiled, to say that mother and child were both fine. He visibly relaxed, and the corner of his mouth turned up slightly.

"Took both of us helping him," said Ron, by way of apology.

"You'd think we'd know by now," agreed Hermione ruefully.

They entered the cave to find Harry sitting on the mattress they'd brought. Even with the dementor in its cell, its presence could be felt in the cave: Harry was still pale and sweaty, and Hermione sat down on the mattress to hold him from behind. Ron felt sick and gloomy, but at least he wasn't feeling suicidal. "Now what?" he asked.

"Now Hermione puts those Repelling Charms in place outside," replied Harry, "and we leave for a few days. We let it get hungry, with nothing and no-one to feed on. And once it's good and hungry…" He held up Slytherin's locket, dangling by its chain from his forefinger. "We'll see if it's willing to munch on one-seventh of a soul."

*

Ron was present that evening when McGonagall got the owl from Tonks, asking about certain items she'd spotted in a cave on a Welsh mountainside. He was surprised as anyone to learn that dementors could, evidently, die of natural causes. Afterwards, he stopped by the Hospital Wing to beg a vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion from Madam Pomfrey. Ron was a considerate husband and father, after all, and he didn't want to bother his family with another of his silly nightmares.

6. VI

(A/N: I'm genuinely sorry I've taken so long to update. You really don't need a lamentation on my Real Life, so we'll take it as said. On the other hand, this chapter's a bit longer than usual, to help make up for the wait.

I love my beta, Mary Caroline. You should all thank her as much as I do. And I thank her for every chapter.)

(Disclaimer: Not Jo Rowling. Not making money from this. Not believing in chest monsters, either.)

**********************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

31 July 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

"Perhaps this one," suggested Mr. Ollivander, handing Hope another wand. "Vine and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, sinuous."

Hope gave the wand a wave, with no more effect than before. "Not to worry, my dear, not to worry," Ollivander said, taking it from her. "I've never yet failed to match a customer with the right wand. Now, let me think…"

He puttered among the stacks of boxes, each containing its unique wand. Hope watched him curiously, secretly relieved that no one had noticed anything unusual. After her studies with Hermione and the Standard Book of Spells series, Hope felt quite sure she could do some simple magic with any of the wands she'd tried that morning. But she had to pretend she couldn't… if only to ensure she was matched with the right wand. The wand chooses the witch, she reminded herself.

Granddad sat nearby, watching the proceedings with interest. "It takes time, Hope," he reassured her. "The wand chooses the wizard, remember."

"I was just thinking that," said Hope politely, as Ollivander returned to the room. She loved Granddad, but sometimes his thoughts just seemed to be a step or two behind everyone else's.

"Try this one," Ollivander said as he offered her yet another wand. "I don't sell many with this core anymore, but perhaps…"

The moment Hope grasped the wand, she felt a delicious warmth spread from her fingers and down her arm. She waved the wand (deliberately not visualizing any spells), and was rewarded with a shower of crimson and golden sparks.

"Excellent," beamed Ollivander. "Laurel and phoenix feather, ten inches, nice and flexible." He plucked the wand from Hope's hand and, giving it a final polish, replaced it in its box. Granddad placed seven Galleons and eight Sickles into Ollivander's hand, as Hope put on what she was starting to call her Cloak of Anonymity. Uncles Gred and Forge had given it to her just that morning, and she was already very grateful for it.

They left the wand shop together, with Hope clutching the box tightly under one arm. "Happy Birthday, Hope," Granddad said as they made their way down Diagon Alley. Gran and Mum were waiting for them at Madam Malkin's, where Hope would be fitted for her Hogwarts robes.

"Thanks, Granddad," she replied, with one of her rare smiles. "I'm looking forward to using it… at Hogwarts, I mean," she added.

"Just remember, though, the first wand is a turning point in the life of a young wizard… er, witch," he continued. "Once you've your own wand, any magic you do can't be considered accidental – and Underage Sorcery outside school is…"

"I know, Granddad," she put in quickly. This was not a topic Hope felt like discussing in depth.

But Granddad had other ideas. "I only mention it," he said, lowering his voice, "because your mother practiced spells before she went to school… as soon as she got her Hogwarts letter, according to Ron. And I know…" Something about his tone brought Hope up short. She was forcibly reminded that Granddad wasn't as woolly-headed as he sometimes appeared.

"I know what you can do without a wand."

Hope gulped. How could he know? Her revision sessions with Hermione were absolutely secret! "I, uh, I don't…" she stuttered.

"Last year, during the attack on Hogwarts. You wandlessly cast a Shield Charm that stood up to a full Death Eater."

"What? No, no I didn't," Hope said. "I confused him, he just went away…" She grimaced. "I acted like a little girl…"

"You had your eyes closed – you didn't see. But I did. Trust me, Hope, you Shielded us." Granddad looked down at his lap. "Aren't a lot of wizards who can do wandless magic," he mused softly to himself. "The only two I've known were Albus Dumbledore and…" He broke off abruptly, as though aware he was saying too much.

For an instant, bitter resentment flared up in Hope's breast. Granddad knows! He knows something, anyway, and he's not telling me! Nobody tells me!! I… I hate it!! She clenched her fist in frustration… then immediately relaxed her muscles. The resentment died as quickly as it had appeared, quelled by years of practice. I'll wait. I'm sure they'll tell me when the time comes. I can wait, I guess. Maybe I can talk to Dad in private before I leave for Hogwarts…

No sign of her internal conflict showed in her face. "Well, now I've got a wand I'll be 'specially careful," she assured Granddad, as he maneuvered his wheelchair through the crowd.

At Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Mum and Gran had been joined by Aunt Fleur and the Twins. "Best take that off now, phantom girl," said Mum. "I can barely focus on you, and I know you're wearing it."

Hope nodded and removed her Cloak of Anonymity. Better than an Invisibility Cloak, it let her family still see her and talk to her, while keeping passersby from noticing her. The mild Aversion Charm woven into the fabric was just enough to cause strangers to not be interested in her. She folded it and stuffed it into her new bookbag, while reminding herself to thank her uncles yet again. Bake them some ginger biscuits, maybe…

"We're all getting our robes today," Isabeau told Hope excitedly as they entered the shop. "I want one of the new ones, the kind that changes with my mood…!"

"You'll wear the black robes that everyone else wears," Gran told her severely. "Once you're Sorted, you can have a badge of your House sewn on."

Isabeau clouded up at this, but before she could protest, Fleur said smoothly, "Plus, the dark robes will go well with your fair complexion, petite. I think you will stand out." She picked up Ghislaine, who had begun to wander through the racks of robes, and settled her on her hip.

Somewhat mollified, Isabeau permitted herself to stand on a footstool, her arms slightly spread, and let Madam Malkin drape a robe over her and begin pinning it up. "You don't have to do her," she told Madam Mslkin, nodding at Michelle, "she's the same as me, we're twins."

"You do have to do me," Michelle retorted haughtily, taking the other footstool, "because she stuffs tissues into her…"

"I'll just wait here," said Hope, timing her words to cover both Michelle's taunt and Isabeau's reply. She stepped away from her cousins as they settled into their fitting, and took an idle turn of Madam Malkin's. She found herself examining her reflection in one of the fitting room's mirrors. Skinny as a matchstick, she noted with a sigh, and same plain ol' face of a face. Boring and ugly. At least my hair looks better now…

There was a sudden commotion at the front of the shop. A streak of something bright and silvery flashed into the room and flew towards Granddad. It stopped before him, and took the form of a house cat. The cat sat on Granddad's lap and… seemed to talk to him for a moment, before it dissolved into argent mist. Gran rushed over to Granddad's wheelchair. "Arthur, is it…?"

"I'd better go now, dear," Granddad told her, his voice graver than Hope had ever heard from him. "Please stay here and keep watch. Luna, Fleur," he said, raising his voice slightly, "Madam Malkin, everyone, please stay inside. Keep the door closed – don't venture out into Diagon Alley until someone from the Ministry shows up." Without waiting for a reply, Granddad Disapparated

"What is it? Is it something to do with the Order?" Aunt Fleur asked Gran. Alone among the others in the shop, she seemed to recognize the silver cat – and understand its implications. Gran gave a curt nod, but her expression made it clear that she didn't wish to talk about it in public. Still, Hope guessed that "the Order" was the Phoenix Order that Hermione had told her about: a group of wizards, working apart from the Ministry, who fought against the Death Eaters.

Which means something's happened that the Ministry can't handle by itself. Which means Dad will likely be involved. Which means…

Even the Twins seemed to understand what was happening… at least some of it. They looked wide-eyed at Hope. "S'pristi," Isabeau whispered, "they don't ever let you have a fun birthday, do they?"

*

"I'm sorry, Ron," said Tonks. "We wouldn't have called you in, but…"

"But it was addressed to me," finished Ron woodenly, looking at the bodies of his two friends. Behind him, Professor McGonagall choked back a sob. They stood in the Ministry atrium as Aurors bustled about, trying to glean further evidence from the corpses. Arthur, who'd joined them moments before, reached out to grasp Ron's arm consolingly.

"They were sent through the Floo," Tonks continued. "No way of tracking where they came from, or who sent them. The only message was the note attached to her clothes… addressed, as you say, to you." She held out the slip of parchment, but Ron didn't immediately take it. He was too busy looking at Seamus and Lavender Finnegan… saying goodbye.

Seamus's body was terribly wounded: deeply slashed in some places, broken and crushed in others. His killers had obviously decided against subtlety and simply aimed for maximum physical damage, using every curse from Reductor to Purple-Flame. In a final desecration, the Dark Mark had been branded into his forehead – after death, to judge by the lack of blood. By contrast, Lavender's body was pristine and unmarked. "Avada Kedavra," guessed Ron. "Bellatrix is finally using it…" Reluctantly he took the note from Tonks and opened it.

It contained just four words. He had to read them several times before their sense came to him. "You've looked at this?" he asked Tonks.

Tonks nodded. "I couldn't help recall what you said to her Death Eater, that night Rodolphus was killed. She must've known about it, somehow."

"Ron?" Arthur asked. "What does it say?"

Ron held it up. "Who's unkillable now, Weasley?" He looked around grimly. "It's a challenge. Don't you see? It's Bellatrix's way of claiming Voldemort's title for real. She's telling me she killed Lavender herself, with the Killing Curse – and used that to make a Horcrux for herself."

"And by addressing it to you," McGonagall added, "she's making it personal."

"Like it wasn't already…" Ron muttered. But he understood what McGonagall was saying. In Bella's twisted mind, he thought with a touch of despair, the same way she's Voldemort's successor, I must be Harry's.

*

Ron wouldn't permit Hope's birthday party to be completely cancelled, despite the Ministry's announcement that unnecessary travel was to be curtailed. "We can have family over," he told Luna firmly, "even if her friends from Potter can't make it." Luna left the final decision to Hope; Hope merely nodded.

It was, nonetheless, a subdued Weasley family that gathered at Ron's home that evening. Verity had volunteered to baby-sit Ygraine and Ghislaine at her flat, and had corralled George into staying with her. This still left Lance, Tristam, Isabeau and Michelle to help Hope celebrate, and they were doing their best to keep things lively.

"'snot fair," grumbled Lance. "'m only a few months younger than you lot, I should be allowed t'go to Hogwarts with you."

"September first's the cutoff," Hope reminded him.

"This year's going to be so tiny… next year's class'll be huge," said Michelle consolingly. "All our friends from Potter."

"And besides, it'll give you an extra year to practice on your Comet Board," added Isabeau. "And yes, Miss Smarty, I checked," she informed Hope. "First-years aren't allowed brooms. Our Hogwarts letters didn't say anything about Comet Boards."

"Mine prob'ly will," Lance said gloomily. Given the trouble the Twins were likely to cause with their own Boards, thought Hope, it's a safe bet.

Thinking of brooms at Hogwarts reminded her of a more pressing concern. Hope glanced at Ron, who was standing by the table where the cake was ready to be cut. Normally, Ron was the life of the party – any party, much less Hope's birthday party. But the events earlier in the day had clearly left him shaken. And as usual, he hadn't told Hope anything about what was wrong.

Mum and Mother say he needs to talk about it someday, Hope said firmly to herself. It'd really help him… really. And this is my life I should know about. Mother said I shouldn't, but I know what to do…

Without really thinking about it, she found herself crossing the room to stand next to Ron. "Thanks again for the Honeydukes sweets, Dad," she said. "I'll try to make them last until I leave for Hogwarts."

"No problem, princess," said Ron with a half-hearted smile. Part of his attention seemed to be someplace besides Hogsmeade.

Hope looked around the room. Fleur and Angelina were talking by the fireplace, where Bill and Fred were bringing them burgundy and butterbeer respectively. Ginny, who for the first time ever had accepted her invitation to Hope's birthday, was making microscopic adjustments to the pile of presents; she seemed twitchy, and Hope remembered how Ginny suffered on this day. Molly and Arthur were together in the corner, apparently in their own private world, to judge by their handholding – and their slightly haunted expressions.

"I'm glad the family could come… I just wish all my school friends could be here, too," she said.

"It's just safer if people stayed home for a few days… until we have a better idea what's going to happen next." Ron shrugged. "People are scared to go out… understandable, really."

"Didn't stop Clan Weasley."

"Nothing stops Clan Weasley." Ron and Hope shared a quick grin, a real one, before turning serious again. "I am sorry your birthday's been so awful – again," Ron continued. "If there's something you'd like, something I can do…"

Which was the opening Hope was waiting for. "There is," she said quickly, and took a deep breath… this wasn't going to be as easy as she'd thought. "I want to hear about the night I was born. I want you to tell me what happened."

Ron's face lost all expression.

"Everything," Hope emphasized.

"What…" he began, and fell silent. He tried to speak again, but couldn't say anything.

Luna was instantly there beside her husband. "Hope," she started to suggest, "this perhaps isn't the best time…"

A flash of angry impatience surged through Hope… her nervousness smothered by irritation. "Well, when is the best time, Mum?" she demanded. "It's been eleven years… when's the best time?"

"Hope!" Gran scolded. "Don't talk to your parents that way…!"

"My parents!?" Hope whirled back to face Ron. "The Death Eaters are growing worse. We need to know how they were beaten last time, and you're the only one who can tell us. We need to know – and I deserve to know." Luna tried to say something, and Hope finished in a rush, "I deserve to know how my parents died!"

"You mean how your mother died…" Luna corrected her automatically…

And that was the straw that broke the Erumpent's back. Eleven years of pent-up emotion burst forth, released in one torrential instant. "NO!" Hope screamed at the top of her lungs. "Stop lying to me! No more lies!" She pulled out her new wand and waved it at her face. "Finite incantatem!"

If the assembled adults were surprised that Hope knew – and could perform! – that spell at her age, it was nothing to their astonishment at its results. Hope's bright blue eyes, so like Ron's, blurred and changed color. They became brilliant emerald green, sparkling with tears of rage.

And not an adult in the room had forgotten the last person who'd borne those eyes.

"When were you going to tell me, Dad?" she asked furiously. "Just before I left for Hogwarts? Was that the 'best time'? Or did you plan to visit me in the girls' dorm every week and charm my eyes blue, like you have up 'til now? Why didn't you ever tell me?!"

Luna was staring aghast at her husband. "Ronald?" she said softly, coolly. "Do you know what Hope's talking about?" Ron didn't respond. Frozen, horrified and mute, he could only stare at Hope.

"It's not just him!" yelled Hope. She spun and pointed an accusing finger at Arthur Weasley. Molly gaped at Arthur in amazement.

"I, I didn't know," Arthur said after a moment. "Not for certain… there were only hints, only suggestions…"

"But Ron knew," interrupted Ginny venomously. "Damn you." She stood and continued her rant as she marched towards Ron, who still sat stone-faced and silent. "God damn you, Ron, you knew! For eleven years, you knew! You knew, and you've been hiding it! Hiding the fact that your precious Hermione cheated on you! With your best friend, Ron!!" By now she was bellowing, her fists clenched so tightly that the veins stood out on her arms.

"Shut up!" Hope screamed at her. "Just shut up! You don't know anything! It wasn't like that! Tell them…" She gulped back a sob and finished, "… Dad."

Ron's mouth worked, but no sound came out. He continued to stare, horrified, at Hope. Hope, for her part, rounded out this day of firsts by bursting into tears. She ran from the room, bawling, and up the stairs. Seconds later, everyone could hear her bedroom door slam.

"You… you…" Ginny thrust her face forward until it was inches from Ron's. "You goddamned cuckolded coward," she spat. "You lied to all of us – much good it did you. I hope you're proud of it."

At that, Ron's face hardened. He looked around at the faces of his family, still without saying a word. Firmly he pushed Ginny aside, turned to face Luna, and finally opened his mouth to speak… but was stopped by Luna's face – which might have been carved from ice. Her expression was perfectly calm, but for once that calmness was a wall between them.

Ron closed his mouth with a sigh, and simply shook his head. With a sudden crack, he Disapparated and was gone from the room.

Ginny looked around at her family's shocked expressions. Her eyes began to glisten with tears – though whether they were tears of mortification or temper was hard to tell. She vented a final and heartfelt "Damn!" before she likewise Disapparated.

An echoing silence descended on the remaining Weasleys. "Well," said Luna brightly, "who's up for cake?"

*

Half an hour later, Luna left the party and walked upstairs to Hope's room. She was determined to bring Hope back downstairs to the party and apologize. Not for causing a scene, as such – Luna had been the center of any number of "scenes" when she was a girl, rather surprising given her passive nature – but for her hurtful comments. To her grandfather, to her aunt… to her, her, her parents… Luna faltered for a second, then continued walking.

She was about to knock on the bedroom door when she heard voices from within. Hope was carrying on with her shouting binge, apparently – with someone in her room. Not Ginny's voice, and not one of the family, they were downstairs. But this voice sounded familiar to Luna, somehow… painfully familiar.

"I did try to tell you it wasn't a good idea," said the voice.

"Well, what was I supposed to do? Dad needs to talk about it, everyone says so… and this is my life he's hiding from me! Just like you have!"

"Hope, I told you years ago: it's up to Ron and Luna to decide whether you were told certain things…"

"Right, that was real sensitive of you, Mother. Too bad I figured it out despite you…"

Recognition struck Luna like a slap to the face. She flung open the door… to see Hope talking to (or rather, arguing with) a hand-sized portrait of Hermione Granger.

Hope immediately stopped talking when Luna entered the room. Hermione's eyes flicked from Hope to Luna, back to Hope. "You said you were going to tell them…" she muttered sotto voce, before likewise falling silent.

Finally, Luna spoke. "How long?" she asked Hope clinically. She might have been discussing the weather. It was somehow scarier than Hope's screaming had been.

Hope didn't dare pretend to misunderstand. "She, uh, was inside the boxes with all the books 'n' stuff," she admitted, her earlier fury quite gone. "Uh, year and a half?"

Luna held out her hand. Meekly, Hope placed the portrait in it. Luna brought it closer to her face and inspected Hermione's image. Hermione gazed back, wary, waiting for Luna to speak.

It seemed to take Luna an eternity to speak again. "I could use an Incendio," she finally said, still in that disturbingly calm tone. "It's not as though you're still alive."

"You could do that," Hermione agreed steadily. "If you truly think I deserved it, I couldn't stop you."

"Deserve it? You've been going behind my back, undermining my authority…!"

"I'd never do that, Luna. Even if I would, I couldn't. I have no authority over Hope, you must see that."

Luna actually snorted. "You're Famous Hermione Granger. You're her mother."

"That's right," Hermione replied. "And you're her Mum." She waited a beat, then continued, "Given the choice between the two…" The longing, the wistful regret in her face were sincere.

Portrait in hand, Luna sat down on Hope's bed. "For the longest time," she said slowly, her voice growing warmer, "I was so jealous of you. Even when you were alive, I envied you. Did I ever tell you that?"

Hermione shook her head. "You were as intelligent as any Ravenclaw," Luna continued, growing dreamy-eyed as she recalled the past. "But you had friendships stronger than any I'd ever seen. Ronald and Harry. I never really made friends until you and Harry started the D.A., you know. Harry and Ronald became my friends… but their friendship with me wasn't a patch on their friendship with you."

"And then," Luna sighed, "and then you and Ronald started your love affair, and you two went away. Nobody ever knew why. Nobody heard from you, except that one visit at Christmas. The next I heard, you were in St. Mungo's having a baby." She looked Hermione in the eyes. "Ronald's baby. Ronald said so, and we all believed him. Why should he lie about it?"

Hermione didn't respond. Luna was almost sorrowful as she went on, "But he was wrong. He thought Hope was his, but he was wrong. You cheated on him, didn't you, Hermione? He loved you, he wanted to marry you, and you and Harry betrayed his trust and…"

"No, Luna, no," Hermione finally said. "Is that what you think of me? Is that what you think of Harry? Didn't Ron… oh, why couldn't Ron confide in you?"

"His first loyalty was always to Harry… and you." Luna maintained her unwavering stare at Hermione. "I told you I was jealous of you."

Hermione returned Luna's gaze. "Loyalty goes both ways, Luna. We wouldn't – I didn't cheat on Ron. No." She breathed deeply and continued. "You see, Ron and I broke up," Hermione said slowly, emphatically. "It happened almost as soon as we disappeared from public view. And Ron knew – Ron's always known, from before Hope was born – that Hope was Harry's."

"How could he know for…" Luna began, then blinked in surprise. "Oh! You mean, you and Ronald never…?"

"Well, of course not." There was a pause that filled the space between them.

"You truly weren't with Ronald when you and Harry…?" Luna asked in a small voice.

Hermione sighed patiently. "Harry and I were preparing to travel to Bulgaria, to meet with Viktor Krum," she explained. "Then on to Durmstrang to see if we could learn about… about some Dark artifacts of Voldemort's. And Ron… well, there was no way Ron could come with us. He hadn't any cover story, had he? Ron…"

She considered her words before continuing. "Ron objected strongly to my going… I don't know if it was Viktor's involvement or Harry's that he hated more. The night before I left, we had the biggest fight we'd ever had – and that was saying something. He called me… he accused me of…" Her voice broke off as she looked away.

"He made the same accusations I just made," guessed Luna. "Only with Krum instead of Harry."

"Krum as well as Harry," Hermione said sadly. "By the time the fight was finished, so was our relationship. We'd split for good, and we both knew it. Oh, Ron apologized profusely when I returned from Bulgaria, but the damage was done. We never got back together – if it hadn't been for Harry, I'm not sure we'd have remained friends. And the ironic thing is…"

She looked back at Luna. "The ironic thing is that his accusations were totally ungrounded when he made them, before we went to Durmstrang – and spot-on when we came back."

*

Hermione found it easier to walk wearing Krum's form than she'd anticipated. Viktor had always walked with a bit of a slouch, and a gait that was almost bowlegged. Considering how incredibly graceful he was in the air, it was remarkable how clumsy he was on the ground. Hermione could trip and bump into furniture as she grew used to the larger body into which she was Polyjuiced – and no one would think it at all amiss.

Leaving the library with her notes, she paused a moment to relish the sun on her skin – even in August, the mountain air was nippy. She walked across the Durmstrang courtyard, skirting the ornate fountain that played in its center, and approached a knot of faculty gathered near the entrance to the staff offices. Harry was there, wearing her body (badly, to her eye), and talking animatedly with several Durmstrang professors. One of the professors, looking up and seeing her, addressed her in a Slavic tongue.

"English, remember," Hermione said with a condescending smile, "for our guest's sake."

"Yes, of course," said the professor. "I vas merely telling Viktor, Miss Granger, that he must haff had quite the influence on you. I cannot recall ven I've enjoyed a discussion on Quidditch so thoroughly."

"Well, I've had to learn about it in self-defense," said Harry with a deprecating smirk. "All my friends are wild about Quidditch, obsessed really. And of course, Viktor's such a star Seeker… has there been any word on who Bulgaria will choose for their national team next year?"

"No one's said anything to me about it," Hermione interjected, in all truth. "So, Hermione," (she refused to butcher her name as Viktor always did) "we should be going soon. Have you enjoyed your visit to my alma mater?"

"Oh yes," Harry nodded. "I've seen the gardens, and visited the teachers' lounge…"

"She asked to visit some of de classrooms," put in an older teacher with an enormous handlebar mustache. "De Dark Arts classroom in particular… I had to explain dat it vas being remodeled, and no one vas allowed in. Perhaps on your next visit, Miss Granger."

"Ooh, that would be lovely," Harry enthused. Don't overdo it, Hermione thought sternly.

"Vith a little more notice," said the first professor, with a dark glance at Hermione, "ve could haff prepared a suitable velcome for your friend, Viktor. Please remember that, if there should be another visit."

"I'd like that," said Harry. "I mean, Hogwarts is a wonderful school, and of course I feel at home there… but I'd never realized how much Durmstrang benefits by its focus on pureblooded wizards. It trains them up well, if Viktor's any standard."

"Yes," said Mustache Professor complacently, "Viktor Krum is vun of Durmstrang's finest alumni. Ve can hold him up as an example to all our students, now and to come."

"And well he should be," said Harry earnestly. "Not as a Seeker, or as a former Triwizard Champion, but because he's as ready to befriend a Muggleborn witch as the purest-blooded aristocrat."

The baffled look on the professors' faces made Hermione want to burst out laughing. "Er, just so," was all Mustache Professor could find to say.

"We've heard tales of Miss Granger," put in a younger professor unexpectedly. "Muggleborn or not, she is a very impressive witch." He seemed to be repressing a grin.

"Well worth befriending, no matter her birth," Hermione said, trying to stay in character. She was already concentrating on the next task, what they'd do with her notes on Horcruxes once they returned home – and so she nearly jumped out of her skin (well, Viktor's skin) when, on impulse, Harry reached out and took her hand.

Well, it was in character for Harry to do that… she'd've taken Viktor's hand if Viktor'd said that about her, in public. And with the older professors chuckling indulgently – and the younger one positively leering – it was certainly in character for Hermione to lean over and kiss Harry… Viktor'd kissed her under similar circumstances. She had to kiss him, didn't she? To stay in character?

But somehow, her kiss with Viktor was nothing like her kiss with Harry.

Perhaps it was the gender reversal. A kiss, after all, was equally give-and-take from both participants – one would assume it would be the same experience for both. Surely gender wouldn't matter… But Hermione quickly discovered that it was very different for the man. Very different.

She wanted to explore her discovery in greater depth, but the altitude of Durmstrang's mountains must be affecting her lungs. At any rate, she was suddenly finding it difficult to breathe. For sheer want of oxygen they broke apart – and simply stared at each other, stupefied, as the Durmstrang professors gently laughed and applauded. Harry's breasts were heaving, his face was flushed… he must be affected by the altitude, too.

*

"So," said Luna, trying to fully absorb the story. Accepting the existence of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks was trivial by comparison. "So. Is that when you and Harry decided to be a couple, then?"

Hermione didn't answer directly. "We had to use a Portkey to enter and leave Durmstrang… you can't Apparate there, since it's Unplottable. But Portkeys can be tracked, you know. We had to act naturally… when we left Durmstrang we had to go where they'd expect Viktor to go. Viktor's flat in Vidin." She stopped, at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

Luna waited for her to continue. "May I assume that you didn't Apparate straight from there back to England?" she asked eventually.

Hermione's entire face – indeed, every visible bit of skin – was bright red by this point. "It's… it's very different for the man," she managed to say again.

"Eww, gross!" cried Hope. "You mean you were doing it with Harry while you were still a guy?"

"HOPE!" shouted Luna and Hermione in shocked chorus, remembering too late that Hope was still present – and listening to every word. Hermione checked herself before she could say more, yielding to Luna with a quick sidelong glance. "How long have you been standing there?" Luna demanded.

Hope met her mothers' combined glares with a certain confidence. "Only it is my room," she said reasonably.

Luna had no ready reply to this. Hermione rushed in to fill the breach. "Eavesdropping is wrong, young lady, no matter where you are," she said sternly, taking the offensive like any good tactician.

"But I…"

"Hope?" Luna reproved, using the quiet voice that always commanded Hope's attention… and quite efficiently sucked Hope's confidence away.

"……… Yes, Mum. Yes, Mother. I'm sorry." Hope squirmed in place under Luna's and Hermione's combined dagger-looks. For once, her thoughts were clearly readable from her expression: Maybe having two mothers isn't such a great idea after all.

"And since we're on the subject of saying you're sorry," continued Luna inexorably, "you've a roomful of guests downstairs, to whom you owe an apology."

Hope nodded miserably. "Happy Birthday to me," she muttered.

Luna looked back at Hermione. "I think it would be better if I left you here," she said frankly. "I've a great deal to worry about for the moment, and your presence would be upsetting, I think. Especially to Ronald."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "It's only fair he be told about me before anyone else."

"Exactly." Luna set Hermione's portrait on Hope's bookcase. "I would be interested in talking with you later… about how you told Ron you were pregnant. I can't imagine he took it very well…"

"Your skills at understatement are undiminished," said Hermione.

"…and I'd like to hear how you handled it." Luna motioned for Hope to precede her through the door.

"Oh, and Hope?" called Hermione as they were about to leave. Hope looked back. "The Polyjuice Potion wore off eventually," Hermione said delicately, and waited for the implication to sink in. She smirked as it was Hope's turn to blush, and Luna found herself giving Hermione a conspiratorial smile.

*

"You're what?" Ron asked again. Hermione knew that rolling her eyes at this point would be counterproductive.

"Pregnant," she said again. She tried to say it gently, but at his flummoxed look she found herself reverting to old bad habits. "You know… expectant. Increasing. With child. In a family way. Anticipating a blessed event…"

"I know what it means!" Ron shouted. "I… I…" His face was ugly as he turned it away from her. "I know exactly what it means," he finished venomously.

She hadn't expected him to take it well, but… "Ron?" she asked tentatively. "Ron, please look at me?"

He kept his face turned away, but instead put out his hand with its palm towards her. Hermione had no idea where Ron had picked up that little bit of Muggle idiom, but for the moment she had other concerns. She steeled her fluttery stomach into composure before she turned to Harry.

If anything, Harry looked even more gobsmacked than Ron – he'd faced everything from mountain trolls to Dark Lords, but he seemed ready to faint when confronted by fatherhood. "Are…?" he began to ask, then gave a brief snort of mirth. Hermione had no trouble reading his thoughts: Are you sure? had been his question and his first thought. Followed immediately by Of course you're sure, you're Hermione.

"When?" he asked instead.

"I'm approximately two months along, according to Madam Pomfrey," she answered. She could see Harry counting backwards in his head… and beginning to frown. For the first time, Hermione realized that Harry might not be sure… not totally sure that he was the father. She knew who the baby's father was, of course, and Ron could figure it out – he'd certainly know it wasn't he – but she suddenly feared that Harry's next question would be "Who?" She felt her eyes begin to tear up. He couldn't be sure. He had no way to be sure…

With a face-splitting grin and a joyful whoop, Harry lifted Hermione and swung her around him in a circle, before enveloping her in a massive hug. He's sure, she thought in enormous relief.

And indeed, when he set her down again (as delicately as though she'd suddenly turned into a fragile china doll, for Merlin's sake!), his face showed no sign of doubt. Worry, yes, and fear, and a touch of puzzlement – and overall an overwhelming happiness – but not a trace of doubt, of her, of himself, of them. Her heart melted at the thought of this wonderful man whom she loved and who loved her, this amazing man who'd transcended a life of hardship to become a hero. Her hero. Harry Potter.

Of course, being Harry Potter, he dealt first with his worry. "A-are you all right? Who else knows?"

"We're in perfect health, and Madam Pomfrey. And now you," she said, waving a hand to include Ron. Ron still had his back to them. "No one else." Harry began to speak, and she silenced him with her fingers on his lips. "And yes, I agree, we should keep this to ourselves for now. For as long as possible. If Ginny was a potential target just for dating you, how much more of a target would I be?"

"Yeah… sorry, but that's just what I was thinking," Harry admitted. "It's… it's not like I don't want… I mean…" His face grew serious as he tried to find the right words to say. "I love you, Hermione, and… and believe me, honestly, if I had my way, I'd…"

"Shout it to the world?" she finished with a smile.

"That'll do to go on with." Harry returned her smile.

"And besides," Ron put in snidely, his back still towards them, "it'd so tarnish the reputation of the Chosen One if people heard he'd been topping off his friend's girl friend."

Harry's face darkened, but Hermione forestalled him. "Ron," she said with cold dignity, "if you're going to make that kind of remark, the least you can do is say it to my face." She waited a moment. "Ron?"

Sullenly, Ron turned to face them. "You and I split up in August," Hermione reminded him, trying to sound firm but reasonable. "Harry and Ginny split up back in June. I know you've spent the last four months in denial, but that doesn't change the facts."

Ron didn't reply. Hermione got the impression that, if the Room of Requirement's door had reappeared at that moment, he would have been out of it in a heartbeat.

She turned her attention back to Harry. The goofy grin was back on his face… and dammit, it was infectious. She found herself grinning back… any moment now she was going to start giggling, she was sure of it. "Pleased, then, are you?" she asked demurely.

Harry cupped her face in his hands, steadying it. She covered his hands with her own as he brought his lips down on hers. He kissed her, not as a seventh-year might snog his bird, but as a husband kisses his wife on their wedding day. "Yes," he said simply when they broke apart.

She closed her eyes happily and rested her head on his shoulder. "Scared to death, though," Harry admitted thoughtfully. Having dealt with his worry, he was now facing his fear. "I mean, we didn't even finish school! We're not really old enough to be, um…" He seemed to have trouble forming the word.

"Parents?" she supplied helpfully. "No, we aren't. And this is far from the ideal time." He looked down at her, surprised at her calm tone. "Well, I've had more time to think about it than you, haven't I? Oh yes, when Madam Pomfrey told me, I was scared, too – bloody terrified, actually, I thought I was going to throw up again." Her stomach churned a bit at the very thought.

"But here we are," Hermione concluded softly. "I've had a chance to think about what will happen… and as for you, I've never seen fear keep you from doing anything." She stepped close to Harry and wrapped her arms around his waist. "We'll deal with this together, one day at a time."

"Together," Harry smiled. "Absolutely." As though their thoughts were linked, their eyes flicked to Ron… wondering if he felt himself included in the word "together". Judging from the way he was still scowling, Hermione decided not.

"There is one thing, though," Harry said after a moment. "I'm absolutely sure I saw you cast the Infecundus Charm every single time we've made love."

There was a choking noise from Ron's side of the room. Hermione ignored it. It wasn't exactly the moment she'd have chosen to discuss this, but still…

"Harry," she said while trying desperately not to go into Fullbore Lecture Mode, "it was Hallowe'en. Barriers are, well, weakened on that night. Don't you remember Flitwick lecturing us on the magic of the cross-quarter days?"

"If it wasn't of immediate practical use… no, of course not."

"How typical. Well, as you can see, it can be important. Good heavens, Mr. Potter… why else do you think you were born on Lammas-eve?"

"Whatever. It's not important. What's important is…" Harry took her chin and lifted her face to look into her eyes. "We're going to have a baby. You and I." His tone made a sacrament of it.

The giggles inside her threatened to bubble out at any moment. She hugged him tightly… and couldn't resist adding, "Happy Christmas, Harry." And Happy Birthday, too, she added to herself, if Madam Pomfrey's right about the dates.

"You're being stupid," said Ron unexpectedly. "You're going to try to go it alone? You're barmy, the both of you. Which I expect of you, Harry, but not of her." He was looking at them now… confronting them, actually, an angry challenge in his eyes. "Tell somebody, for Merlin's sake. Tell my Mum. Tell your mum, Hermione. You said it yourself, you're scared. You shouldn't do this alone."

Hermione took a moment to answer. "It's not that I don't want to tell them – oh, God, of course I do – or that I don't trust them not to talk, Ron," she said slowly. "But we daren't. If I could cast a Fidelius Charm, I'd do it… but I can't cast it on myself, and neither of you are able. Short of that… the only way to keep a secret is to, well, keep it."

"You told me."

"Well, of course I did." Hermione's tone made it self-evident: she trusted Ron as she did Harry, or herself. For a second, Ron's anger was baffled.

"All right, then," he said after a moment, moving on. "So are you at least going to make an honest witch of her, Harry?"

"Hell, yes. As soon as poss…" began Harry.

"Not until Voldemort's defeated," declared Hermione.

"What?!" Harry stared at her as though she'd gone mad.

"I know it'd be wonderful to be married at once," she explained, "but I've given this some thought, too. Oh, shut it, you!" she added in exasperation at his amused snort. "I have given it some thought. We can't possibly keep our relationship a secret if we're married – marriages are a matter of public record, aren't they? And there's the witnesses, and there's the justice or the magistrate – and you are Harry Potter. The word will get out."

She put her hands on his chest as she concluded, "It's the same argument as before, don't you see? If we don't want Death Eaters queued up to kidnap me or worse, we can't marry until the Death Eaters are gone… any more than we can tell people I'm pregnant." She twisted her mouth wryly. "We always knew you had to defeat Voldemort, Harry – think of this as an added incentive."

"And supposing it takes longer than seven months to defeat You-Know-Who?" asked Ron. Hermione was amused to note that his hurt and angry tones were fading… with concern for her taking their place. A true friend, she thought in sudden fondness, if he's only given the chance.

Harry answered for them. "Well, if it takes long enough, the kid can always be our ring bearer." He glanced at Hermione. "Or flower girl?" he asked as an aside. Hermione shrugged; she'd declined Madam Pomfrey's offer to determine the child's gender.

"I'll marry her if and whenever she's ready, Ron," Harry said firmly. "I'm not ashamed of our having a baby. I mean, let's face it, even if married her tomorrow, she's already an expectant mother. Don't see what difference it'd make if we waited long enough for her to be an actual mother."

"And besides," put in practical Hermione, "it's not like we have a lot of time to spend on weddings. Even a quick trip to the justice would take too long. We still have to locate the last two Horcruxes – assuming it's the wand and the athame, of course – and then…"

"Hold on! You don't really think you're going to keep on hunting for Horcruxes, do you?" Ron demanded. "No way! Harry and I'll do that. You're going straight back to Grimmauld Place!"

"Oh, I am, am I?" Hermione shot back, her voice rising quickly. "Just sit at home and knit baby bonnets while you two testosterone junkies risk your lives without me? I don't think so, Ronald Weasley! Harry – tell him!"

"No, Harry, tell her! It's just too dangerous. She can't risk herself anymore! She's carrying your…" Ron stopped, as the full impact of his words struck him.

"Enough, you two!" Harry cried in annoyance. He waited until he had their attention, then lowered his voice and continued. "Ron? Have you forgotten Dzaferi so soon? Without Hermione, you'd be spending your days in Albania on a really low-carb diet." Ron shuffled his feet, and Harry knew his point was made.

"And Hermione? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're not going to be feeling quite up to snuff any time soon…"

Again, Hermione's stomach reminded her of its presence, rather unpleasantly this time. Harry would have to mention snuff.

"But as long as you can stomach it…"

The sadist was doing it on purpose. Hermione was certain.

"I can't think of anyplace I'd rather you be than with me," Harry finished, putting his arms around her… and thereby redeemed the male species.

"Tomorrow, then. We leave Hogwarts at first light and head for Godric's Hollow. If Gryffindor's wand is still there, we'll find it."

*

It was getting rather late, and Ron hadn't returned. Fred and Angelina, and Bill and Fleur, had taken their respective broods home to bed. Luna and Hope were waiting for Ron to come home… they sat quietly in the living room, Hope on the edge of sleep, her head on Luna's shoulder.

Arthur and Molly had volunteered to wait with Luna. They kept stealing glances at Hope, as though wondering how they could have missed the signs for eleven years. Hope's hair, brow and nose were Hermione Granger's, but her cheeks, mouth and jaw were identical to those of the youngest Seeker in a century.

"Especially last year," Arthur murmured, "when she drew that lightning bolt on her forehead. Why didn't we see it then?"

Molly shrugged slightly. "But oh, her eyes…" she whispered, and there was no need to say more. Arthur and Molly remembered Lily Potter well – and never would they forget Harry.

Luna sat almost motionless, only one hand moving, stroking Hope's hair. Where was her husband? He'd had his little bits of temper when first they were married, though Luna'd thought he'd calmed down considerably over the years. But not even in his wildest temper had he left the house like this, and come back so late.

He was coming back, wasn't he?

Perhaps she shouldn't have been quite so sensitive about Ron keeping things from her. He probably thought he was sheltering her. He could be quite protective of… of those he loved. Quite to the point of irrationality, sometimes. Luna understood irrationality.

There was a sudden crack of Apparation from the kitchen. Seconds later, Ron staggered into the living room, awkwardly carrying a full-length mirror. "Ronald? Where have you been?" said Luna, her tone simple curiosity. Hope yawned and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

Ron didn't answer. He got his good leg under him and, with a final heave, propped the mirror against the wall of the living room. He straightened the mirror, then Disapparated without a word. A moment later, the mirror gave two low chimes.

"A Speaking Glass?" asked Molly. "Luna, dear, I thought the Quibbler said Speculum couldn't sell any Speaking Glasses that large."

"We did. They can't." Luna stood and walked to the Glass. She tapped its frame twice, authorizing the switch to open mode. The mirror's surface shimmered, then grew clear – and Ron stepped out of the frame.

"Good, it works," he said to nobody in particular. He looked at Luna. "I've been to Speculum," he answered her, "calling in some favors. They had some full-length Glasses in their R&D department, and they kindly let me have two… after I'd reminded them all about how Harry and Hermione had saved their arses eleven years ago." He stepped to Hope and held out his hand.

Hope took his hand reluctantly. This was her Dad as she'd never before known him, not once in her life. There was no humor in his face or manner… no sense of fun hiding just under the surface. This man was cold as a judge, and she came close to treating him as she would a stranger.

With Hope in tow, Ron stepped through the Speaking Glass. He'd made no gesture of invitation to Luna or his parents… after a moment's hesitation, they followed him through anyway, with Molly helping Arthur's wheelchair over the bottom of the frame.

They found themselves in a large dusty room, a combined master bedroom and study. Its furnishings had once been rich, even opulent, but they'd been sadly neglected over the last few years and were badly in need of cleaning and mending. There was a desk overflowing with books, a bed long unmade, and numerous odd contraptions lying about. Arthur and Molly looked about in puzzlement.

"I… I've been here before, haven't I?" Arthur eventually asked. "It's like a dream…"

Ron nodded. "I can't tell you where we are. I mean, literally, I can't. This place is hidden under a Fidelius Charm." He paused a moment to think. "I can tell you that we helped you clean this place in the summer before Sirius's death."

"I remember!" cried Molly. "We used to come here to meet… to meet… I don't remember who, or the location of this place, but I do remember some of the furnishings now! Those weren't specified under your Fidelius, evidently."

"Well, this is where Harry, Hermione and I spent our year together: in hiding here, where we couldn't possibly be found, while we tried to find ways to defeat Voldemort." Still leading Hope by the hand, he walked around the desk to reveal a large stone basin carved in runes. "We used this a fair bit while we were doing it."

"That's a Pensieve," said Hope in awe.

"Yeah, I shouldn't be surprised you'd recognize it," said Ron, gazing down at his daughter. After a few seconds, her eyes came up to meet his. Emerald and sapphire orbs locked together… and held for a nerve-stretching moment.

Hope broke the silence in a very quiet voice. "You're sure, Dad?" Ron nodded once, curtly.

"Ron? I don't understand what…" began Molly.

"Ronald can't bring himself to tell Hope what she wants to know," explained Luna calmly, "so he intends to use the Pensieve. To show her what happened the night she was born. Am I correct, Ronald?"

Ron stared into the Pensieve and nodded again. Bringing up his wand, he touched it to his temple. He concentrated… and slowly, slowly extracted a silvery thread of memory. He dropped it into the Pensieve and watched it roil the cloudy surface inside.

"And you…" he said abruptly. With his free hand he reached for Luna's. "You deserve to know too, Luna. I couldn't ever tell you this… I still can't… but I can show you. And if Hope deserves to know, you do, too." He looked from the Pensieve to Luna's face. "If… if you want to, I mean."

Luna blinked mildly. "Why would I not want to? A trip through a Pensieve sounds intriguing. It can hardly be worse than the Nacarutu Vision Quest, can it?"

Ron almost smiled at that. "I don't reckon so. Come on then, Hope. This is what you wanted for your birthday, isn't it?" He put his hands, still clutching Luna's and Hope's, over the Pensieve's shining contents. "Mum and Dad, if you don't mind, would you wait here? In case of emergency?" At their nods, he said, "On the count of three…"

"Hello?"

They looked back at the Speaking Glass. Ginny stood on the other side, peering into the room… her face was ashen, her mouth set in a thin line. "I came back to, er, well, to apologize… Where are you?"

"Never you mind," said Ron roughly.

"Ron, I'm sorry. I was feeling so miserable, like I always do today… I was being hateful, lashing out at you, and it wasn't even your fault… those awful things I said, I didn't mean them. "

"Actually, you must have meant them," put in Luna reasonably, "since you were only saying what we were all thinking. I was thinking it, too. I don't know if I'd have used the word 'cuckolded', though," she added.

"I truly am sorry," Ginny repeated, sincerely contrite. Ron didn't respond. "Er… you're not really going to show Hope your memory of Harry's death, are you?"

"And my birth," said Hope. "Dad, can Aunt Ginny come with us? I think she should see this, too."

Everyone, in and outside the room, stared at Hope in astonishment. After a pause, Ron said carefully, "It's your decision, Hope."

"Aunt Ginny? Please?"

Surprised, Ginny stepped through the Glass into the room that had once belonged to the House of Black. She walked slowly to the Pensieve, never taking her eyes off Hope, and stretched her hand over its contents.

Ron's face was unreadable; his voice was toneless. "If you're coming, then… one, two, three!" They plunged their hands into the Pensieve… and darkness instantly sucked them downwards like an icy whirlpool.

7. VII

(A/N: "Hello, my name is Real Life, and this is my crowbar Bob. WHAM!" That about sums up 2006 for me so far. Still, I'm sorry to make you wait so long for this chapter.

Thank you, one and all, for your reviews. They've been a world of help and encouragement for me. And double thanks to Mary Caroline, that Beta Without Peer.)

(Disclaimer: I like to pretend you can tell the difference between Jo Rowling's writing and mine. I really like to pretend Jo's lawyers can tell the difference.)

***************************************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

31 July 1998 – in the Pensieve

*

"Out!" ordered Madame Lasoeur, the midwife. "I cannot deal with two patients at once! Out!" She fussed over Hermione, who looked ready to curse him with a single glare, while the trainee Healer, Apprentice Bloomer, hustled him out of the delivery room into the corridor. The door shut behind him, just firmly enough to make a statement.

Okay, I guess I was looking a little green around the gills, Ron admitted. Maybe a little.

He crossed the corridor to the Maternity Ward waiting room, looking up and down the hallway every few seconds. For once, the decorators at St. Mungo's Hospital had actually shown a speck of good sense: unlike the rest of the Hospital, the walls of the waiting room were adorned with inoffensive landscape murals. Occasionally a baby coney would peek out from behind a bush, wiggle its nose, and disappear again.

Heavy footsteps sounded, and Ron smiled as he turned to look. He only had one friend heavy enough to walk that loudly. And sure enough, Hagrid was approaching him, looking at once a bit nervous and very pleased with himself. He had two people with him, oddly dressed but vaguely familiar, who were glancing about them in confusion.

"Oi! Ron!" Hagrid called. "Got yer message, an' brought 'em like yeh asked. Seemed a mite surprised ter see me, though."

"Um, sorry about that. Hermione must not've told you who was coming for you," Ron said to the couple, as the memory of their faces clicked into place – just in time. "Mr. and Mrs. Granger… thanks for being here. I know Hermione'll appreciate it."

Hermione's father seemed at a loss for words. Her mother, on the other hand, spoke right up. "Thank you… Ron, isn't it? I must say, this is a bit overwhelming."

"Yeah," Ron nodded wisely. "St. Mungo's can be pretty confusing, first time you come…"

"I was referring to the fact that we've only just learned that our daughter is in labor," interrupted Mrs. Granger with a hint of frost. "In fact, it's the first we'd heard that she was even pregnant." She looked at Ron coolly, while Mr. Granger's gaze seemed to measure Ron, as if with calipers. Ron was abruptly reminded of the last time the Grangers had seen him – on Platform 9 and ¾, a year ago, when he and Hermione were still dating! – and felt himself starting to blush.

Where the hell was Harry when you needed him?

"Yeah, well, er…" There was absolutely no explanation Ron could give that wouldn't make him sound even more like a complete and total berk, so he stopped trying. "Anyway, the midwife says it may be a while. Hagrid, why don't you take Hermione's folks upstairs for a cuppa? I need to stay here."

And, standing near the corridor wall and watching the memory unfold, Hope felt a sense of both fulfillment and confusion. "Dad," she whispered, before she remembered that none of the people in the Pensieve could hear her. "Dad, who are those people?"

Dad didn't answer. After a moment, Mum said, "The large one is Rubeus Hagrid. He used to teach Care of Magical Creatures at Hogwarts. He wasn't a very good teacher, but he did love animals."

"And he was Harry's first wizarding friend," said Aunt Ginny. "The other two are Ben and Helen Granger, Hermione's parents. Your grandparents. Muggles… dentists, as I recall."

"They didn't know about…?" Hope began.

"Hermione didn't tell them much of anything about the wizarding world," said Ginny. "It would only have worried them." She looked around. "Ron, where was I? I thought I remembered being here tonight…"

Dad looked at Ginny coldly without saying anything. "You were upstairs with Mum," he said after a moment, "in Dad's room. Granddad," he added as an unnecessary aside to Hope. "He was still confined to bed – your Gran hardly left his side. All this happened only a month after the Ministry."

Hope couldn't help flinching at Dad's stony tone. She turned instead to Mum. "Death Eaters attacked the Ministry of Magic in June… a month before this memory," Mum explained, very quietly. "That's when your Granddad was hurt – he's been in his wheelchair ever since." She paused, and added, "You also had an uncle named Percy, who was killed in that attack."

"Oh." Hope peered into the waiting room. "Are you here anywhere, Mum?"

"I was on my way home when this happened… from Switzerland, I believe. Daddy and I were looking for… well, never mind. Just hush and watch."

Ron, the Ron in the Pensieve, was still looking anxiously up and down the corridor. Most of the messages that Hermione had sent – or that she'd calmly dictated to Ron, once her labor'd begun – had got responses, one way or another. But precious few had made an appearance yet: in Ron's opinion, he was suffering from an acute shortage of guards.

Not to mention an acute shortage of Harry. Where in the Other World was he?!

And then he saw her. Beautiful, beautiful Hedwig! Wonderful Hedwig. Gliding lazily up the corridor… and if an owl could look smug, Hedwig certainly did. And soft footsteps sprinting behind her… with no one visible. Well, that only meant someone invisible, didn't it?

"Hermione! Is she all right?" came an anxious voice from thin air. Beside Ron, Harry drew off his invisibility cloak and stood braced against the wall, catching his breath.

"Harry! Mate, am I glad to see you!" Ron squeezed Harry's shoulder in welcome. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Is – she – all – right?!" Harry snapped. He unslung a knapsack from his shoulders and stuffed the cloak into it. Hedwig settled down on the arm of a nearby chair.

"She's fine, Harry. Blimey, calm down, she's fine. The contractions started after lunch… but she wasn't really worried until her water broke, that's when I brought her here. She's in there now…" Ron nodded at the closed door of the delivery room, "with the St. Mungo's midwife, and that's all I know."

Harry ran his hands through his hair distractedly. "Will they let us in, d'you think?"

"No idea… they just kicked me out. Lasoeur thought I was going to faint, or something." Ron snorted derisively. "As if. Nerves of iron, that's me."

"In other words, a little rusty, were they?"

"Ohhhh yeah." Ron put his hand over his mouth and pantomimed nausea.

They shared a light laugh at that. "Seriously, though, Harry," Ron said, "where were you? You shouldn't've left, you knew she could go into labor at any moment…" He waved his hands, trying to convey the intensity of the moment. "When her water broke and you weren't there… y'know how she gets, like she's all calm outside but inside she's going spare? Yeah, like that, only 'bout a zillion times worse. Merlin's navel…"

"Sorry, Ron. I came as soon as Hedwig brought your note, honest. But I had an idea, and I needed to try it right away… before anyone could tell me how stupid it was." Harry shrugged. "You really want to know? Fine. I've been to Godric's Hollow again."

"Again? Harry, I thought we agreed, the…" Ron lowered his voice. "The you-know-what couldn't be there. We searched, what, three times? Four?"

"Three," corrected Harry. "And we searched my parents' house, and we searched the countryside, and we searched the wizarding part of the Hollow… but there was one place we didn't look. And where the Death Eaters wouldn't even think to look."

Ron knitted his brows in confusion. "Where…?"

"Amongst the Muggles."

"The Muggles? But why would they care…?"

"About Gryffindor's wand? They wouldn't, as such. But it is a thousand years old, and there are Muggle groups that collect historical artifacts." Harry grinned at Ron's puzzlement, and began to sing. "And did those fe-eet, in ancient ti-iimes, walk upon England's mountains green…"

Ron's eyes grew wide. "Are you saying… Muggles have them, too?"

"Women's Institutes, yeah. Preserving Britain's cultural heritage. The local chapter had it in a display case… they thought it was an ancient Roman consul's staff of office." Harry reached into his knapsack and drew out a wand. Unlike every other wand Ron had seen, this wand wasn't made of wood. Instead, it was a slender rod of ivory, buttery yellow with age, the handle carved into a roaring lion's face.

"Wow." Ron looked closely at Gryffindor's wand, but somehow knew not to touch it. "That's it, isn't it? You did it. We feed that to our pet dementor and we're done!"

"Yeah, well, there's still the small formality of actually beating the world's most powerful Dark wizard," said Harry dryly, "but at least now it's possible." He slipped the wand into his pocket. "It'll wait until Hermione's out of danger. You're sure she's all right?"

"Hermione. Is. Fine," Ron said with exaggerated patience. "If you're going to worry about anyone, worry about me. I'm the one who had to face the Grangers tonight."

"So?" Harry looked at Ron for another moment before the light dawned. "Ah," he said drolly. "Right, I see what you mean. Would it help if I assured them you had nothing to do with this?"

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble," Ron replied, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Maybe take an advert in the Prophet… blimey, if they're thinking it, everyone else probably is, too…!" He glared at Harry's way-too-innocent look. "Oh, nobody's said anything, but Nev?"

He jerked his head at a scruffy looking wizard, unshaven and ill-kempt, who was sprawled in a chair at the far end of the corridor, and who seemed to be interested only in his bottle of firewhiskey. "Nev came as soon as we owled him," Ron continued. "Told him to guard that end of the hall, and I could tell when we were talking, even he thought…"

"Good for Neville," said Harry. "I mean, for being here." He caught the scruffy wizard's eye and nodded in appreciation. Neville gave a slight smile of acknowledgment before taking a pull from his bottle. "Hope he has nothing to do tonight, but… well, constant vigilance and all that."

He looked back at Ron. "As for the rest, don't worry. I'll tell everyone myself. The Grangers, your Mum and Dad… Ginny…" Harry's face turned pink, but he continued doggedly, "We'll have to go back into hiding again immediately, but I'll make sure everyone knows. Trust me. No way I'm letting you take the credit for this!"

"Credit's not the word I'd use," Ron retorted, then gave a wry smile. "But thanks."

They stood silently together for a moment, looking in opposite directions up and down the corridor. Harry broke the silence by clearing his throat in an unusually somber way. "Ron? I want you to promise me. If…"

"NO," Ron interrupted harshly. "Harry, don't even say it. I don't want to hear it." He grabbed Harry's upper arm in a firm grip. "You're gonna beat the bastard, and you're gonna live. I'm not giving you a choice here, mate."

"Yeah, but if. Ron, no, listen. If." Harry met Ron's eyes square-on. "If anything happens, Ron, I need you to… to…" He couldn't finish the sentence, but the plea was there in his eyes. Ron knew exactly what was being asked of him.

He didn't even hesitate. "Right. If. If anything happens…I'll take care of her myself. Of them." He squeezed Harry's arm for a second, then let go. He said nothing more than those simple words, but his tone made it more binding than an Unbreakable Vow.

Hagrid returned with the Grangers, walking down the stairs carrying in one hand a tray with a full tea service. The Grangers stayed very close to each other, and made a point of not looking at the murals on the wall. Presumably they'd received some disgusting advice from some long-dead Healer's portrait on the stairs.

"Hagrid… Neville…" tallied Harry, glad of a change of subject. "Who else is here?"

"Tonks, Shacklebolt and Moody are up on the fourth floor, guarding Dad and the other Ministry casualties. Well, they're Aurors, they sort of have to be there. Lupin was here for a bit, then he went upstairs to be with them… he said he'd be back. Other than that…" Ron shrugged. "We sent owls to all the D.A. we thought could get here, but that's not many. And I don't think the Order knows we've arrived."

"Spiffing." Harry's mouth was set in a grim line.

As much as Ron shared Harry's opinion, he felt the sudden need to be upbeat for his friend. "Hey, St. Mungo's still has its anti-Apparation spells in place. So no one's sneaking up on us, right? And Hermione reckons that by showing up unannounced and all, we've reduced the chance that anyone'll find out and come looking for us. We'll be fine, mate."

"Yeah," agreed Harry. "We'll be fine." He was obviously trying to be upbeat for his friend. Ron didn't believe Harry any more than he reckoned Harry believed Ron.

Across the hall, the door to the delivery room opened a crack. Apprentice Bloomer stuck her head out. "Mr., uh, Wetherby? We need you…" She stopped, thunderstruck, upon seeing Harry.

"What is it?" Harry demanded. He and Ron hurried to the door.

Bloomer looked at Ron, back at Harry, clearly putting the pieces together. "Madame Lasoeur," she finally said. "Sent me to find you. There's a problem with, uh, Ms. Ginger…"

Harry and Ron immediately shoved past her into the delivery room. As they disappeared through the door, Bloomer gave a furtive glance up the corridor… then she quickly flicked her wand once, as though shaking off some unseen drops of water, before following them in and closing the door.

"Oh ho," said Dad softly. Seeing Hope's inquisitive face, he added brusquely, "She's just signaled Lord Voldemort. I always wondered how he found us so quickly…"

"Oh," said Hope, and felt a twinge of sadness. The woman had looked so nice…

"Not that it did her any good, all said and done," Dad continued grimly. "C'mon." He stepped out and walked through the door – literally through the closed door, as though it had no substance at all. The others promptly followed him into the delivery room…

Hermione lay unconscious on the birthing bed; her pale face was covered in a sheen of sweat, and her body was so limp it looked de-boned. Madame Lasoeur had her wand pointed at Hermione's chest. "Ennervate!" she commanded, and Hermione's body twitched upwards. She gave a great gasp and her eyes flew open, searching the room until they lighted on Harry's face.

"Everything was normal until a few minutes ago," Lasoeur told Ron and Harry. "She looked in perfect health… then as we entered the transition phase, she seemed to lose all her strength. It is almost as though it were being drained from her." She granted Ron and Harry an angry glance apiece. "If you know anything else about Miss Granger, Mr. Potter," she added, no longer bothering with pseudonyms, "now's the time to tell me."

"She's been feeling really tired for months now," Ron offered. "We just thought it was, you know, normal. For a pregnant mum, I mean."

Lasoeur snorted in disgust, and moved to the foot of the bed, partially hidden behind a screen. From a supply cupboard, Bloomer brought her some towels and a tray of potion flasks. Harry took the opportunity to move to Hermione's side. "Hermione?" he said, never taking his eyes off hers.

"About time you showed," said Hermione, with a flash of her usual tartness.

He smiled, oddly comforted by her tone. "Sorry, love. Forgive me?"

"For being late? Maybe. For doing this to me? Never." She grimaced in pain as another contraction began. "You're so carrying the next one, mister. Don't even think I won't find a way to manage it."

"I'm sure you could." Harry'd taken her hand and was holding it reassuringly. Ron considered going to the other side of the bed, and taking her other hand… but a glance at what was happening at the foot of the bed convinced him to stay where he was. He concentrated on not fainting.

"Urrh!" Hermione grunted, as the contraction reached its peak. Then, without warning, her eyes rolled back into her head and she collapsed, inert, onto the bed.

"Hermione!!" yelled Harry, gripping her hand tightly. He shot a panicked look at Lasoeur. Without moving from where she stood, the midwife raised her wand and repeated the Ennervation Charm. As Hermione's eyes flickered open again, Lasoeur muttered darkly under her breath. None of those in the memory could hear what she said, but Hope and the other observers heard her clearly. "It loses effectiveness each time it's used… she won't last at this rate…"

"S-Sorry, Harry," gasped Hermione. "I wasn't expecting… the books didn't say…"

"Lasoeur says the birth is draining you, Hermione," interrupted Harry urgently. "Haven't you been saying it for months? It's why you've felt so tired, you've felt drained." He had both hands wrapped around hers now, trying to anchor her to the present moment and need. "Come on, Hermione, please. Stay with me, love. Just a little more to go, hang on, you can do it, I'm right here…"

He talked without pausing for breath, encouraging her, drawing her eyes to his, distracting her from the pain of labour. Yet Ron found himself not listening… his attention was drawn to their clasped hands. For a second, they seemed to blur and flicker, as though he was looking at them through a candle flame. Then their hands began to glow with a nimbus of light, and Ron realized what was happening.

Somehow, Harry was… pouring his magic into Hermione. He was lending her strength, not only in metaphor but in reality as well, giving of his inner self even as he chattered away. She gave him a stronger smile, then tensed as a new contraction began.

"You're doing fine," called Lasoeur. "The baby's starting to crown. I'm going to help dilate you now, be ready." She waved her wand under the hem of Hermione's gown, and Hermione sucked in a deep breath. "Bear down hard, now, push!" There was a spatter of red liquid, and Ron looked away hastily – as did Hope.

"The process is a tad messy," her Mum told her, quite unnecessarily. Hope pinched her lips together as she filed the fact away for future reference.

"Push!" the midwife urged again, casting another unknown spell. "Be ready to catch," she added in a low aside to her apprentice. "Almost there, girl, once more aaaaand – push!" With a determined groan, Hermione grit her teeth and gave her all. Harry squeezed her hand more tightly still, and the light around their hands flared. "Umbilical clamp," Lasoeur directed Bloomer, and there was a flurry of activity behind the screen.

Then the sound of a slap – and the unmistakable squalling of a newborn. "It's a girl," announced the midwife with a broad smile. "Congratulations."

"You did it," whispered Ron and Harry simultaneously, before flashing grins at each other. Hermione grinned back – wanly, but a genuine grin – and gestured for Ron to join her and Harry. She was sweaty, her hair was even more tangled than normal, and she could barely keep her eyes open. She'd never looked more beautiful.

"With help," she said, and brought Ron's head down to kiss him soundly on the forehead. Releasing him, Hermione turned her head and kissed Harry… on the lips, deeply and fervently. The light from their hands gave a final twinkle before it faded away. "Happy Birthday, Harry."

"I love you, too," he replied. Somehow, it didn't sound like a non sequitur.

"Excuse me," said Madame Lasoeur, still with that broad smile, "but there's someone here who'd like to say hello, too." She brought forward a tiny bundle, wrapped in a pink blanket, which she placed in Hermione's arms. It was red and wrinkled, and in Ron's impartial judgment was pretty damned ugly. At least it wasn't crying any more.

"Oh, my," Hermione breathed, "look at her, Harry. She's so perfect. Hello, Hope," she sang gently. "Hello there…" It was funny how quickly she'd become all stereotypically "girly".

"'Hope'?" Ron asked Harry.

"She's had names picked out since before Christmas," smiled Harry. "And I kinda liked this one. Hope Justinia Potter." He reached out and gently stroked little Hope's fingers, as Hermione began to unbutton the front of her gown.

Ron's eyes bugged wide. "Uh…" he began, and found he couldn't speak.

"The colostrum is very important to a neonate's health, Ron," Hermione lectured, as the last button gave way. "Especially for magical children, where it helps fix the ambient magic into their bodies. There we go, Hope," she crooned, slipping easily from expository mode back to new-mother mode, and bringing the baby to her breast. None of them paid attention as Lasoeur magically cleaned up the afterbirth.

"Besides," added Harry with a grin, "as long as you're staying at, uh, the Place with us, you'd better get used to it. Not too used to it, though… And diapers – Unca Ron needs to learn the joy of changing diapers."

"See, now that's the sort of spell they should be teaching at Hogwarts," complained Ron with a pout. The pout quickly turned into a laugh shared by all three of them. The Trio was together, and the Trio would continue…

Without warning, Harry cried out and clutched at his scar. "No," he grunted, "not now…!" From outside the room came the sound of screams, then the sizzle of curses in the air.

"He's here," Harry told the room. "Lord Voldemort's coming, he'll be here any second. You two," and he pointed at the midwife and her assistant, "need to get out of here now. Ron, help me with Hermione…"

There was a scream just outside the door. "Colloportus!" shouted Harry, then snatched up the baby and thrust her into Ron's arms. "Ron, go! Through there – find help, or get to the Place! We'll be right behind you!"

"Harry…" began Ron, as the baby began to cry again.

"GO!!" Hermione and Harry shouted together, just as the door shook violently. Ron turned, opened the supply cupboard, and gestured for Lasoeur and Bloomer to follow him. Cradling baby Hope in one hand, he drew his wand with the other. With a cry of "Reducto!" he blasted out the back wall of the cupboard. Through the hole he could see an empty corridor, beckoning them to safety.

What he couldn't see was Apprentice Bloomer, drawing her wand and stealthily pointing it at his back.

"Ronald, is she planning to…?" began Mum.

"Looks like it. I never knew that," Dad said. "Ignore her. We have to follow, uh, follow me." He led them after Ron's retreating form.

With a deafening blast, the door exploded, sending splinters of wood flying through the delivery room. Ron scrambled madly through the hole in the wall, even as behind him he heard a cold voice, saying the most feared words in the wizarding world: "Avada Kedavra."

There were flashes of green light somewhere behind him. He heard two bodies fall, and thought his heart would stop at the sound. Not Hermione – not Harry! He spared a half second to look over his shoulder…

Madame Lasoeur and Apprentice Bloomer lay collapsed halfway through the hole, their sightless eyes staring at him. Ron felt a pang of remorse, but didn't stop moving. He started running as quickly as he could down the corridor.

Behind him he heard the voice speak again, that clear, high, glacially cold voice: "Bring me the child, Bella. I will deal with this one myself." Ron had never heard that voice before, but there wasn't a doubt in his mind Who it belonged to. He cast a Silencing Charm on baby Hope and redoubled his speed.

Don't dare get in a fight – have to get the baby to safety, he thought frantically. Can't go back to the main corridor, there's sure to be fighting there… and on the stairs, once the Aurors upstairs get wind of this. If I can just reach the main lobby, I can Disapparate…

He slowed as he came to an intersection in the corridors. Which way?

An explosion echoed through the corridors. Ron made a best-guess as to its direction, and immediately took off in the other direction. He wasn't sure where he was headed at this point – St. Mungo's hallways seemed almost designed to confuse – but as long as it was away from the battle, he'd be happy.

But as he rounded a corner, Ron realized with a sickening lurch that the battle wasn't behind him. Whether by a trick in the acoustics, or some magic in the halls themselves, he'd come back to the corridor leading through the Maternity Ward – where the battle still raged. He skidded to a halt and turned to run the way he'd come, but it was already too late.

Without warning, a white-hot bolt of energy struck Ron's leg. He stumbled, started to fall – tried to tuck into a roll but couldn't make his body obey. It was as though he was watching from outside his body, unable to stop it, as his legs betrayed him, as his body went into a violent tumble… and as the contents of his arms, his wand and baby Hope, flew out of his hands and into the air.

Even as he landed sprawling flat on his face, his hands were outstretched, desperately reaching up. Dear God, he prayed as never before, please, this once…

And around Hope's tiny body, a translucent white cloud seemed to congeal for a split-second. She landed on the floor, bounced once, and came safely to rest against the wall, snug within her own personal Cushioning Charm.

"Ron?" asked Aunt Ginny in awe. "Did you just…?"

"Wandless, non-vocal magic," Dad nodded. "For the first, last, and only time in my life." His expression was as stony as ever, but Hope thought she could detect a note of pride in his voice.

The baby was resting budged up, half-hidden, next to an enormous dark massive form – it took a moment for Ron to recognize the form as Hagrid's. Hagrid seemed to be sitting, propped against the corridor wall, resting for a moment before returning to the battle. Except Hagrid's eyes were flat and dull, and a thread of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and not a muscle twitched. Ron knew what must have happened, and he knew he'd suffer crushing grief soon enough, but not now, dammit, not now…

He craned his neck to look back at the wound in his leg. The curse that had hit him was still working, dissolving his flesh into greenish ooze. Ron supposed that, buried somewhere under his adrenaline, it hurt like a bitch.

He looked back and searched for his wand… it lay on the floor well out of reach. Hoping that his adrenaline could stay high for just a little longer, he put his weight on his elbows and began to drag himself across the floor.

A few metres away, curses continued to spark and sizzle. There were several bodies lying about, at least three of them wearing the robes and masks of Death Eaters. Only two people were left standing: Neville was dueling with Bellatrix Lestrange – or rather, firing spell after spell at Bellatrix, while she parried them with casual ease. She blocked and defended, but didn't bother to hex him back; a cat toying with a mouse might have worn her savagely superior smile.

"Well," she said indulgently, "this is been ever so much fun, boy. I'd love to continue our playtime… but my Master has given me a task, so…" One quick flick of her wand sent Neville flying backwards to crash against the opposite wall. With brisk strides she walked over to where Ron lay, still struggling to reach his wand.

"Oooh, look at the little blood traitor," Bellatrix cooed, "trying so hard to be wee Potter's best toady." She planted her foot on his hand as it was stretched out to grab his wand. He thought he heard a finger break… and that unleashed the flood of pain from his leg wound.

Bellatrix towered over him. "Don't be stupid, boy. Even if you had your wand, you couldn't hurt one who's been trained by the Dark Lord Himself." She leaned lower. "All I want is the brat. Tell me where you've hidden it, and I'll give you a painless death, I promise."

Ron forced his eyes to stay firmly on Bellatrix's face – and not glance at Hope, Silenced but only partially hidden by Hagrid's bulk. Distant sounds of magical battle told him that reinforcements were on the way, if he could only hold out long enough.

But Bellatrix seemed to recognize this, too. She grabbed Ron's hair and yanked his head upwards. "Last chance, boy," she snarled.

"The name is Weasley," he managed to say through clenched teeth.

"Splendid epitaph," she smiled, and raised her wand.

A high-pitched scream rent the air – it sounded like it came from the delivery room. "Avada – NOOOOOO!!"

"Master!" cried Bellatrix, looking up wildly. Instinctively she took a step towards the shattered door…

… and Ron, desperately lunging with his freed hand, retrieved his wand. In one fluid motion he rolled and whipped it upwards. He had no time to reason out what spell to use; it was only much later that he tried to reconstruct what must have gone through his mind. She blocked Neville's curses. She can block any curse she knows. She knows all the curses we know.

Except for one, handwritten in an old Potions book. "Sectumsempra!"

Bellatrix shrieked and fell back, clutching at her face. A bloody gash split her features from hairline to jaw. She tried wiping the blood out of her eyes, and shrieked again when the blood wouldn't stop flowing. "My face! My face! Master!"

For a moment she tried to aim her wand at Ron, determined to pay him back for her injury… but she couldn't see to aim, and the sounds of magical battle were drawing nearer. She spat at Ron in her fury, then spun and ran away. As she passed the shattered door to the delivery room, she looked inside and gave a furious sob… then she stooped, picked something off the corridor floor, and continued to run. In seconds she was out of sight… possibly using an illegal Portkey, Ron couldn't tell.

"Accio Hope," gasped Ron. The baby girl slid across the floor towards him; he caught her in his arms. If he could drag himself out of the corridor, maybe into the waiting room, he might avoid the notice of any other Death Eaters…

"Ron?" It was Neville. Shaky, bruised and bloodied, one eye swollen shut, Neville had still come to help Ron. "Oh Merlin, your leg! I'll go find a Healer!" Yet he hesitated, forcing himself to ask: "Is She gone?"

Ron could only nod. "You-Know-Who?" he whispered in return.

"Dead." Neville swallowed convulsively. "And H-Harry… and Her-Hermione… I'm so sorry, Ron…" He choked and fell silent for a moment. "Is that… er, Hermione's baby?"

Pain, and fatigue, and sorrow all crashed together in his head. He closed his eyes, tried to ignore the footsteps running closer, tried to think. If Hagrid was dead, the Grangers were surely dead too. With Harry dead, with Hermione dead, baby Hope would have to go live with her only remaining blood relatives… just as baby Harry had. The Dursleys.

The only way it wouldn't happen… was if the Dursleys weren't related to Hope. And Ron had sworn to Harry he'd take care of her himself. It was the last thing he could do for his best mate, and for the woman they both loved.

"Yeah," he answered Neville, as Lupin and George showed up. "Hermione's and mine. Our baby girl. Hope." Then the pain from his leg – and his loss – proved too much, and he passed into unconsciousness.

Mum stepped back from the scene. "And that, I assume, is when you started your deception in earnest, Ronald."

"After what just happened," Dad said wearily, "there wasn't a lot else I could've done. Hell, everyone was half-ready to believe it anyway." He looked down at Hope. "All right, you've seen what you wanted to see. Let's get out of here, shall we?" He pointed his wand upwards, and the four observers flew out of the Pensieve memory into a rushing darkness.

Only to stop, halfway back to the real world. "Dad?" Hope said into the darkness. "We saw how I was born… but we didn't see how Harry and Mother died."

She could hear Dad swooshing his wand upwards, more emphatically. She grit her teeth and stubbornly willed them to stay where they were. And amazingly, they did – suspended motionless between their physical bodies and the Pensieve.

"That's not part of my memory," came Dad's voice. He sounded testy, with good reason. "I didn't see them die, did I? I wasn't there."

"You didn't see that nurse pointing her wand at your back," Hope pointed out, "but it was in the Pensieve. That's what a Pensieve does, it builds a complete scene. It starts with your memory, but it builds from the ges… gest…"

"The gestalt?" Mum supplied.

"The ges-talt of the collective un-unconscious," stuttered Hope. She waited a moment, then asked hesitantly, "Dad?"

Dad didn't reply. Hope felt her confidence starting to crumble, she didn't want to do this – but she firmly reminded herself this was more important. She pointed her own wand downwards – and slowly, as though swimming against a current, the four observers descended back into the Pensieve memory…

"He's here," Harry told the room. "Lord Voldemort's coming, he'll be here any second. You two," and he pointed at the midwife and her assistant, "need to get out of here now. Ron, help me with Hermione…"

There was a scream just outside the door. "Colloportus!" shouted Harry, then snatched up the baby and thrust her into Ron's arms. "Ron, go! Through there – find help, or get to the Place! We'll be right behind you!"

"Harry…" began Ron, as the baby began to cry again.

"GO!!" Hermione and Harry shouted together, just as the door shook violently. Ron turned, opened the supply cupboard, and gestured for Lasoeur and Bloomer to follow him. Cradling baby Hope in one hand, he drew his wand with the other. With a cry of "Reducto!" he blasted out the back wall of the cupboard.

The door to the delivery room exploded deafeningly, sending splinters of wood flying everywhere. Through the wreckage strode a tall, skeletally thin figure: Lord Voldemort. Hope shivered, struck by a sudden wave of coldness, as though the very presence of the Dark Lord robbed the room of light and warmth.

Harry had moved to stand between the intruder and Hermione, wand ready, but for the moment Voldemort ignored him. His attention was drawn to the figures retreating through the supply cupboard. Lazily he raised his own wand; almost casually he intoned, "Avada Kedavra."

Two bolts of green light shot from his wand. They struck Madame Lasoeur and Apprentice Bloomer just as Ron scrambled through the hole in the wall. Their bodies collapsed halfway through the hole – effectively blocking pursuit. For the moment, Ron had evaded them.

"Bring me the child, Bella," ordered Voldemort. He gave an amused nod at Harry. "I will deal with this one myself." In a lower voice he added, "Recall my command: the Killing Curse is mine alone."

"I obey, Master," said Bellatrix, and took her leave. From the enraged roars that immediately followed, she must have encountered Hagrid at this point, but Hope couldn't make out any of the details. She was focused entirely on this, the final confrontation between the Dark Lord and the Chosen One.

"You should have stayed in hiding, Potter," Voldemort told Harry. "You must have known what would happen if you ever dared show yourself." He paused briefly, as though expecting some witty repartee from Harry, but Harry remained dead silent, intent on Voldemort.

"No final words? As you will," said Voldemort, and raised his wand. "Avada Kedavra."

The green light shot from his wand again, but Harry made no move to avoid it. He cast no countercharm or protective spell. Instead, he swung his wand at the incoming curse like a Beater swatting a Bludger.

The room exploded in a brilliant burst of light and thunder. Voldemort was knocked backward, his wand thrown from his hand, pain contorting his hideous face. It took him a moment to recover his equilibrium… to see Harry, unmoved before Hermione's bed, holding himself upright through sheer force of will. His right hand was burnt and blackened, and it held the charred stump of an ivory wand.

Voldemort's eyes went wide – then narrowed in a terrible rage that didn't mask his fear. "You… you insolent meddling fool! Do you realize what you've done?"

Harry's only reply was to force his crippled hand open, allowing the remains of Gryffindor's wand to clatter onto the floor. He locked gazes with Voldemort defiantly. It needed no Leglimency for Voldemort to see that Harry had, indeed, known the wand was a Horcrux. That the other Horcruxes were already gone. That Harry had spent the last year, not cowering in hiding, but preparing for this very moment, when Voldemort was finally mortal again.

Oh, yes, Harry realized exactly what he'd done.

"You are still a fool," Voldemort hissed at last. He stepped further into the room, circling Harry, watching unblinkingly as Harry struggled to keep himself between Voldemort and Hermione. "You have destroyed my Horcruxes, but now you cannot finish the fight. You are injured, while I am still strong. I am still Lord Voldemort. And I can make more Horcruxes."

He laughed as Harry raised his burnt hand towards him, attempting to summon a wandless spell. "Yes, keep struggling! I would expect nothing less from you. But I will kill you, and the Mudblood, and I will make another Horcrux here, now." He laughed again, feeling more confident. "Your skull, perhaps – that would make a memorable trophy."

Harry shook his head, grimly determined. "Not happening," he spat.

"Fool. Look at you: you can barely stand. Your power is spent, you hold no wand, and you face me alone…"

And Hermione suddenly reached out, to clasp Harry's uninjured left hand. "No!" she retorted fiercely. "Not alone!" Light coruscated around their joined hands, as she gave to Harry the power he'd lent her during her birthing – and her own reserves as well.

Voldemort quickly raised his hand, summoning his own wandless magic to strike them down – but Harry's hand was already in position, and his reflexes were still the fastest anyone had ever seen. "Expecto Nemesem!" he shouted.

"Avada…" cried Voldemort a split-instant later, but he never completed the incantation.

A shining silver animal erupted from Harry's hand, landed on all fours, and immediately gave a great leap towards Voldemort. Its form was that of a huge dog, broad-shouldered and almost bearlike. Savagely it pounced on Voldemort and knocked him to the floor. "NOOOOOO!!" he screamed.

"But…" said Aunt Ginny, puzzled, "but that's not Harry's Patronus..."

"It's Snuffles," Dad said softly.

"Who?" asked Hope. Dad didn't answer.

The giant dog had Voldemort by the throat and was worrying at it, as though getting a good grip. Then it gave an upward tug with its head… and pulled something out of Voldemort's body. A shrunken, deformed ghost of a thing, with misshapen arms and no legs. Voldemort's body convulsed once, then lay very still.

With the soul fragment in its mouth, the silver dog turned to look at Harry. Harry had fallen back against the bed, no longer able to stand… but his burnt hand was still at the ready, and Hermione still had a firm grip on his good hand. The dog nodded once to them both; even with the thing in its mouth, it was definitely grinning. Then it turned and started running away. It never left the delivery room… the far wall always seemed to be on the dog's other side… but the dog kept running, and shrank as though disappearing into the distance, until it finally faded and was gone.

"You did it," whispered Hermione.

"With help," Harry whispered back. They traded simultaneous grins as they heard each others' words from earlier.

"It's over, Hermione," Harry continued after a moment. With the battle over, his body had decided it no longer needed to stand; he sank slowly onto the side of the bed, Hermione's hand still in his. "It's finally over. Oh God, we did it. We did it, love. Together."

Hermione smiled happily, but even that small act seemed to exhaust her. She didn't move or speak, but her eyes never left Harry's face.

It seemed to take a very long time for Harry to get enough breath to speak again. "When we're feeling better," he told her, "we'll go home with Hope. Not to the Place, but a real home. We'll be a family, love." He took another minute to catch his breath… he had to work hard to do it. "And we'll be married, and have more kids after Hope. And…" His voice grew softer as he finished, "And we'll be together for the rest of our lives."

She moved her mouth, but no words came out. It didn't matter: her shining eyes said it all. Of course we will.

He could no longer keep his head erect. He let it settle onto the bed, his face inches from hers. They didn't kiss, but each could feel the other's breath on their lips. Harry managed a tiny smile as Hermione caressed him with her eyes. I love you, Hermione, he mouthed silently back.

I love you, Harry. They smiled at each other, at total peace, hands still clasped, happy to be together.

Then slowly, together, they closed their eyes.

The Pensieve scene became blurry. Hope couldn't make out details any more… then she realized with a start that it was because her eyes were filled with tears. She was crying, Mum was crying… and Aunt Ginny was sobbing. Only Dad maintained his stone visage.

Ginny fell to her knees as her sobs racked her body. "I didn't know…" she wailed, "I didn't know." Her grief was a palpable thing, and seemed to build on itself as she cried. Hope tentatively reached out and put a hand on Ginny's shoulder, only to draw it back as Ginny angrily shrugged it off.

Dad finally spoke in a dull, leaden voice. "Are you satisfied?" It made Hope feel small and insignificant, as though she'd been caught in the act of vandalizing some holy place. She couldn't look at Dad… she tried to brush away her tears, but they kept coming.

Dad pointed his wand upwards, and this time Hope made no protest. The four observers rushed skyward, out of the Pensieve memory, out of the past and through the darkness.

8. VIII

(A/N: No, I haven't vanished from the face of the earth… it just feels like it sometimes. If you've stayed with this story despite the delays, I most heartily thank you for your loyalty. I know I don't deserve it.

As always, this story is brought to you by that lovely and talented beta, Mary Caroline. Any remaining problems, issues or mistakes are strictly my own.

The details in the vault scene are taken from SS/PS. I always wondered why some of those details were never repeated in later books; this is my take on it.)

(Disclaimer: Do I look like a super-wealthy Scottish mother-of-three?)

************************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

31 July 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

Molly and Arthur gaped in astonishment as Ron, Luna, Ginny and Hope returned from the Pensieve – astonishment that immediately turned to concern. Not since she was a little girl had they seen Ginny bawling as she was now. She sank to the floor as though she'd lost the will to live, and cried her heart out.

Hope was sniffling, too, and even Luna was crying… though in Luna's case, it was simply a matter of water leaking from her eyes, and down her perfectly composed face. The scene of Hope's birth, and her parents' death, must have been more than Ron had ever described.

"Ron?" asked Molly after a moment. "What… what happened?"

"She got what she asked for," said Ron heavily. He wasn't crying, but his face showed a weariness and a sadness that made him look far, far older than his years.

Arthur hesitated, then moved to Ginny's side. "Ginny?" Her sobs subsided slightly, but didn't stop. Tentatively, he reached down and began to stroke her hair.

And Ginny surprised everyone, by doing something else she hadn't done since she was a little girl: She crawled into her father's lap and tucked her head under his chin. Arthur reflexively continued to stroke Ginny's hair, murmuring comfort to her; she continued to weep, but more gently now as she exhausted herself, safe in the sanctuary of Daddy's Lap.

Arthur glanced at Molly; they reached an unspoken consensus. "We'll take her with us to the Burrow for tonight," Molly announced. "Ginny, dear, do you think you're up to Apparating there? We can all go together."

Ginny nodded without speaking. "Right, then, on three…" said Molly. "Ron, Luna, we'll talk again tomorrow. Hope, dear…" She paused, and seemed to reconsider what she wanted to say. "Well, it's been a long day, hasn't it?" she finished lamely. "Good night."

With a series of loud cracks, the Weasleys Disapparated. Ron looked down at his daughter. For a moment, he was tempted to wish her "Happy Birthday" in his most sarcastic voice – twisting the knife, as it were.

But seeing the misery in her face, Ron found he couldn't do it. He couldn't. He didn't even have sarcasm to fall back on. He was pathetic. All he had now was his backbreaking sense of loss – and of failure.

"Yeah. It has been a long day," he said quietly. "And it's late." He gestured for Luna and Hope to precede him through the Speaking Glass. They stepped through the frame together, back into their Hogsmeade home. Luna looked back in time to see Ron, still at Grimmauld Place, reaching for the Glass's frame to break the connection.

Her hand shot out and intercepted his before it could touch the frame. "It seems a very depressing place to spend the night alone," Luna said mildly. She gave his hand a gentle tug, and after a moment he yielded to it. Ron followed his family home, as the Glass shimmered behind him and grew opaque again.

They stood in the living room for a long minute, motionless and silent: Hope's tears subsiding, Luna's face impassive, Ron's shoulders sagging. "We'll…" Ron began, and swallowed. He pulled his hand from Luna's and began again. "We'll talk in the morning." Unable to meet her eyes, he nodded in the direction of the stairs, then moved to the couch and prepared to bed down for the night.

Luna cocked her head and watched him curiously for a second. Then she placed a hand in the small of Hope's back and gently propelled her to the stairs, and their respective bedrooms.

*

Ron knew he'd be tortured by a memory that night. After the day he'd had, he should've expected it to be the most painful one possible.

"I should come along, too," Ron insisted. "Who knows what those Durmstrang wanks could do? They might be able to see right through Polyjuice… paranoids are good at that sort of detection spell, y'know…"

"We've been through this, Ron," Hermione repeated, carefully replacing the book on the shelf in the study at Grimmauld Place. Her temper was beginning to fray at last. "Viktor's invitation was for me alone… so only 'Viktor' and 'Hermione' can show up at Durmstrang. We simply can't bring you along. Look, I'm sorry…"

"I'll bet you are." He knew even as he said it that it was the wrong response. On the other hand, there were so many wrong responses he could have given, it seemed a shame to limit himself to one…

She stiffened, turning icy in an instant. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he sneered, "nothing at all. Just that you'll be out of touch and far away – from anyone who might recognize you. Great chance for some one-on-one time with two really good Quidditch players, isn't it…" Merlin! After over eight months, her remark still hurt.

"Oh, please. Didn't we go through enough of this at school? Why not accuse me of seeing McLaggen on the sly, while you're at it?"

"You haven't had a chance," Ron said dismissively.

"Haven't – had – !" Hermione spluttered for a moment, face reddening, as she escalated from icy to volcanic. "How… how dare you, Ronald Weasley!" she yelled. "How dare you suggest such a thing! I thought… We're supposed to be in love! Is this your idea of love, then? I've stood by you since you were poisoned on your birthday, and now you give me this shite about…!"

"Well, you weren't stepping out with a couple of other blokes before now, were you?" he shouted back. "Leaving me behind, as usual! Good ol' Ron, he loves Hermione, he'll always be there! Hermione can busy herself with McLaggen and Krum and the Boy Who Effing Lived, but hey! Don't worry, she can always come back to good ol' Ron!"

She fell back a step, wide-eyed at his fury, while his tirade reached its crescendo. "And someday you won't come back to good ol' Ron! Someday Harry's going to die! And you're going to die! And I'll be left behind, again! ALONE! AGAIN! FOREVER! And it'll be my fault and it'll tear me up inside and I'll have to go on without you and I'll miss you and I'll hate you for it and it's NOT! BLOODY!! FAIR!!" His throat was raw, he was screaming so, and he had to take a deep breath for the next part of their argument…

Wait a minute. This wasn't how their argument had gone…

This… this wasn't a memory anymore. This wasn't August in Grimmauld Place, this was… this was…

"This is you finally seeing," said Hermione gently. He looked up to see her smiling at him now, serene, loving. "And about time, too," she added.

"H-Herm…?" he croaked. He staggered to a chair and collapsed into it.

"Right here," she said, still in that gentle tone. "And no, before you ask, this is still your dream, Ron. This isn't real… but that doesn't mean it's not true."

He put his head into his hands so she couldn't see the tears springing up in his eyes. "Oh Merlin, Hermione… I… I…"

She waited for him to find his words. Funny, she'd never done that while she was alive. "I… I'm sorry," he said in agony.

"Oh, Ron. You haven't done anything to be sorry for."

Ron had to look up at that. "I let you and Harry die!"

"Let us?" She sounded amused.

"I… I ran away! I…"

"We told you to run, didn't we? How else could you save Hope?" Hermione reached over and squeezed his hand. "And you did save Hope. That meant everything. Thank you so much."

"I should have stayed!" Ron cried. "If I'd only stayed…"

"Then Bellatrix would've stayed, too," Hermione pointed out reasonably, "instead of pursuing you. As it was, Voldemort was alone when we faced him… and we could finish him." She shook her head in wonderment. "Honestly, Ron. You beat back Bellatrix even with a gaping wound in your leg… how can you think yourself a coward?"

He hadn't said the word, but of course she'd know what he was thinking.

"You didn't run to save yourself – you ran to save a child's life," she finished. "You were a hero." She waited patiently while he processed this.

"Don't much feel like a hero," he finally told her.

"Well, can you take my word for it?"

"Feel more like..." Ron clasped his hands and looked down at them, avoiding her gaze again. "Like I abandoned you," he mumbled. "I mean, I left you to die, I went and married Luna…"

She startled him by laughing, merrily and loud. "You got so lucky," she informed him.

"Wha? What do you…?" he started to ask. Hermione silenced him by placing her finger on his lips.

"The Burrow," she suggested after a moment.

"Huh?" Ron was thoroughly confused now.

"The Burrow," Hermione repeated. "Hogsmeade weekends. Evenings in the Common Room. You must have some memories of me that don't involve arguing or Horcruxes or unpleasantness in general." She reached out both hands to cup his face tenderly. "I'd really like it if you could dream about those memories, now and again."

And she gave him a kiss, neither brief nor lingering – not with passion, but oh, with compassion. She stood and smiled on him as he sat, motionless, watching her. For a painful instant, he was afraid her final words would be "Good-bye."

But she said nothing more, simply walking to the study door and opening it. There was a bright light outside the door, bright enough to hurt his eyes, but it didn't bother Hermione: she walked into the light and was gone. The door stayed open just a crack, so that he had to squint as he…

… as he woke up with a start.

He was, in fact, squinting into a light – candlelight. Luna stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in a robe and holding a candle in a sconce. She was watching him steadily. "Luna?" asked Ron groggily. "What…?"

"You said we would talk in the morning," Luna replied.

He sneaked a quick glance at the wall clock. Yes, technically, it was morning…

Luna walked to the couch and sat down – Ron quickly drew up his legs to make room for her – and placed the candlestick on the end table. She regarded him meditatively for a minute, while Ron tried to figure out what was going through her mind.

"Do you still have Hope's Hogwarts letter?"

Definitely not what he thought would be going through her mind. "Do I…"

"Still have Hope's Hogwarts letter."

"Er, yes, it's in my office at Hogwarts…" Ron paused. "Um. I never told you I had it, did I?"

"Well, no. But you brought home her list of supplies, so we could shop at Diagon Alley. So I rather suspect the Headmistress had simply handed you the whole envelope and trusted you to deliver it, thereby saving an owl. Not that delivering it would have tired one of the school owls very much, since we live here in Hogsmeade, but it's the thought that counts."

Now that she'd begun her explanation, Ron saw where her thoughts were headed – and couldn't help but wince. "Yyyyyes, I kept back Hope's Hogwarts letter before I delivered the rest… and yes, it is addressed to Hope Potter." He sighed. "I know an enchanted quill writes those things… I was kind of hoping McGonagall hadn't noticed. She didn't act like she'd noticed." Luna merely looked at him, and he sighed again. "But then, she wouldn't, would she?"

"Hope made a perceptive observation, earlier this evening," Luna commented, "about how you planned to maintain the hoax after she started at Hogwarts. It would have been quite awkward, I think, if you'd tried to sneak into the girl's dormitories at night to charm her eyes blue. Even assuming she's Sorted into Gryffindor, which is by no means certain."

"I know, I know..." Ron groaned. "I just… I don't know what I was going to do. I'd have figured out something."

"Mm, yes, I daresay you would," she nodded. "For someone so abysmal at keeping secrets, you've really done very well over the years." Her light tone made it impossible to tell if she meant it as a compliment.

"Er, thanks."

"Still, it might have been easier," Luna suggested without a hint of reproach in her voice, "if you'd had help."

That was it, then; that was the crux of his offense. Ron knew this was as close to an accusation as Luna would ever come – and that she was deeply hurt inside, to have said even that much. "I should have told you, My Good Love…" he began.

"I think I'd feel better," she interrupted, "if you'd not use that phrase just now." Her voice, her face, were as placid as ever.

Ouch. "I'm sorry," he said humbly. "I should have told you, before we were married, I mean it wasn't like I didn't trust you, but…" He gestured with his hands, as though he could pull the right words out of the air. "They'd just died," he finally said. "Harry and Hermione'd died, and I'd promised… I was so scared, Luna. One slip of the tongue, and Hope'd go to live with the Dursleys. That whole first year, I didn't dare even think about it, let alone talk about it."

Her silence wasn't encouraging, but it wasn't exactly discouraging either. Ron plowed ahead. "And the longer I waited to tell you, the harder it'd be when I did tell you. So I just never… I never… I'm so sorry, Luna."

She considered. "Are you?" she asked after a moment.

He knew he deserved that. "Yes," he said quietly. "I know you don't have any reason to believe me anymore, but I am – very – sorry."

Luna nodded, accepting his words. "Thank you," she said seriously. Ron couldn't help notice that she didn't add I forgive you. He felt himself starting to despair again.

"I don't think it was a question of trust, after all," she went on, "as much as it was ego."

Despair gave way to astonishment. "Wh-what?"

Luna cocked her head curiously. "Don't you think so? I'm sure it was quite unconscious on your part, but once it's pointed out, you have to admit…"

Ron shook his head slowly, not taking his eyes off her. "I didn't fulfill a prophecy. I didn't defeat Voldemort. Luna, I didn't do anything to have an ego about."

"You 'won' Hermione."

Ron could only stare, open-mouthed, at his wife as she continued in matter-of-fact tones, "That is, at least, what everyone believed, and you encouraged them to do so. As long as you were Hope's father, you were the one who got Hermione in the end… and beat Harry in that, if nothing else."

He shook his head again, far more emphatically. "Luna, no…"

"Or am I wrong? When people assumed that you slept with Hermione, were you angry?"

"No, of course not! That's what I wanted them to assume!" Ron stopped to expel a breath. With an effort he lowered his voice. "Not because of… that. But because… well, there was no other way for me to be Hope's father, was there?"

"Ah." Luna lowered her gaze and began to tug a loose thread on the sleeve of her robe. "I thought perhaps you might be envious of Harry, and want to… well, beat him in something." She paused, and for the first time in their discussion, seemed reluctant to say more. "As I've been envious of Hermione," she finally admitted.

"You. Envious. Of Hermione." Ron closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. There's only so many boots to the head I can take in one day, he complained silently.

"Well, yes. After all, you loved her first," Luna said in a small voice. "You've never stopped loving her. How could I compete with a dead lover?" The thread broke off her sleeve; she began to twist and coil it between her fingers. In an even smaller voice, she added, "And until tonight, I thought…"

"You thought she'd given me a child," Ron finished, suddenly understanding. For more than ten years, he and Luna'd been trying to have a child of their own. Their failure had never seemed to bother her – after all, they still had Hope – but in a flash, Ron saw how she must have seen it as her failure, hers alone. For hadn't Ron fathered Hope?

That, as much as everything else combined, was where his deception had wounded her most deeply.

His insides squirmed with this added bit of remorse, but Ron resolutely forced himself to deal with one issue at least… the most important issue. He drew a deep breath and tried to remind himself why he was Gryffindor's Head of House. "Luna…"

He waited until she raised her head to look at him; then he met her gaze squarely and continued. "Luna… Hermione and I, we drove each other up the wall. Yeah, you could say I loved her, but marrying her would've been a tremendous mistake. Whereas marrying you was the best thing I've ever done – since I love you even more."

She watched him unblinkingly. "Believe me," he added, with all the sincerity he could muster, "if Hermione were alive, if she were here right now, I'd tell her that to her face."

Luna blushed slightly and lowered her head again. After what seemed like a very long silence, she nodded. "Thank you, Ronald."

Gracefully she stood, picked up the candle, and reached out to him with her free hand. "Come to bed now, dear, it's quite late."

"Uh…" Ron looked from her hand to her face – which was no longer expressionless, a hint of a smile on her lips. "So… you aren't… mad at me?"

"Oh yes, very much so."

He couldn't seem to wrap his mind around her words. "But then… you can't want me to come to bed?"

Somehow, without changing in any way, her smile grew warmer. "Well, the man I love has had a truly awful day, and I can't comfort him if he stays down here on the couch, now can I?" She kept her hand outstretched to him. After a moment, of its own volition, his hand came up to take hers.

*

3 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

Luna rapped softly on the bedroom door. "Hope?" There was still no answer. She rapped again. "Little person, it's time to go. Everyone's waiting."

Through the door came a muffled voice. "Go without me."

"Hope." Luna said it as firmly as she could.

After a moment, the door opened a crack and Hope emerged from her self-imposed exile. The day following her memorable birthday party, she'd shut herself in her bedroom and, except for meals and bathroom visits, had refused to come out. Hope had maintained a virtual silence for the last three days, both in company and, to Luna's surprise, in the privacy of her room.

She looked now as she had all weekend: shutter-faced and withdrawn, as though she were suffering an extreme reaction to her outburst of feeling on her birthday. At least Hope was merely impassive, not depressed – that term Luna reserved for Ronald.

Luna escorted her daughter downstairs, where Ronald and Ginny awaited. Neither of them looked happy, but Ginny at least was making an effort to be upbeat. "Are we ready, then? Bill said he'd be there to greet us. And probably to make sure no one gets hurt, too, knowing the Ministry."

"I wouldn't mind," Ronald groused. As Luna gave him an admonishing look, he went on sourly, "It's only been three days. That's what I can't figure out. Bill wouldn't have told them anything. Even the Twins couldn't blab this badly. How in bleedin' hell did the Ministry find out?!"

"Ronald…" Luna increased her level of admonishment, rolling her eyes towards their impressionable daughter.

Hope rolled her eyes in response. "I know about Hell, Mum."

"Flock of bloody vultures," continued Ron, undeterred. "You know they're going to do their best to make our lives miserable, right? That's why they'll be there."

"We've done what we can," said Ginny. She motioned to the fireplace.

Luna tilted her head in thought. "Have we? Perhaps we need someone there who can make the Ministry's life miserable…"

Ronald looked puzzled for a moment. When he understood what Luna was suggesting, his face turned furiously red. "NO! Absolutely NOT!"

"If our secret's out, the presence of reporters can't hurt us now," Luna reminded him reasonably. "In fact, in this situation, reporters would take our side over the Ministry's. I'll make a quick call," she stepped over to the Speaking Glass as she spoke, "and see who's available. I won't be but a minute… you all go ahead." She didn't give her husband a chance to realize that, as the owner-editor of the Quibbler, she already held the power of the press… she wanted an excuse to stay behind, alone in the house.

Hope and Ronald hesitated, but Ginny grabbed the pot of Floo Powder from its niche and held it out to them. They each reflexively took a handful of Powder, watching as Ginny prepared to use the fireplace. "Well, let's go," she said resolutely, and tossed in her Floo Powder. "Gringotts Bank!"

Green flame whirled and spirited Ginny from the fireplace. Hope immediately followed her. Ronald looked over at Luna, who by now was addressing the Glass and asking for Quintus Tenpenny. She waved at him to go ahead. Ronald shrugged, stepped into the fireplace and Flooed to Gringotts.

Luna completed her call to Tenpenny as quickly as she could. She took half a moment to hum a refrain of Weasley is Our King (she'd always found it soothing; she'd never understood why Ronald didn't). Then she walked rapidly up the stairs and entered Hope's room. She looked around curiously. Hermione's portrait was no longer on the bookshelf, where she'd left it the night of Hope's birthday… it was, in fact, nowhere to be seen in the room.

Time was pressing. Luna drew her wand from her purse. "Accio portrait!" she cast. Nothing appeared to happen. I know Hope can practice spells of her own, Luna thought, far in advance of her years… but surely she wouldn't yet be able to block a full adult's magic.

Well, why not? She cancelled Ronald's charm on her eyes.

Taking a different tack, Luna waved her wand in a sweeping arc while casting, "Alohomora." By broadcasting in a wide pattern, she made sure to unlock any locked door, drawer, or cupboard in the room. Then she used the Accio charm again, and this time a dresser drawer slid open and a packet flew out to her waiting hand.

It was the portrait, wrapped in dark paper and Spellotape. From the wax fragments stuck on the paper, Luna guessed this had been the original wrapping. She quickly ripped it off and held the portrait to the light. Hermione's image was motionless, its eyes closed. Luna was about to speak to it when it shook its head, as though shaking out cobwebs. Hermione blinked and focused her eyes on Luna. "What happened?"

"I was about to ask you that," said Luna. "I've not seen or heard you for the last three days… and I was rather expecting to. Did Hope tell you what happened right after we last spoke?"

"She's told me nothing. She came back to her room that night, a bit teary-eyed, and that surprised me. Hope almost never cries. I asked her what was wrong, and instead of answering, she started crying harder. The more I tried to calm her, the harder she cried. Finally, she shut me up in her drawer for the night… she usually sleeps with me under her pillow." Hermione twisted her mouth in painful memory. "And the next morning, before we could talk at all, she wrapped me up and stored me away."

Luna sighed. "If it's any consolation, I don't believe it was anything you did or said. Only we'd just watched Ronald's memories in a Pensieve of the night you…"

"Died," Hermione finished with her, in a hollow voice. "Well." She found herself speechless for a minute. "Well," she said at length, "that would explain it."

"Indeed." Luna considered for a moment. "I don't suppose you really want to know the details…"

Hermione shook her head emphatically. "I'm more concerned with what happens now."

"Mm, as are we all. I'm off to Gringotts to learn the first bit of that…"

"Take me with you."

Luna looked keenly at Hermione. "Do you want your existence to be generally known?" she asked slowly.

"Not generally known… although there're a few people I wouldn't mind talking to again," Hermione allowed. "Hope's told me about the new upsurge in Death Eater activity; I might be able to help with that. But I have to see what's happening!"

Luna didn't immediately answer. Hermione tried another approach. "If you cast an Invisibility Charm inside your purse, it will still be opaque from the outside…"

That got a surprised blink from Luna. "I never thought of that…" She hesitated for only another second; time was pressing more than ever. She inserted the tip of her wand into her purse and cast, "Transparo." Sure enough, while the outside of the purse remained dark brown, when she looked into the purse it was clear as glass.

With a quick nod of thanks to Hermione, Luna picked up the portrait and slipped it into the purse. She snapped the clasp shut and left the room. "Best to keep quiet," she said as she headed for the fireplace. "When we get back, I'll answer any questions you might have."

*

It was an unenviable position, to say the least. On one side of the Gringotts conference room stood three Junior Ministers, answerable directly to the Minister of Magic (or, as Ron liked to call them, "Scrimgeour's smarmy suck-ups"). They'd brought a harried human clerk to wait attendance on them. On the other side stood, or rather, sat five grim-looking goblins who were the directors of Gringotts Bank. And in the center, determined to be impartial – and to not take guff from either side – stood Bill Weasley.

"This is outrageous," the eldest Junior Minister, Anton Chisler, was pontificating. He was a portly, balding man who insisted on wearing robes a size too small for his girth. "You have delayed transfer of the Potter estate for a year, with no explanation whatsoever… and now, miraculously, out of the blue a Potter heir conveniently appears? You must forgive us if we seem skeptical!"

"We have always known there must have been a Potter heir," said the presiding goblin, Brasslock. "Gringotts prides itself on its customer service. Our vault door locks are specially crafted to acknowledge any with the right of entry." He gazed contemptuously at Chisler. "They have been prepared to accept their new owner for the last eleven years."

"And you didn't think to inform the Ministry of this?"

Brasslock shrugged, a very human gesture that he'd obviously learned to use well; the snub was exquisitely calibrated. "We knew there was an heir. We did not know who, or where."

"And from what I heard," put in Bill hastily, forestalling Chisler's retort, "it would have been from Harry's own family. His cousin, what's his name…"

"Dursley," said another Junior Minister with the all-too-apt name of Bilgeworthy. "Who is a Muggle, and ineligible to inherit…"

"Dudley Dursley, right. But who, if he'd had a magical child…? It's not impossible; Harry Potter's first cousin once removed, after all. The bloodline's there. Such a child would've been Harry's heir, so I'm told."

"Told to you by…" Bilgeworthy turned to sneer at Ron. "By your brother, perhaps?"

Ron maintained a flinty silence. It was true he'd suggested the possibility, years ago, but he hadn't had this scenario in mind. Not consciously, anyway, and planning this far ahead was giving his subconscious a lot of credit.

"The point is," said Bill firmly, "the directors of the Bank had reason to believe there was an heir to the Potter estate, and so couldn't turn it over to the Ministry. They'd have been acting irresponsibly otherwise." He fixed Chisler with a stern eye; his lean face, always slightly lupine, grew harder and less tolerant. It seemed to work: Chisler seemed taken aback, at least for a moment.

The last of the Ministry delegation spoke up quietly. She was an elderly witch who'd introduced herself as Muriel Manwaring, and her bearing said "Child Services" just as surely as if it were embroidered on her robes. "I think we may be going too fast here, ladies and gentlemen," she glanced at the goblins, "and, er, beings. Let us stipulate that Gringotts believed in the existence of a Potter heir. But even Mr, er, Brasslock concedes that they did not know the identity of this heir." She tilted her head inquiringly at the goblin, who responded with a curt nod.

"Now you, Mr. Weasley," and no one could tell if she was addressing Bill or Ron, "claim this little girl to be Harry Potter's daughter. Certainly, there have been wild rumors to that effect, ever since… well, since the terrible tragedy at Hogwarts last year." Manwaring's gaze rested briefly on Hope's face, as though expecting a bloody lightning bolt to still be visible there.

"But our records say that the girl's your daughter, Weasley," put in Bilgeworthy. "Her birth certificate, the files from St. Mungo's and Potter Primary…"

"Yeah, well, now you know the truth," growled Ron.

"There are tests for paternity," said Manwaring delicately, "but the Ministry is willing to stipulate that the little girl was fathered by Harry Potter on Hermione Granger." She smiled serenely as her Ministry colleagues looked askance at her, and added, "But that doesn't make her heir to the Potter estate."

"What are you suggesting, Madam?" came a voice from the door. True to her promise, Luna had provided witnesses from the press: Tenpenny from the Quibbler, who'd also brought with him Smith from the Prophet and Fanshaw from Witch Weekly. Chisler began to swell with indignation at this intrusion on a private meeting.

"How did you…?" he began to bark.

"By invitation from one of the principals," Luna informed him calmly. Chisler looked as though he would have dearly loved to say more, but he wisely kept silent.

"I'm merely expositing," Manwaring finished, choosing her words carefully, "that, by wizarding law, inheritance is contingent upon legitimacy." She looked on Hope with a saccharine expression clearly meant to be sympathetic.

For the first time in days, Hope reacted with real emotion: she seethed. She locked defiant eyes with Manwaring's. "So, Mum," she said in a loud stage whisper, "does she mean I'm a bastard?"

Manwaring blushed furiously and hastily broke eye contact. Hope felt a flash of triumph, for which the reproving look she got from Luna was a small price to pay.

"You don't care how low you sink, do you?" Ron demanded of the Ministry officials. "Saying it to her face? Merlin's beard…"

"I was trying not to put it baldly…" said Manwaring.

"But the law is the law," intoned Bilgeworthy primly.

"Well, try this bit of law on for size: living tally." Ron looked like a man about to face a firing squad, but he straightened his shoulders and pressed on. "Harry Potter and Hermione Granger lived under the same roof for the last year of their lives… the year Hope was conceived. They were living tally, by wizarding law, and in the eyes of the law they were a legally married couple."

Chisler opened his mouth, and Ron whirled on him savagely. "And if you even think of calling me a liar, Chisler, I'll take Veritaserum to back up what I say – and make you take it, too. Let's both spill out our guts."

"Ron…" warned Ginny.

"Oh, hell, we can settle this once and for all." Ron dug into his pocket and brought out a parchment envelope. "Took me all day yesterday to find this, but I knew we'd need it sooner or later."

He thrust the envelope at Hope and turned away stiffly before she could say anything to him. She concentrated on the envelope instead, turning it over in her hands. It was old and dusty, with a coat of arms embossed on the flap, and the motto Toujours pur. "This is from… uh, the place we visited on my birthday?"

Ron nodded without meeting her eyes. Hope opened the envelope and drew out a small golden key.

"Ahhh," said Ginny, understanding. She put an arm around Hope's shoulders and steered her to where the goblins sat watching. "Miss Hope Weasley wishes to inspect the contents of her vault," Ginny announced. She looked over her shoulder at Chisler's sour face. "If the vault lets her in, it means it recognizes her as Harry's heir."

Brasslock nodded and took the key from Hope's hand. He examined it closely for a minute. "That seems to be in order," he said at length.

He nodded to another goblin, who raised his hand in summons. Yet a third goblin came into the room, this one wearing the scarlet livery of the Bank. "Escort our guests to the vaults," commanded Brasslock, handing over Hope's key.

Hope looked back at her parents. "Mum? Dad…?"

"Go with your Aunt Ginny," said Ron tightly, still not looking at her. "Your Mum and I still have some business to finish with these fine public officials."

*

Ginny and Hope did their best to ignore the presence of Bilgeworthy, who had insisted on seeing with his own eyes whether the vault door would open for Hope. The Junior Minister, at least, was quiet enough on the ride into the subterranean caverns beneath Gringotts. Whether it was the wild ride in the cart, or the baleful glare of their goblin guide, Grimpick, he seemed more interested in keeping to himself.

As did Hope.

Ginny was not the sort of person who could long let a silence go unfilled. "It's going to turn out all right, Hope. They don't dare cross Ron, he's too important to them – what with Bellatrix and everything. You'll see."

When Hope didn't reply, Ginny tried again. "From what your Uncle Bill has said, the vault should be pretty full. What with Harry's inheritances, from Sirius and Dumbledore. I don't think there'll be anything for you from Hermione in the vault, though; I think Ron got her stuff. There're her journals, I know…"

"No," whispered Hope. "Nothing from Mother." Her cheeks were wet with tears when she turned to look at Ginny. "It's only fair."

"What do you mean?" asked Ginny in surprise. She would have probed further, but the cart came to a sudden halt before vault #878 – one of the deepest vaults, to judge by the dripping stone walls.

"This way," said Grimpick brusquely, and he led them to the vault door. He inserted Hope's gold key into the keyhole and turned. With a great creaking and clanking, the vault door opened a crack, releasing a large cloud of green smoke. The smoke seemed to hover around Hope for a moment before dissipating. Not until then did the door open fully.

The smoke, Ginny realized with a sharp pang. It's sensed Harry's blood in her. It's… acknowledged her.

Bilgeworthy gasped at the sheer quantity of gold, the Galleons and bullion neatly arranged in three separate stacks. One of the stacks had several large boxes set next to it, bearing the same heraldry as on the envelope. Next to another stack was an assortment of strange silver instruments – Bilgeworthy recognized some of them from his own school days, when he'd seen them in Albus Dumbledore's office.

But Hope showed no awe at the sight, or indeed any reaction at all. She merely wiped her face and wandered aimlessly into the vault. Ginny glanced at Bilgeworthy and Grimpick. "Give us a moment, guys, will you?"

She followed Hope into the vault. Hope had stopped at a small desk that had been set up near the door. She seemed to be staring at the papers and boxes that were scattered on the desktop – but Ginny didn't imagine for a moment that she was actually seeing anything.

"I'm very sorry, Aunt Ginny," Hope said in a small voice. She fiddled with some of the papers on the desktop, then turned and looked up at Ginny. "I understand now."

At Ginny's puzzled look, Hope breathed deeply. "I killed them, didn't I? Harry and Hermione. M-Mother and… and F-Father. You saw in the Pensieve… I drained her. If it hadn't been for me, they could've fought, couldn't they?" Tears began to glisten again as she finished, "They'd be alive, wouldn’t they?"

"I… I…" Ginny found it hard to breath.

"See, I always wondered why," Hope added, in a tone eerily like Luna. "Why you never seemed to like me… I understand now."

"Oh, my God…" Ginny really couldn't breathe now. She was choking on something, something stuck painfully in her throat, something tasting of bile and acid, grudge and regret.

"Anyway…" Hope looked back down at the desktop. "I'm sorry."

Tears pricked at Ginny's eyes, and the something in her throat simply would not go away. Unable to speak, she looked where Hope was looking – focusing on the objects scattered across the desk. One item sprang out immediately to her eye: it bore Harry's handwriting. Without pausing to think, she picked it up.

It was an old, dusty box, similar to the collection of boxes by the stack of gold – presumably taken from there. The box had a scrap of parchment magically stuck to it, with a cryptic note written in Harry's untidy scrawl. For G's 17. Harry must have been down in his vault, sometime in the last year of his life, and set this box aside. Ginny opened the box with some trepidation.

Inside was a single tear-drop emerald, in a delicate setting of red Welsh gold and hanging on a filigree gold chain. Ginny stared at it for what seemed like ages, quite unable to speak: the something in her throat had turned to molten lead.

"I was waiting for it, you know," she finally said. She wasn't talking to Hope anymore, but seemed to be addressing the necklace. "For my seventeenth birthday… just ten more days. I'd've been an adult then… I would've joined you wherever you were, whatever you were doing. You couldn't say no then. Ten days, what was ten days? I'd already waited six years… I'd've waited forever."

She closed her eyes in pain. "But you had to go and die your hero's death, didn't you?" she went on, her voice half mournful, half accusatory. "Saved the world… again… And you did it without me, like always. I didn't even…"

Ginny opened her eyes and looked down at the top of Hope's head. "I didn't even have a chance to say goodbye."

Hope ducked her head lower. "'m very sorry," she mumbled again.

"Circe, Hope, don't be sorry!" Ginny snapped. "What've you got to be sorry for? You didn't kill Harry, any more than I did."

"He was there 'cause of me," Hope maintained mulishly.

"No," Ginny retorted angrily, "he was there because of her." She sniffed impatiently at Hope's look of confusion. "See, actually, you don't understand. I didn't understand – not completely, not until I saw them in the Pensieve. To see them like that – damn them!"

That brought Hope's gaze up again. "They didn't do anything wrong," she said defensively.

"No. I didn't mean that." Ginny blinked rapidly to keep the moisture in her eyes from collecting into tears; she wasn't going to cry in front of Hope again. When she spoke again, her anger faded somewhat – her voice grew less bitter, and more forlorn. "All these years, I only had… suspicions, as you might say," she told Hope. "But I knew… somehow, deep down, I suppose I always knew whose daughter you were. And they weren't around for me to resent."

She gave a last look at the emerald necklace before snapping the box shut and handing it back to Hope. "But that made you the last bit of Harry I had," she finished softly.

*

They returned to the Gringotts conference room to find the goblins gone and the humans angry. "You can't do this!" Ron was shouting as Bilgeworthy, Hope and Ginny entered the room.

"You're in no position to tell the Ministry what it may or may not do, Weasley," snapped Chisler. "It's your own unlawful behavior that's brought affairs to this pass…"

"Ah," interrupted Manwaring, noticing Hope's presence. "Miss, er, Potter, good, you're back. If you'll gather your things, we'll be off…"

"You can't take her!"

"You can't keep her," Manwaring told Ron. "You've no legal status here." She couldn't quite manage to keep the smugness out of her voice.

"Status? I'm her father!" Ron was red in the face by this point.

"No, you were the person pretending to be her father for eleven years," retorted Manwaring.

"Indeed," interjected Bilgeworthy. "I must report, ladies and gentlemen, that the Potter vault did open for Miss, er, Potter, just as the goblins said it must. It would appear that the young lady is, in fact, the true heir to Harry Potter."

"And therefore, legally, an orphaned minor," Manwaring pressed, "whose welfare becomes the responsibility of the Ministry."

"Excuse me, Madam Manwaring," called one of the reporters, Miss Fanshaw. "Are you saying it's in the child's best interest to be taken from the family she's known for eleven years? When there's been no evidence of abuse, or any other just cause?"

"Oh, it remains to be seen whether criminal charges will be filed," put in Chisler. "Kidnapping, to name one." He eyed Ron with more than a touch of malice as he added, "The poor child cannot be expected to remain with… people with such a flagrant disregard for the law."

Manwaring raised a hand, forestalling Ron's furious response. "The child's best interest – any orphan child's best interest – isn't determined by a single individual, inside or outside the Ministry," she pointed out, calmly enough. "The Child Welfare Committee exists to make determinations of that sort. Until it has a chance to convene, Miss Potter will be placed in a safe environment." She smiled at Hope. "I'll send someone to the Weasley home this evening, dear, to collect your clothes and any special belongings you may need."

"Why not simply let her go home and get her clothes herself?" demanded Ginny, before Ron could.

"Because it's extremely doubtful she'd be allowed to leave again," Chisler replied snidely. "We're well aware of the protections Weasley's put on his home, since he's become the target of Death Eaters…"

"By definition, isn't the Potter girl therefore safer at the Weasley home?" inquired Fanshaw, quill poised. "Wouldn't removing her thereby endanger her?"

"Only if she were the Death Eaters' target," snarled Bilgeworthy. "Which she isn't – Weasley is. Another reason to remove her to a better environment…"

Unnoticed by the others amidst the confusion, a soft pssst issued from Luna's purse. She opened it and stared into it for several seconds, brows furrowed. Then her face cleared and a satisfied smile appeared. Luna snapped the purse shut and addressed Manwaring. "I agree. Hope should go with a member of the Child Welfare Committee for a few days, until this is all sorted out."

Everyone was surprised by Luna's acquiescence; Ron was appalled into speechlessness. Manwaring was the first to recover. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley," she said. "I appreciate…"

"And correct me if I'm wrong, but the Headmaster or Headmistress of Hogwarts has, by tradition, always held a seat on that committee, yes?" At the silence that greeted her pronouncement, she gave a slight shrug. "Feel free to verify. It's in Hogwarts, A History, I've been told. You will admit that Minerva McGonagall has ample experience dealing with girls Hope's age. And there are very few places safer than Hogwarts, as we all know. Besides," she added, "I imagine the Headmistress won't be all that surprised by Hope's new status."

"It is hardly Ministry policy…" began Chisler.

"If we're to entrust our daughter to one of your committee," Luna stated firmly, "it will be one of our choosing."

"She is not your…"

"Well, de facto, if not de jure." Luna turned to the reporters, who by this point were frantically scribbling on their notepads. "Would one of you happen to carry a Speaking Glass I could borrow, to call her?" she asked, knowing full well that Tenpenny at least would have a Reduced Glass in his pocket.

Chisler, Manwaring and Bilgeworthy exchanged glances, and silently agreed that there was nothing to be gained by pressing further. "Oh, very well," allowed Chisler, "Headmistress McGonagall can take charge of Miss Potter until the committee can convene. In the meantime, the girl will wait here with us… so we can see her safely delivered. As for the rest of you," and his eyes raked past the assembled reporters, to settle on Ron, Luna and Ginny, "I believe this meeting is concluded."

Hope turned to her parents, her eyes huge. "Mum? Dad? Are they serious…? Do I really have to… to…?" She read her answer in their faces. She inhaled sharply, and all the adults in the room were certain a screaming match was about to begin.

It didn't happen. Hope let out her breath and said, not loudly but quite forcefully, "No. No, I won't go."

"For the moment, lioness, I think you must," said Luna sadly. "Just until we get it all straightened out."

Hope turned to Ron, to see him sigh in defeat. "You knew," she said in sudden enlightenment. "You kept it secret all these years because you knew…"

"That they could take you from us, yeah. But you couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? You just had to keep asking the wrong questions," muttered Ron. "Well, you've got what you wanted. Congratulations, Hope Justinia Potter."

The next instant, he felt her throw her arms around his waist and give him a bone-crushing hug. Her brown hair flew wildly into his face – in a flash of nostalgia, he could almost imagine it was a young Hermione who held him, Hermione from their days at Hogwarts.

When she spoke, the fierceness of her voice was Hermione's, too. "Hope Justinia Weasley," she declared in a strong whisper.

Ron wrapped his arms around Hope and held her for the longest moment of his life – a moment still far too short, ending far too soon, as Muriel Manwaring came forward to lay her hand on Hope's shoulder. "Come along now, dear," she said, not unkindly. She pulled Hope out of Ron's embrace, away from him…

Silently, Hope stretched out her arms towards Ron, as he forced himself to back away. Her eyes – Harry's eyes – beseeched him, begged him to make things right. Ron's vision blurred; he might have stumbled, if not for the sudden appearance of Luna and Bill on either side, steadying him. With Ginny bringing up the rear, they walked through the door, out of the conference room and into the main lobby of Gringotts.

Bill started to say something, but stopped at the sight of Ron's granite face. Ginny's indignation was likewise quelled. For a moment, no one said anything – as far as Ron was concerned, there wasn't much to say.

"Ron… we'll talk to Dad," Ginny offered cautiously. "Soon's we're out of here… we won't let the grass grow. We'll get her back to you."

His response was, for Ron, unusually oblique. "Now she knows about Hell."

9. IX

(A/N: Let's pretend that I've just whinged on about my troubles, and let it go at that, shall we? Sorry this chapter has taken so long.

Thank you, Mary Caroline, for being my beta. And thank you, gentle readers, for reading on.)

(Disclaimer: You surely know the drill by now: don't own them, not profiting by them, et tmesis cetera.)

*********************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

3 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

She hadn't expected to first arrive at Hogwarts for another month. She had expected it to be a much happier occasion.

"The Headmistress was supposed to meet us here at the front doors," murmured Madam Manwaring, as Hope stared up at the grey stone castle. In the twilight of evening, it looked colder and more foreboding than Dad had ever described it. "I daresay she'll be along in a moment. Don't fret, child…"

I wasn't fretting, thought Hope. I was worrying. There's a difference.

"Missy Hope?" They turned at the high-pitched voice to discover a small being with huge eyes and bat-like ears standing before them. He (Hope assumed it was a he) wore a sort of uniform that seemed to have been cobbled together from all over: a black tailcoat over a paisley blouse, golf pants, sandals worn over woolen socks (at least three pairs), and a fez.

"Headmistress had to go deal with bad Peeves," said the small being – a house elf, Hope realized. "I," and he emphasized the pronoun proudly, "I am to take Missy Hope to Headmistress's office." He looked quite different from the elves the Death Eaters used in last year's Hogwarts attack: more self-esteem, perhaps.

"Very well," said Manwaring, "take us there now."

The house elf shook his head in apology. "Very sorry, ma'am, but Peeves is being very bad. Very very bad. Ma'am's robes are most clean. Ma'am's hair is most nice. Ma'am should not linger. Missy Hope, will you please come now?" He seized Hope's hand and practically dragged her through the great oaken doors, leaving Manwaring standing on the steps as the doors closed themselves.

"Very sorry, Missy Hope," said the house elf, immediately dropping Hope's hand. "Should not have presumed, but wanted to get Missy Hope away from…" He paused, as though trying to remember someone's exact wording. "… from, from 'sanctimonious supercilious sow'. Is that right?"

Hope hadn't thought she'd ever smile again. "Exactly right. And please, you didn't 'presume.'" She held out her hand to the elf. "C'mon, let's go to the Head's office. If you'll lead the way?"

The elf stared at Hope's offered hand. Tears collected in the huge eyes. "Dobby remembers… I remember," he corrected himself. "Mister Harry Potter sir treated me as an equal. Mister Harry Potter sir was a very great wizard." He took Hope's hand again gently, almost reverently, and peered into Hope's face. "And Missy Hope is Mister Harry Potter's daughter, yes indeed."

Hand-in-hand, they walked up the huge staircase and down a corridor. Hope took the opportunity to examine the house elf more closely. She'd never spoken to one before – it was a point of pride that none of the Weasley families owned an enslaved elf, and there were still precious few freed elves. "Did you say your name was Dobby?" asked Hope. "Did you know my father?"

"Oh, yes, Missy Hope. Mister Harry Potter sir freed me from enslavement! And Mister Harry Potter's Herminy tried to free more house elves. She…" Dobby hesitated, searching for the right words. "Mister Harry Potter's Herminy meant well," he finished happily. Hope wondered if she dared tell Hermione how the house elves remembered her.

For that matter, she wondered if she'd see Hermione again. I shouldn't have put her away like that. No one will ever find her now! Oh, I'm so sorry, Mother. I didn't mean it… Please, God, let me go home.

They had arrived at a door guarded by a large gargoyle. "This is Headmistress's office," announced Dobby. "Headmistress will be back soon. Very sorry, but I is not knowing the password."

"Can you wait with me, please?" asked Hope quickly. She felt a strange kinship with the little elf – and she couldn't bear to be alone, not right now.

"Until Headmistress comes back – then I must fetch clothes for Missy Hope. Been to Missy Hope's room before," he added helpfully. "When I is bringing Mister Harry Potter's Herminy's stored boxes to Missy Hope. Missy Hope's robes is in wardrobe, shoes is under bed, things-we-don't-mention in left-side drawer."

"And in a right-hand drawer," said Hope, jumping at the chance, "a package wrapped up in dark paper. Please, please, Dobby, can you bring me that too?"

"Dobby is… I is only to fetch clothes," Dobby said doubtfully. "Ministry was very clear."

"It's a… clothing guide," Hope temporized. "And… and will you talk to Mum and Dad?"

"I will be talking to Mister Wheezy and his Loony," assured Dobby. Hope didn't have time to wince at the name. "May not bring back message to Missy Hope – Ministry said, only clothes – but I will tell them that Missy Hope is all right, misses them terribly, knows they will bring her home soon."

"Oh, thank you, Dobby!" cried Hope. Impulsively she bent down and kissed the top of Dobby's head.

"No, no, no! Missy Hope mustn't kiss elves!" Dobby admonished her in a horrified voice – but with a smile nonetheless. "What will Headmistress say to Dobby?"

"Oh! Sorry. No, we don't want to cross Professor McGonagall, do we? I mean, everyone's told me about her! She's very strict, isn't she? She was my Mother's favorite teacher, but sometimes she was afraid of her anyway."

Dobby squeaked. Hope continued heedless, "And when she caught Dad, Father and Mother when they were breaking rules (and they were always breaking rules, to hear Mum tell it), she had a way of looking at them that… well, Mother always felt like melting into the floor…"

Dobby squeaked louder. Hope stopped talking as she saw the elf's eyes flick over her shoulder. "Um. She's… right behind me, isn't she?"

"Indeed she is, Miss Potter," came the dry reply. "Thank you, Dobby, that will be all."

Hope turned around slowly… and felt like melting into the floor. Professor McGonagall's cool look made it abundantly clear that she was not to be trifled with. And Hope had never felt less like trifling than at that instant.

McGonagall waited for one long, mortifying moment, its length based on years of experience. When Hope had marinated in guilt just the right amount, she spoke again. "For what it's worth, however, I consider your mother to have been the finest pupil I've ever had the privilege to teach. It would not have been proper to tell her while she was at Hogwarts – and, sadly, I never had the chance afterward."

A response seemed called for; Hope frantically racked her brain before settling on, "Uh, yes ma'am." Thanks, stupid brain.

"That said," McGonagall continued, "please don't be under the misapprehension that my admiration for your mother engenders any special consideration for you."

"Yes, ma'am. I, I mean, no ma'am. I don't, ma'am."

McGonagall nodded briskly, closing the subject. "Now, if you'll come up to my office… I think it will be best if you bed down there for the night. Tomorrow I'll confer with the other professors currently in residence at Hogwarts, and we'll see if better arrangements can be made."

"Oh. You mean, I'm not…? Um." At the Headmistress's shrewd glance, Hope gathered courage to continue. "Professor, I thought I'd be staying in one of the student dorms…"

"I'm hesitant to quarter you in any of the student houses, Miss Potter. It wouldn't be fair to that house, if you are later not Sorted into it, for you to see all their secrets." A thin smile appeared for the first time, as if by magic. "Although I personally have no doubt as to which house you belong."

*

The entire Weasley clan had assembled in Ron's cottage for a council of war. Even Charlie had been present, in a way, with his head appearing in the fireplace. But so many Weasleys in one room at one time was a recipe for chaos: too many people trying to talk at once. Fred and George had offered to curse the entire Ministry, one wizard at a time (their father excepted); Bill, Charlie, Ginny and Angelina had traded names between them, contacts that might be able to influence the Child Welfare Committee; and Fleur had composed impassioned letters of protest aloud, with vocabulary not to be found in reputable French-English dictionaries.

Ron sat through it all, motionless, staring at something only he could see.

They were gone now, silence descending again to the room. Ron continued to sit at the dining table, staring. Luna watched him quizzically for a moment. Then she put two fingers in her mouth and gave a piercingly loud whistle. Ron started violently and looked around, as if seeing the room for the first time.

"Ah, good, you're back," said Luna.

"Yeah." Ron rubbed his eyes. "Where'd everyone go?"

"To try and get Hope back to us, of course. It's likely to require efforts in several directions, all going on at once."

Ron gave a weak nod. "Yeah." He tried to pull himself together. "We can still see her, at least. If she's staying with McGonagall at Hogwarts… well, I'm still the flying instructor, aren't I? I have to go to Hogwarts before term starts…" He stopped short, then shook his head tiredly. "I'm sorry, My Good Love, did you say something?"

Luna smiled slightly. She walked over to Ron and gently stroked his face with her fingertips. "No, My King, I didn't," she said softly. "What you heard… Ronald, you know that too many shocks are bad for your system."

"Am I about to get another shock?" Ron made a rude noise, which Luna found encouraging. "Bring it on. At this point, I've been hit so many times, I think I'm beyond shocking."

"If you say so." Luna fetched her purse from the sideboard. Opening it, she brought out a cabinet portrait, which she gently placed in Ron's hand. Ron looked at it without seeing it for a moment.

"Ron?" said the portrait anxiously. "Ron, say something."

Without warning, Ron began to tremble violently. "'Scuse me," he mumbled hastily, and dropped Hermione's portrait on the table before making a bolt for the bathroom door. Luna and Hermione looked at each other helplessly as sounds of retching came from the bathroom.

"Oh, dear," Luna said apologetically. "Do you think this was the wrong time?"

"That would imply there was a right time," replied Hermione. "Take me to him." If she found Hermione's tone a bit peremptory, Luna gave no sign. She picked up the portrait and carried it to the bathroom door.

Ron had recovered, at least partially: he stood at the sink and was running cold water from the tap. Luna expected him to splash some water in his face, but instead he simply let the water run… while he leaned his hands on the sinkboard, taking the weight off his leg, and pressed his forehead against the mirror. "I can't do this anymore," he moaned softly, "I can't…"

"Ronald? Are you all right?"

"Yeah, fine," he answered automatically.

"Yes, and we believe you," put in Hermione. "Because, you know, medical experts agree…" She fell silent as Ron raised his head and glared at her – or rather, at her reflection in the mirror. "Sorry," she added contritely. "Just trying to lighten the moment. Do you remember when you…?"

"I remember," said Ron slowly. He did splash some cold water in his face, then. He rinsed his mouth, turned off the tap, and used a drying charm on his face, all without meeting anyone's eyes. Only after he'd finished his ablutions did he slowly turn to regard Hermione. "Where…? When…?"

"She was inside those boxes of books Hope received last year," Luna supplied helpfully.

"L-last… year…?" His eyes began to sharpen… and smolder. "And you never told me…?!"

"I tried to get Hope to tell you of my existence," said Hermione. "Obviously, I was limited in what I could do…"

"And I only learned about her on Hope's birthday," added Luna, "and you must admit there's been a great deal to occupy our minds since then."

"And it's not as though you haven't been keeping secrets from Hope," Hermione concluded.

"Okay, okay, okay! I get it." Ron rubbed his eyes and exhaled sharply. From some inner reserve he seemed to gather strength: he straightened and motioned to Luna and Hermione to precede him from the bathroom. Walking behind them as they returned to the living room, he couldn't see Hermione's brief look of surprise.

"So," he started once they'd settled down on the sofa, "Hermione. What were you trying not to say to me a minute ago?" He smiled sardonically at Hermione's reluctance to answer. "Oh, c'mon. It must've been you I heard – I know I heard something just before Luna took you from her purse."

"Yes, well, yes. That was me." Hermione glanced at Luna and took a deep breath. "Ron, I don't think you should assume that you'll be allowed to visit Hope at Hogwarts. Even though you're on staff… I suspect you'll be on administrative leave until term begins. Or else you'll be under Ministry decree to limit your visits to your office and the Quidditch area. Having separated you from Hope, the Ministry isn't about to let you circumvent their decision."

"They can't…" Ron stopped himself with a snort. "What am I saying? Of course they can. And would."

"In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if the Ministry assigned someone to Hogwarts," said Luna thoughtfully, "to be with Hope during this stressful time in her life."

"To watch her, you mean." Ron pounded his fist into the cushioned arm of the couch. "Stinkin' lousy…"

"Well, if they do, there's little we can do about it," Luna said philosophically. "We should concentrate on…"

"On getting Hope home again, yeah." Ron turned to Hermione quickly as a thought occurred to him. "Can you tell the Ministry that you left Hope in my care? I mean, that's what you did, you and Harry…"

Hermione shook her head in regret. "Even if that's what happened, Ron, I couldn't testify to it. I've no legal status whatsoever. Otherwise, I'd authorize your adoption of Hope at once and have done with it."

"Damn." Ron gave the couch arm a final punch before his anger exhausted itself. He slumped against the sofa back, closing his eyes, feeling the familiar weariness weigh him down again. "I'm going to a funeral Wednesday, did you know that?" he asked after a moment. "I've been asked to be one of Seamus's pallbearers. Death Eaters tortured him to death for being a friend of mine."

"Oh, Ron… I'm sorry…"

"But the bloody Ministry'd rather break up families than go after Death Eaters," Ron continued bitterly. "Nice to know they've got their priorities straight."

"The Ministry of Magic is like any other organism," Luna noted. "If you poke it, it pokes back."

"I didn't…"

"I see what Luna's saying," put in Hermione. "You did provoke the Ministry, just as Harry did. Remember how Scrimgeour was always after him, in sixth year? It wasn't because Harry'd done anything overt against him – Harry's very existence was an affront. Because he, not the Ministry, was the focus of the resistance against the Death Eaters. And now today, you're the focus, just as Harry was – you, not the Ministry. You can't expect them to be happy about it."

"Yeah, I know that…" Ron opened his eyes and stared unblinking at the ceiling. "But the difference is, that was Harry. Harry Potter, the Chosen One. He could deal with all the shite, Voldemort and Scrimgeour and Snape and… Me, I'm just… I'm…" He swallowed convulsively. "I'm not him," burst out of him. "I can't keep doing this."

"You don't have to do it by yourself," whispered Hermione. "You're not alone, Ron."

Ron managed a weak smile at that. "True," he said, and reached over to grasp Luna's hand. Luna smiled warmly at him; if she gave Hermione a sidelong glance, it was involuntary, and she kept it very short.

And Hermione, watching them, felt her face grow flushed. She swallowed what she'd been about to say, and withdrew to the side of her portrait frame.

*

5 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

If Ron ever thought about Irish pubs, he probably didn't go farther than the vague notion that it'd be nice to visit one, if he ever found himself in Ireland. Never had he imagined holding a wake there.

Seamus and Lavender had been buried quietly in Killarney, in the cemetery where Seamus's father was buried beside past generations of Finnigans. There'd been no surprises that day from Death Eaters or other Dark forces: the presence of four Aurors saw to that. No, the surprise for Ron had been the identities of Seamus's other three pallbearers: Neville Longbottom, an old man who'd been Seamus's maternal uncle… and Dean Thomas.

They'd said nothing to each other during the burial service – well, it was hardly an appropriate time or place. It wasn't until they were preparing to leave the graveyard that Seamus's uncle, one Sean O Lochlainn, approached them quietly. "As Seamus's closest friends," he'd said quietly, "'twould be fitting that you take part in the remembering of him. 'Tis an ancient and honourable Irish custom…"

Of course they'd agreed, how could they not? And thus Ron, Neville and Dean found themselves whisked away to a wizarding pub on the outskirts of Killarney, where they met a dozen or more of Seamus's neighbors and friends. After the first drink, people started sharing their memories of Seamus (and to a lesser degree, of Lavender). Ron felt the three of them were expected to contribute stories from Seamus's Hogwarts days, and they'd done their best to comply.

But if I hear this James Joyce bloke's name mentioned one more time, thought Ron as he finished his pint, I'm out of here.

Dean was staring deep into his own pint. "Butterbeer," he said softly. He looked up to see Ron's and Neville's quizzical faces. "It's been years," he explained. "Didn't realize how much I missed it."

"Why'd you leave, Dean?" asked Neville. "We all missed you. I know Seamus did." There was no challenge in Neville's words, merely a tinge of regret… a wish that the past might not have been what it was.

Dean couldn't help responding. He smiled wryly. "I couldn't stay, Nev. It was… You remember the attack on Hogwarts, our seventh year?" Absently he fingered the tracery of scars on his face, as Neville nodded. "There we were, fighting off Death Eaters… and it was clear that we were expected to keep fighting after we'd left school. And just then, I couldn't for the life of me see why I should."

"We were fighting to save our world…" Ron started.

"Yeah, you were. Nev was. Definitely fighting to save your world." Dean took another swallow. "But my world? Even people who fought You-Know-Who tended to look down their noses at me. I was Muggleborn. And they made it clear, I was in their world – by their sufferance. And for that privilege I was expected to risk my life." He downed the last of his butterbeer and thunked the glass onto the table. "Think not."

The glass immediate began to refill with butterbeer. Irish wizards' wakes didn't trust to anything as unreliable as human service.

"We never looked down our noses at you, Dean," Neville said with his quiet dignity. Somehow neither Ron nor Dean, who both pushed 190 cm, found Neville's mild rebuke at all humorous.

"I appreciate that, Neville," Dean said. "You guys are the best. And it really hurt to leave… but I had to."

"Know what you mean," growled Ron. "Sometimes I wish I could leave. Just tell the whole effing Ministry to deal with Bellatrix by themselves. Have a great time, guys!" He lifted his refilled glass and drank deeply. Wiping the foam off his upper lip, he continued, "Yeah, I can totally understand not wanting to fight for a bunch of ungrateful wankers."

"'Cept you're not fightin' for a bunch of ungrateful wankers," insisted Neville. "You're fightin' for a bunch of grateful wankers…" He stopped, slightly confused. "I think Irish butterbeer must be stronger'n what they serve at home," he added.

"Then we'd best take advantage of it," proposed Dean, and he lifted his glass. "To Seamus… our valued friend."

Ron lifted his glass likewise. "To Lavender… who finally forgave me for sixth year."

Neville hesitated, then lifted his glass. "To Harry and Hermione," he said, slowly and deliberately, "and to all those who will not have died in vain."

Ron downed half his glass, then lifted it again. "To those who live," he declared. "May they not fight in vain."

"Amen," said Dean, and clinked his glass to Ron's. They looked at Neville, waiting for him to complete the round of toasts.

"To…" Neville cleared his throat. "To Hope."

He immediately wished he'd remained silent. Ron's face seemed to crumple, his shoulders to sag; he set the rest of his butterbeer down on the table without drinking. "You heard, huh?"

"The papers've been full of it," mumbled Neville, ducking his head. "The Prophet, the Quibbler… headlines, editorials." He glanced at Dean for a second, then continued more confidently. "You know. 'Is this how we repay our heroes?' That sort of thing."

Dean watched Ron for a moment, his expression inscrutable. Then he leaned forward and shoved Ron's glass towards him. "So fill me in," he said. "Tell me what's happened. With Hope, with Bellatrix, with the Ministry. Tell me everything. It'll do you good… and I think I want to know now. "

*

7 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

"Thank you, dear," said Professor Sprout, taking the box of bulbs from Hope's hands. "Now if you would, that bed of valerian seedlings wants more fertilizer… you'll find some in the corner, there, in the bin labeled 'dragon dung'…"

Hope nodded and made her way to the fertilizer bin. She wrinkled her nose… and really wished she dared to use the Bubble-Head Charm on herself. But not, she told herself firmly, while my minder's watching. She sneaked a peek at Miss Cobston, gamely trying to trim a Venomous Tentacula at Sprout's request, and suppressed a smirk.

Every day this week, there'd been someone from the Ministry, arriving at Hogwarts almost at first light. Ostensibly, they came only to ensure that Hope was being well cared for – but they stayed with Hope throughout the day. Hope didn't know if they were here to protect her, monitor her, or keep her jailed… probably some combination. They certainly seemed determined to "make friends" with her.

McGonagall, needless to say, was on top of the situation. Hope had a renewed confidence in the Headmistress's abilities.

Yesterday, for instance, Manwaring had returned to spend the day with Hope. So McGonagall had arranged that yesterday would be Professor Grubbly-Plank's turn to watch Hope. Hope had spent the day helping care for Hogwarts's magical menagerie… including the thestrals. Grubbly-Plank's discomfort, upon learning that Hope could see the carnivorous horses, was nothing compared to Manwaring's out-and-out horror.

So today, the Ministry had sent Christine Cobston, younger than Manwaring, more athletic… presumably more able to deal with magical creatures. And so today, Hope was with Professor Sprout in Greenhouse Three, watching Cobston reluctantly get dirt under her fingernails.

Nope, no flies on the Headmistress.

She recalled the evenings they spent in the Great Hall: McGonagall, Sprout and Grubbly-Plank, the only teachers in residence over the summer – providentially, all women – would dine with Hope and discuss all sorts of things with her. The new display in the Great Hall (with relics from the Four Founders, some of which McGonagall had only recently obtained); Hope's day, and her plans for the morrow; snippets of what she could expect from her first year at Hogwarts; even, on occasion, some bits of news from around the wizarding world. It was almost as good as her nighttime talks with Hermione.

Almost.

Dobby couldn't find her, she lamented silently. She can't have walked off… and Mum couldn't have taken her, she was sealed in my drawer… but who else knows she even exists? What could've happened? I'm really missing her now!

She almost welcomed the multiple distractions that arrived at that moment. Two owls swept into the greenhouse; one headed for Sprout, the other for Cobston. Just as the owls were alighting to deliver their messages, there came a knocking on the outer greenhouse door. "Perfesser Sprout?" came a cheerful voice. "Deliv'ry. Gotcher new cuttin's here!"

"Just a moment," Sprout called, as she looked over her scroll. She turned to Cobston, to see her reading her own message. "This sounds serious, Christine."

"Indeed it does," agreed Cobston, re-rolling her scroll. "We should speak with Professor McGonagall about it…" But she hesitated, obviously reluctant to leave Hope alone with Sprout… and equally reluctant to let Sprout speak alone to McGonagall.

Professor Sprout took the decision out of her hands. "Hope, dear, we'll be back very shortly. Will you please show these gentlemen where to carry the new cuttings? I think Greenhouse Two for most of them, though the Acid Lotuses should probably go to Greenhouse One."

Hope nodded and went to the outer door, as the two witches hurried off through the side door to the castle – there to confer with the Headmistress about whatever new emergency had arisen. More knocking sounded as she pulled back the bolt and opened the door… and stopped in surprise.

"'Ello, miss," said Neville Longbottom, still in that cheerful West Country accent. He was dressed as a delivery man, a brimmed cap set jauntily on his head, and he carried a large tray of dirt-filled pots. "Got some luverly Lightnin' Wort today, shall I bring it in then?" He stepped inside and added, in his normal tones, "We've not met since you were a baby, but I'd know you anywhere. You're Hope Weasley-Granger-Potter, aren't you?"

"That she is," said a tall figure behind Neville, dressed like him in working clothes. Hope gasped as she recognized Dean Thomas. "Hey there, Hope. Sorry for all the cloak-and-dagger, but there's some very tough-looking people watching the front gates of Hogwarts these days."

"Luckily, I'm one of Pomona's botanical suppliers," explained Neville. "Trading in new and exotic plants for her greenhouses. Gives me a legitimate reason for being here… and for bringing my new assistant. Well, for today, anyway."

"It helps that we're not part of your Dad's close circle," added Dean. "They don't suspect us." He shivered slightly as he looked around Greenhouse Three, with its many glass panes; Hope thought she saw the scars on his face twitch.

Neville seemed to know what was going through Dean's mind. "It was a long time ago," he said softly. "Hope wasn't even born. Let it go, Dean."

He shivered again and thrust his hands into his pockets. Doing so seemed to bring him back to the present. "Uh, right, yeah, that reminds me…" He brought one hand out of its pocket to display a thick sheaf of envelopes. "Letters from home."

She received them eagerly. "Thank you!"

Dean cleared his throat and waited a moment, until Neville took the hint and headed for Greenhouse Two with the tray of potted cuttings. "And also," he went on, more quietly, "this." From his other pocket he withdrew a wrapped package, broad and flat… about the size of a sketchbook page.

Hope swallowed nervously as she realized what must be in the package.

"Sorry it took so long. I did end up using tempera – there's something about it that magic likes – but for the longest time I kept thinking I was doing it wrong. The picture just wouldn't wake up." Dean carefully placed the package into Hope's hands; as she held it, he began to unwrap it. "I finally figured he didn't want to wake up. And who could blame him, really? After all he'd been through, he'd earned some rest."

Dean sighed. "But after I heard your Dad at the funeral, talking about what was going on these days… I mean, with you, and Bellatrix, and all… I went home that night and told him." He gave a sudden, sardonic smile as the last bit of wrapping came away. "He woke up right quick after that. Well, it's his nature, isn't it?"

"So I've been told," came a new voice. "Your mother called it my 'saving-people-thing'."

She stared down at the portrait in her hands. The tempera gave the colors a depth and translucence, with an inner light that made the figure look very much alive – even if he hadn't been moving. He was looking at her now, with the same green eyes she'd seen in her mirror all week… taking in the sight of her with open-mouthed satisfaction.

"Dean described you," he said, "but I didn't really believe it until now." He cleared his throat nervously. "I'm, uh, I'm Harry. Harry Potter, I mean. And you're… you've gotta be…"

"Hope Potter," she whispered, for the first time happy to claim the surname. "Pleased to finally meet you… Father."

Arguing voices were approaching Greenhouse Three. Dean gestured frantically to Hope. "Hide all that! You're not supposed to be in contact with… yeep!" He picked up a small bushy plant from outside the door and followed after Neville. We'll be in touch, he mouthed silently, as he disappeared from view just as the side door opened. Sprout entered the greenhouse, with Cobston behind her.

Frantically, while Cobston's view was still obscured, Hope stuffed the portrait and her letters from home under her blouse. She straightened her robes and willed her features into their usual blankness as the two witches came nearer.

"…tragic, no question of it," Cobston was saying. "But Bellatrix's attacks, by their very nature, can't be predicted or prevented. The Ministry would have to guard everything, while she can strike wherever she wishes…"

"But as the Headmistress said, there does seem to be a method in her madness." Sprout seemed to notice Hope for the first time, and made a shushing motion to Cobston. "Are the, er, new cuttings taken care of, then, dear?" she asked with a faint smile.

"Yes, Professor. Is it all right if I return to my room now? I think I need to lie down… I'm sorry, but it's the smell. Miss Cobston, do you mind…?"

"Not at all, darling," Cobston hastened to assure her, as Sprout nodded approvingly.

Leaving the greenhouse, she managed to keep to a walk, but once out of sight of the adults she sprinted back to her makeshift bedroom. (McGonagall had converted the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor's office for her use – easy enough to do, since Hogwarts didn't yet have a Defense professor for the coming year.) She slammed shut the bolt on the door, and for good measure cast the Colloportus, Silencing, and Imperturbable Charms. Overkill, possibly, but Hope was taking no chances.

Opening her robes, she brought out the letters and the portrait from under her blouse and dumped them onto the bed. She reached for the portrait… only to stop, puzzled, when she saw Harry's image holding his hands over his eyes. After a moment, one hand shifted slightly, and Harry peeped out. "Is it safe to come out?"

"I think so, I sealed the door pretty well…" Hope began, before Harry's meaning came to her. She blushed as scarlet as any Weasley. "S-Sorry," she stuttered. "I wasn't thinking, I mean, I didn't want anyone to see you and I was just carrying you but I just didn't think, and… and I'm babbling, aren't I, I'm sorry…"

Harry waved his hands, trying to catch her attention. He was obviously fighting to repress a grin. "Okay, if I wasn't convinced before, I am now. You sound exactly like Hermione." He waited until ran out of words, then told her more seriously, "And besides, it was dark. It's not like I saw anything…" He coughed slightly and added under his breath, "… or like there's anything to see…"

"Hey!" she said indignantly. "Like you'd know anything about it! It's not like you're really a boy, are you, you're a picture!"

"Yeah, well, it still feels like I'm a boy on this side of the paint."

"Perv."

"Wasn't my idea."

Hope couldn't help laughing. Her embarrassment was rapidly vanishing, the ice broken so easily she had to marvel at it. She couldn't remember anyone with whom she'd clicked so quickly. Was he just very good at reaching out to people, or was it because of some invisible bond between them alone?

After all – and the immensity of what she held began to register with her – this isn't just another wizarding portrait. This is Harry Potter! The Harry Potter!!

But more to the point, this was her father.

"Dean tells me that Ron and Luna raised you," said Harry, turning serious. "That Hermione and I are, well…" At Hope's nod, he continued thoughtfully, "I'd say they did a good job, then."

"I think so," Hope smiled, then bit her lip in worry. "But there's a problem there right now…"

"Yeah, I heard. Soon as you were declared a Potter, you couldn't stay a Weasley." Harry scowled and began to pace. Hope watched in fascination as his image would go off the side of the portrait, reappear and cross the frame, disappear off the opposite side… "Lousy Ministry, why am I not surprised? They never change. What's supposed to happen now?"

"Do you mean, with the Child Welfare Committee? They have to meet sometime before first of September – McGonagall's told them she has to be there when they meet, and she can't do it after term begins."

"She's on the Committee, then." Harry nodded, filing away the fact, and continued pacing. A gleam of gold appeared to follow him – the Golden Snitch from the original sketch. "Who else is on? Do we know?"

"Uh, Harry…" It felt so odd to call him that. Hope tried again. "Father? Shouldn't we be worrying about the Death Eaters? It sounded like there's been another attack only today…"

Harry pinned her with a single intense look. An amazingly intense look – his eyes fairly gleamed from within. Hope fancied she felt almost like a chick hypnotized by a serpent. "You're family," Harry said without hesitation. "First things first."

She was utterly convinced. "I've, uh, asked to see any newspapers that've come to Hogwarts," she volunteered. "I can't read them too openly, with Ministry people here all the time, but Professor McGonagall's told me what they said. They're all on our side."

"'All'? Prophet and Quibbler agreeing on something? Hold on to your hats, the sky's full of pigs." He gave her a brief, cynical smile. "Right. That'll help, I reckon, but not if the Ministry's really out to get you. Or are they out to get Ron?" He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes. Eyes closed, he added, "Somehow, we simply need to show them the right thing, and convince them to do it."

"Maybe if you talked to them," Hope suggested. "I mean, I don't like the idea, but…"

Harry didn't answer directly. "At the house where I was staying," he began slowly, thinking aloud, "there were some portraits of former owners of the house. They were pretty loud and vocal… but they couldn't give orders, even to the house elf. They had no power, and the Place knew it." He opened his eyes and slid his glasses back into place. "And here at Hogwarts, portraits of former Headmasters can't act as though they were still Headmaster. Hope, I don't think my talking would do any good in any case."

"Oh." She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

"Why'd you suggest it, if you didn't like the idea? Come to that, why didn't you like the idea?"

"It just came to me. A magical portrait of The Chosen One, come to life? You want the world to know that? It'd be a nightmare, honestly. You'd never have a moment's peace." She swallowed. "I'd never have a chance to see you."

"Yeah." His tone made it clear that he knew exactly what she meant.

"But I thought… if that's what it took… I mean, you are Harry Potter, they'd have to at least listen."

"Um, I guess…" He was embarrassed now, and Hope had to snicker.

They remained quiet together for several minutes. Hope had expected Harry to continue talking, as Hermione always had… but she soon realized that Harry wasn't that much of a talker. Planning a course of action was one thing; conversation for its own sake was quite another. Hope wondered if he was going to enjoy being a portrait as much as Hermione did.

"Harry," she said, wanting to confirm her theory, "can you do magic? Can portraits in general?"

"I don't think so," he replied after a moment. "Like I said, the portraits I've known had no power, even if the people they portrayed were powerful wizards." She could hear the regret in his voice. They spent another quiet minute… Hope found she didn't mind not talking.

"But maybe," Harry continued, and the regret began to turn to enthusiasm, "maybe I could still use magic. We'll have to try it. If so," and now he was fired up by the possibility, "if so, I might be able to tell your precious Committee a thing or two – without letting them know I exist. We'll have to try it – but I'll need your help, Hope."

She sat bolt upright and snatched up the portrait. Hope caught Harry grinning, and grinned back fiercely. "Name it, Father."

10. X

(A/N: One of these days I'm going to win the Lottery, and have nothing but free time all day, every day, to play with these characters. Until then, I have to write in my spare moments, which are a lot sparer than I'd like. Apologetics all around.

Thanks be to Mary Caroline, my precious beta-reader, who helps me get things right. If I didn't, despite everything… well, it's my fault, no one else's.)

(Disclaimer: Nothing's changed since I started writing this story… darn it.)

*****************************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

9 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

"The most recent attack was early this morning, here," Tonks summed up, tapping her wand on a map spread across the kitchen table. "Nothing major, an owl-routing center, but it's disrupted all the owl post in and out of Scotland and Northern Ireland."

It was Sunday afternoon, and the Order of the Phoenix was meeting in Ma Maison's kitchen. It was large enough to accommodate them all – if a tad snugly – and thanks to Bill Weasley's special expertise, only the vaults of Gringotts were more secure. No one could spy on Ma Maison… regardless of whether they served Bellatrix Lestrange or Rufus Scrimgeour.

"It supports our theory about Bellatrix's change of modus operandi," mused McGonagall. She looked up from the map to see several faces (notably Ron's) waiting expectantly. She gestured at the map. "Geographically, there's been little pattern to the most recent attacks, save that none were in Muggle population centers. It's a significant departure from Lord Voldemort's old methods."

McGonagall waited for the inevitable shudder to pass through the room – even after eleven years, many wizards couldn't bear to say or hear that name – and continued briskly, "However, each incident has had its impact on day-to-day functions. This morning's attack on the post, Friday's attack on the Ministry's record archives…"

"By themselves, not large and valuable targets," nodded Arthur Weasley, "but by that same token, not heavily guarded or defended."

"And each attack whittling away, bit by bit, at our ability to maintain a cohesive wizarding society," concluded McGonagall. "The exceptions to this pattern have centered on…" She hesitated, and met Ron's eyes.

"On me," Ron finished for her dully.

"Although the Finnigans' deaths were just as much about Bellatrix as they were about Ron," Luna added, defending her husband.

"Anyone's death would have done for what Bellatrix wanted," said Ron with a weary shake of his head. "She picked Seamus and Lavender to get at me."

"Be that as it may," interjected Hestia Jones quickly, "what do you think this change in pattern means, Minerva?"

McGonagall shook her head. "It's tempting to guess that Bellatrix's ranks aren't as full as she would have the world believe… certainly she hasn't the giants or dementors behind her, as the Dark Lord had. She would have to choose her targets with greater care in such case. But that might prove a dangerous underestimation of the woman. If we're going to err, let us do so on the side of caution."

Upon that consensus, the meeting began to break up, with the members of the Order queuing at the spot in the living room that Bill had made safe for Disapparation. McGonagall raised a finger as Ron and Luna rose to leave. "Professor and Mrs. Weasley, would you stay for just a moment? I need to discuss some personal matters with you, while we have the luxury of total privacy."

"Yeah, us too," said Ron, with a sidelong glance at Luna. They re-seated themselves around the kitchen table, as Fleur hustled a curious Bill out of the room.

"First of all," McGonagall began, drawing two scrolls from her pocket, "Hope is settling in at Hogwarts as well as might be expected. She misses you both, but we've found ways to ensure time does not hang idle on her hands." She handed the scrolls to Ron and Luna. "Strictly speaking, I shouldn't be abetting this contact between you – if I'm to persuade the other members of the Child Welfare Committee, I must not be seen as taking sides in this case. I may already be too involved, merely by being your employer."

"We appreciate your position, Professor," murmured Luna, as Ron tore his scroll open. He ignored the majority of the message and went straight to the signature; he read it, smiled, and re-rolled the scroll.

"Next: Hope will be away from Hogwarts tomorrow. That will give you an opportunity to come to the school and prepare for the new term. We've less than three weeks left before term begins."

"Away from… there's no problem, is there?" Ron worried.

"No, no problems of which I'm aware. But she's requested a trip to Diagon Alley tomorrow," said McGonagall. "She's not said why, but she seemed to consider it important. I'll be escorting her myself, in loco parentis… and we will, of course, have a Ministry representative accompanying us." The momentary curl of her lips showed what she thought of that.

Ron seemed only to have heard the first part of McGonagall's explanation. "Hope'll be at Diagon Alley tomorrow!? When? Did she say where…?"

McGonagall overrode him sternly. "You are not to try to meet her there! You are still under Ministry edict!"

As Ron seemed about to explode, Luna laid her hand on his arm. "If you try to meet Hope, they'll know the Headmistress told you about her outing," she reminded him softly. She didn't need to say more: Ron was quite able to see the implications on his own.

After a moment, Ron gave a grudging nod. "Right. Whatever you say."

"Thank you." McGonagall regarded him with a softening expression. "I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you, Professor. We are doing what we can… and Hope will be starting school soon enough. Which, while admittedly small consolation," she nodded to Luna, "is better than nothing."

She cleared her throat and sat a bit straighter in her seat, obviously trying to put the awkward moment behind them. "Now… you had something to say to me privately?"

"Not simply us," said Luna. She brought out her purse, opened it, and withdrew Hermione's portrait.

"Professor McGonagall. It's good to see you again," said Hermione. She watched carefully, as though trying to reassure herself that the Headmistress's response upon meeting her would be nothing like Ron's.

"Miss Granger," replied McGonagall, without batting an eye. The woman was damnably quick on the uptake, give her credit for that. "So good to see you as well. We would have been delighted to've heard from you years ago…" She left the question in the air.

Ron answered. "She was painted over our last Christmas holiday together. But she only came to light… well, we only found out about her less than two weeks ago."

"Meaning I did," corrected Luna. "You were only told on Monday, Ronald."

"That'd be 'less than two weeks', Love, last I checked."

"And since then," put in Hermione, "they've brought me up to speed on recent events." She chewed on her lower lip in thought. "Professor, I heard what you said about Bellatrix's tactics. I don't see why anyone should be surprised that they differ from Voldemort's. They had entirely different objectives, after all."

"What?!" Ron looked at Hermione in astonishment. "What, you don't think they both played the 'Pure-blood good, Muggle bad' anthem?"

"Yes," Hermione conceded, "but their motives were quite different. Bellatrix is a radical revolutionary – where Voldemort was a Nihilist."

She sighed at Ron's blank look. "They're Muggle political philosophies, Ron, but they have wizarding equivalents." Hermione settled quickly into lecture-mode and began, "Look, Bellatrix is a fanatic; she's taken pure-blood bigotry to its extreme. She's trying to bring down the wizarding world so that she can rebuild it, using only pure-bloods. She truly believes the wizarding world would be better off without Muggleborns – and if that requires getting rid of Muggles, she'd hardly cry about it, would she? She may hate us, but I suspect it's more, well, impersonal: we're a disease, to be purged. Or, a better analogy, she's a surgeon removing a cancer – with each attack being as precise as a scalpel.

"Lord Voldemort, on the other hand, was more pathological, more megalomaniac. He wanted destruction for its own sake. He killed and tortured Muggles – because he could. Yes, he too wanted to bring down the wizarding world – out of hatred. And yes, he wanted pure-bloods to rule – so that he, the half-blood, could in turn rule the pure-bloods. Most of all, he wanted to live forever… because, after all, that's what gods do. And it was that mystique, that hope of sharing in his glory, which attracted his followers."

Hermione's words slowed to a stop. She looked from Ron, to Luna, to McGonagall... taking in their stunned expressions. "Er, am I repeating the obvious again? Oh dear, I'm sorry, I've always had a tendency to run on, haven't I, it's mostly a nervous habit, please don't…"

"Hermione," interrupted Ron, "that's bloody brilliant! Yeah, of course their strategies would be different! Bellatrix is trying to break apart our, what d'you call it, our social order…"

"…without directly harming the wizards and witches she hopes to rule," finished McGonagall. "Thereby opening the possibility that we might predict where she might strike. Voldemort simply engaged in random, indiscriminate destruction, expecting to rule over whatever rose from the ashes."

"So long as he was supremely powerful and effectively immortal," added Luna thoughtfully, "it wasn't a bad plan, actually."

Hermione snorted. "So long as."

"Yeah, Harry took care of the 'effectively immortal' bit," grinned Ron. The grin died quickly as he recalled that Bellatrix, in this one instance, was following in Voldemort's footsteps. And if history continued to repeat itself, this time it would fall to him, Ron Weasley, to take care of it.

And he hadn't a clue how to do it.

*

"Oww!" cried Hope, rubbing her shoulder.

"Too slow," Harry reproved. "Try again. Sweep with the wand, visualize the shield…"

Obediently, Hope raised her wand and faced The Infernal Pain Thing (as it was quickly becoming in her mind). When she'd suggested taking advantage of McGonagall's absence for a bit of revision, she certainly hadn't anticipated anything so… irritating.

Harry had told her to take him to a corridor on the seventh floor of the castle, where they'd paced up and down while Harry had concentrated on something. After the third pass, a door had appeared in the wall opposite a very odd tapestry; Hope had opened the door and entered a room filled with a host of magical devices, including The Infernal Pain Thing. "It's the Room of Requirement," Harry had told her. "I wasn't sure it'd appear for a portrait, but I guess a portrait's never wanted to come in before now."

The magical devices seemed to have been stored in the Room by a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher from years past… one with a hobby, or a collection mania, or something of the sort. At any rate, they were all designed to test a person's defensive skills and reflexes. The Infernal Pain Thing, in particular, would fire stinging hexes at her whenever it heard a verbal command. Harry might not be able to use magic himself, but magical devices would still obey the sound of his voice.

And when it came to Defense, Hope was fast discovering that Harry was relentless.

As if to emphasize that point, Harry cleared his throat. Immediately, The Infernal Pain Thing spat stingers in rapid succession. Caught off-guard, she dodged the first one (ducking was permitted, if not the goal of the exercise) and desperately tried to get her wand to make the motions Harry'd described. The second stinger hit her foot as she yelped, "Protego!"

She didn't have time to make the wand motions, but the Shield Charm worked nonetheless. The remaining stingers ricocheted away harmlessly.

"Double wow," said Harry, impressed. "Finite." The Infernal Pain Thing gave a turkey-ish cluck and settled down to sleep.

"Granddad says… I did a wandless Protego last year… when Death Eaters attacked," Hope panted, straightening. "But I didn't think I could do it again… I mean, isn't that more advanced than…?"

"I wasn't taught wandless magic until my sixth year," Harry agreed. "But they say every magical child shows some wandless magic while they're growing. You know: Vanishing glass windows, blowing people up, that sort of thing."

"I never did… um." Hope fell quiet.

"You were about to say…?

"Nothing." She slipped her wand into her pocket and walked over to the bookshelf where Harry's portrait was propped. She flopped down on a nearby chair and sat with him in silence… a silence both welcome and, oddly, comfortable.

In the last two days, Hope had quickly learned that, just because Harry and Hermione were both living portraits, it didn't mean they were made from the same mold. Hermione seemed to enjoy talking much more than Harry – not that Harry wouldn't answer questions, but he wasn't as spontaneous. Hermione didn't move much within her frame, as though always conscious of her status as a portrait: Harry was far more animated, especially when excited. Hope would frequently hold Hermione in her hands as they conversed: it never occurred to her to hold Harry. And the idea of sleeping with Harry under her pillow…! Hope blushed as she recalled their first night together, preparing for sleep…

"Look, I'll turn my back, okay?" Harry said in exasperation. "I'll turn my back until you say it's clear."

"All night? I thought pictures still had to sleep sometime." Hope reached out to turn the portrait to face the wall.

"DON'T! How can I watch the room if you turn me around?"

"That's my point!" She glared at Harry, embarrassed – and furious with herself for being embarrassed. She'd never worried about undressing in front of Hermione… and Harry was only a picture, not a real boy, but still… "Can't you just… leave your portrait? Go off-frame or something?"

"I don't want to attract attention from the other portraits here at Hogwarts. They'll gossip… you've no idea what gossips they are. So far, they haven't noticed a newbie's here, and if you want to keep that little fact a secret…"

They faced off for a moment longer before Harry sighed and tried for compromise. "Can you dress in the closet?"

"But you'll still see me when I get into bed! I'll be in…!" Hope gestured wildly with the pyjamas in her hand.

"Oh, for…! The lights will be out, for Merlin's sake. I won't see any, er, details… but I'll still be able to keep watch. And we agreed I should keep watch."

Hope maintained her glare another second before calling "Nox!" to the wall candles. Pyjamas over one arm, she marched to the closet as the lights dimmed. "And take off your glasses!" she ordered him over her shoulder. As she closed the door, she could hear a muttered "Definitely your mother's daughter" behind her.

The memory sparked a question that had been bothering her. "Harry? Father?"

"You keep switching back and forth," he noted with amusement.

"You keep acting back and forth…" Or maybe it was her. Sometimes, it really wasn't easy to think of this energetic young man – hardly older than herself, really – as, well, as her father. Fathers shouldn't be so… sexy… Hope hastily marshaled her thoughts and began again. "Father, how far can magical portraits travel? Outside their frames, I mean."

Harry pondered the question. "Well, here at Hogwarts, any person in a portrait can travel to any other portrait in the castle," he said, in his slow thinking-out-loud voice. "And if one person has more than one portrait, he or she can travel between portraits, no matter where they are. But… at the, er, Place I stayed once I turned seventeen…"

"Yeah, I think I know the place. Sort of," Hope qualified. "The inside, anyway. Dad took me there for my birthday."

"Huh. I suppose it's yours now, isn't it?" He shook his head. "Anyway, there were portraits of people there, too – but they couldn't travel between portraits in the house. And a good thing, too."

"So… Hogwarts is special, then? You can't normally travel between portraits?"

Harry shook his head again. "Just the opposite, I think. The Place had so many security spells lying around, they probably blocked the portraits from traveling. Without those, I think it'd be easy… yeah, come to think of it, the portraits at St. Mungo's can move around, too." He cocked an eyebrow at his daughter. "Why? I should warn you again, if we want to keep my existence a secret…"

"You can't visit any of the other paintings in Hogwarts. I know, I know." She twisted a strand of hair around her fingers. "I was just wondering… if you were limited to Hogwarts."

"As long as I'm in Hogwarts… yeah. Anyplace else is too far away. Unless there's another portrait of me somewhere…?"

"I'm pretty sure there isn't. Considering what Mr. Thomas had to go through to get this portrait of you done."

"Yeah. Which reminds me…" Harry stretched his arms and looked around. His hand darted out to capture the Golden Snitch that had been circling in the background. "Now might be a good time to see if…"

"Oh, right. If we need tools, the Room will provide." Hope stood and plucked the portrait from the shelf. She turned it over. "Mm, it doesn't look like it's glued or anything… I see a few metal tabs." Delicately she bent the tabs away from the frame's edge, then removed the backboard. Taking ever increasing care, she slid the portrait from its frame and examined its backing carefully.

Dean had reinforced the original paper sketch with a stiffer backing of vellum, to keep the paper from puckering when the tempera was applied. Gently, watching to ensure the paint didn't crack, Hope flexed the portrait slightly.

"You can't imagine how weird that feels," reported Harry.

She held the portrait up to her ear, flexing it so that it curved around her head, with one edge near the corner of her eye. "How's that?"

In her peripheral vision she could see Harry, pressed up against the edge of the paper. "Excellent! Yeah, I think this is going to work!" Hope straightened the portrait and set it down as Harry continued, "Now don't forget to talk to Dobby. No one will question him, and he can get us the…"

"Yes, Father, I remember. Honestly," she added under her breath. At the moment, he was definitely acting like a father.

*

10 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

The four glass display cases had been moved outside the Great Hall; they were now strategically placed beside the four hourglasses that measured House points. A display case for each Founder of Hogwarts, each with its own ancient artifact: Godric Gryffindor's sword, Helga Hufflepuff's cup, Rowena Ravenclaw's athame, and Salazar Slytherin's locket. Hope read the tiny placards inside each case, and couldn't help smiling.

Not a word about Horcruxes.

She turned as Madam Manwaring and the Headmistress approached. "Good morning, dear," said Manwaring brightly. "So, where are we going today in Diagon Alley? Some last-minute school supplies, perhaps?"

"Um, not exactly," said Hope. "I do need to go to Gringotts, though."

McGonagall and Manwaring exchanged glances. "We won't be able to Floo there directly," said McGonagall. "Unless prior arrangements have been made, Gringotts's wards prevent anyone from entering other than through the front doors. Had we known in advance, we could have contacted them…"

"I know, and I'm sorry. But I only thought of it this weekend, and the Bank was closed, and today's the first chance to go there. And it has to be today!" Hope pleaded.

"It's all right. There should be no problem," McGonagall assured her, ignoring Manwaring's frown and slight shake of the head. "We'll simply have to Floo to Diagon Alley and walk to Gringotts." She made a gesture of invitation at the great oaken doors. "To Hogsmeade, then?"

Hope nodded and picked up her cloak. She draped it over her shoulders and lifted the hood to cover her head. "Ready."

Manwaring blinked and rubbed her eyes. "Er, Miss Potter? What is that…?"

"It makes people not want to pay attention to me," Hope explained. "I thought I'd better wear it today." Surreptitiously she felt her pockets; yes, the items were there, just in case…

The three left Hogwarts and headed for Hogsmeade. By the time they approached the Three Broomsticks, and none of the locals (particularly the Weasleys) had accosted them, Manwaring began to relax. She leaned over Hope and murmured, "My dear, if you have some expenses for school, there's no need to bother yourself by going to Gringotts. I'd be happy to visit your vault for you… or, if you like, I could front you a few Galleons…"

"No, thank you," replied Hope, pulling her hood a bit farther forward on her head. "It isn't money. You'll see when we get there."

*

Getting into Gringotts proved somewhat more difficult than the last time Hope had visited. That time, she and her family had a scheduled meeting with the goblins and the Ministry, and the Floos had been open. This time, Hope and her party had to enter through the front doors from Diagon Alley – and this time, they were subject to intense scrutiny before they were allowed to enter.

One liveried doorman – well, doorgoblin – seemed ready to bar Hope because of her Cloak of Anonymity. "If you think you can stop us from watching you like a hawk, you're barmy," was how he put it. Hope promptly removed the cloak and let it fall to the floor, presenting herself and her bag for inspection. The goblin glanced at her suspiciously, then consulted a bronze box set into the wall just behind the doors. Grudgingly, he waved her through. Hope gathered up the cloak and draped it back over herself, as they approached the main lobby.

"Nice," came a whisper in Hope's ear. "Friendly. S'pose we should be grateful they aren't using Probity Probes…"

"Shh," Hope hissed back. She may have tricked the doorkeeper into scanning her, not her cloak, but she saw no point in pressing their luck.

"What was that, dear?" asked Manwaring solicitously.

"I, uh, was just wondering how secure Gringotts is supposed to be," said Hope quickly.

"Few places in the wizarding world are as safe – and no place is safer," said McGonagall. "No one enters without the goblins' knowledge – and any magic of disguise is immediately detected at the door. Invisibility, glamours…"

"Even Polyjuice Potion?" Hope put in.

McGonagall's quick glance at Hope was as suspicious as the goblin's had been. "And how do you know about Polyjuice Potion?"

"Erm… Dad did mention it once."

The Headmistress looked as though she would have pursued the matter, but by now they were in Gringotts's main lobby, and conversation had to break off. The lobby was a bustling chaos – usual for a Monday, actually. Customers stood in queues waiting to do business with goblin clerks; another pair of goblins rolled a small cart filled with rubies and sapphires into a side room, where a remarkably ugly old woman (a hag? Well, why not…) watched impatiently.

As they waited their turn in the queue, Hope could feel Manwaring grow tense, and turned her head slightly to see why.

At the far end of the room was a human wearing the scarlet-and-gold Gringotts livery. His back was to them, so Hope couldn't see his face – but he was tall, with long hair whose bright red tones were instantly identifiable. "Uncle Bill," she said softly.

"Not really your uncle, dear," Manwaring sniffed. "Let's trust he'll keep his distance as he should…"

At length they were at the counter facing the clerk. "Hope Potter," she announced, holding up her vault key. "Um, I need to get into my vault."

The goblin clerk nodded shortly and snapped his fingers. He didn't seem much interested in his customers, as though his mind was elsewhere. "Escort these three to… vault #878," he barked at the guide who responded to his summons, and turned away.

"Something's… off, somehow," whispered the voice in Hope's ear again. "Can you pull the hood forward so I can see better?" Silently, Hope obliged.

Their guide led them through a side door into a chilly room, with a cart set on tracks that descended down into darkness. They clambered about the cart, and with a clank their guide started them forward. Amidst a rush of wind they zoomed down the tracks, down into the deepest caverns beneath Gringotts. Except for one near-collision with another cart, the trip was uneventful, and they arrived at Hope's vault unscathed, if not unshaken.

"Very well, Miss Potter," said McGonagall, as the goblin guide opened vault #878 and considerately returned to the cart. "You've brought us down to your vault, and you've indicated you've no need to dip into your funds. I think it's time you told us why we're here."

"Today is Aunt Ginny's birthday," said Hope, unfastening her Cloak of Anonymity. She dropped it casually over the small desk near the vault door – after noting that, yes, there were quills scattered among the loose parchments covering the desktop. Didn't need to bring quills after all… well, better safe than sorry...

"I know, I know," she added quickly to Manwaring, "not really my aunt, but I still think of her that way. Anyway," she continued, "I want to give her a birthday present, so I have to do it today, and I couldn't do it before today because the Bank's not open weekends."

She led them away from the desk towards one of the stacks of gold, with the boxes from the House of Black arranged beside it. Manwaring's gaze fell, briefly but longingly, on the silver instruments that were Dumbledore's bequest to Harry, before coming back to the matter at hand. McGonagall raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"Hope, dear," Manwaring began, "your intentions do you credit, but please consider. If the Ministry thinks it would be unhelpful to continue to associate with, well, with painful reminders of your past…"

"She's always been my Aunt Ginny," said Hope evenly. "I'll probably still call her my aunt, no matter what happens." Inwardly she tracked how much time was elapsing… they'd rehearsed this so many times last night…

As she hoped, Manwaring continued to insist. "My dear, it's usually better to make a clean break with the past…"

"For goodness' sake," McGonagall put in unexpectedly, "don't let's talk about 'the past' in that way, as though the Weasleys had all died recently." She turned to Hope. "So you want to give your aunt something for her birthday?"

Hope nodded. She picked up one of the smaller boxes from the stack, and handed it to McGonagall. "Um, what do you think about giving her this?"

McGonagall opened the box and smiled slightly at the emerald necklace inside. A scrap of parchment, freed from the box lid, fluttered to the floor; she stooped and picked it up. "Ah," she nodded after reading it. "I believe I understand."

"Professor McGonagall," Manwaring protested stiffly, "I don't think…"

The Headmistress overrode whatever Manwaring was about to say. "We've already agreed that the contents of this vault are Miss Potter's property. She may dispose of them as she will," she stated firmly. "And the simple giving of a birthday gift is not the same as 'continued contact.'" As the other woman still looked obdurate, McGonagall added with a slight sigh, "I will deliver it myself."

"Well…" Manwaring looked from McGonagall, to the box, to Hope's determined face, and relented. "I daresay that would be within our guidelines. Very well."

"And I want to put a note inside – may I? A very short note, I'll let you read it first," said Hope quickly, heading back to the desk. With any luck, she'd kept McGonagall and Manwaring distracted long enough… and their main task here was done.

She reached for the cloak, to move it out of the way. But in her haste, the fabric snagged something on the desktop. Parchments, quills, and a kneadable eraser went flying across the vault floor. "Aaaack!"

"Oh, dear," sighed Manwaring. She brought out her wand and, with a muttered spell, collected the scattered parchments. She couldn't resist looking at them as she stacked them neatly, and Hope had to work hard to keep from grinning as she gathered the other oddments strewn about the floor. Ohhhh, yeah! If I'd planned that, it couldn't have turned out better!

Abruptly, Manwaring went still… she almost froze in place, as she stared at one of the parchments in her hand. "Minerva," she said in a strangled voice, "have a look at this."

McGonagall took the parchment from her hand. Her eyes widened as she read it. "What?" Hope burst out. "What's it say?"

"I, Harry James Potter, being of sound mind…" McGonagall's mouth quirked as she added, "It seems he also wrote despite what the Daily Prophet says before he scratched it out. At any rate, Miss Potter, it appears to be a draft of your father's last will and testament."

"He left a will? But I thought the goblins said…"

"Not a will – a draft of a will. He didn't complete it, and it's neither signed nor witnessed." McGonagall turned the parchment over in her hand. "It is, however, unquestionably authentic. This parchment is as old and dusty as the others on the desk, and the handwriting is clearly Harry Potter's. I should know… I had to struggle through it for six years."

"And look at the date," put in Manwaring quietly, "barely a month before the poor boy died."

"May I see?" asked Hope, as she stepped towards McGonagall and craned her neck to get a better look. "What else does it say?"

"Dispositions of his property… not that it matters at this point, you would inherit in any case," said McGonagall. "But… let me see… hrrm. If I'm survived by my wife Hermione and our child to be… Well, at least he considered himself married to Miss Granger, at any rate. I suppose I ought not to call her that anymore…"

"What else?" insisted Hope.

"Ah. If Hermione and I are both dead, and survived by our child, I name Ronald Weasley to be its guardian, as the custodian of its inheritance and executor of my estate. Some further clauses, covering what was to be done if you were also dead, Miss Potter, or if Mr. Weasley were dead… but that is the germane point." She sighed and looked up from the parchment at Manwaring. "I do wish he'd had time to complete this! It would have made things so much simpler now."

Manwaring gave a stiff nod. "Still," she said slowly, as though the words were being forced from her, "I must admit, this is a clear statement of his intent." She looked McGonagall in the eye and said more quietly, "I admit that. But it changes nothing…"

"It changes everything," returned McGonagall. "At the very least, the full Committee needs to be aware of this."

"I think it would only muddy the waters," Manwaring replied, still in that slow quiet voice. "What the lad may have wanted to be done pales beside what the law says must be done. Sentiment cannot, may not, be allowed to sway us."

"May I please see?!" Hope interrupted. She reached up for the document, which McGonagall gave to her. Hope gave it a cursory scan, nodded to herself, folded it, and began to place it in her pocket.

"Miss Potter! What are you…?" spluttered McGonagall. "That is an important piece of evidence for the Committee! Yes it is, Muriel!" she snapped as an aside to Manwaring. "You cannot simply take…!"

It took every ounce of courage Hope possessed to meet the Headmistress's gaze. "I inherited the contents of this vault," she said in a creditably matter-of-fact tone. "That includes this parchment. It was written by my father, on my behalf. So it's mine." She waited a beat, then concluded, "And I'm going to send a copy of it to every newspaper in Britain."

"But you cannot!" cried Manwaring, scandalized. "The public outcry would be… would be…"

"Indeed it would," put in McGonagall. "And in point of fact, Muriel, she can." She turned a stern face to Hope, but the girl fancied she saw a twinkle in the Headmistress's eye. "Nonetheless, Miss Potter, will you trust me when I say that it might not be the most prudent course? Some of the Committee are… easily embarrassed." She held out her hand. "I will see that this draft is given its proper emphasis. I give you my word."

"'Kay. Thank you, ma'am." Hope returned the parchment to McGonagall. "And besides," she added in a stage whisper, "I can always send it to the papers later if I need to." She reached out to Manwaring, who still held the rest of Harry's parchments, and who looked as though she were in shock. Hope gently plucked the parchments from Manwaring's unresisting fingers and set them on the desk.

She'd lifted her Cloak of Anonymity, ready to drape it over her shoulders, when she was struck by a whim that wasn't at all like her: dramatically, like a villainess in a play, she swirled the cloak through the air around her before settling it in place. "Shall we, then?" she asked her escorts, gesturing towards the vault door, and ignoring the snickering in her ear.

*

The cart had nearly returned from the vaults to the surface when a low, harsh warbling sounded throughout the cavern. "What's that?" asked McGonagall, turning to their goblin guide.

The goblin looked straight ahead without answering. His face was an unresponsive mask.

"It, er, sounds like an alarm," ventured Hope. She didn't wait to be prompted, but pulled her hood forward on her head again.

They lurched to a halt at the top of the tracks; the door to the lobby stood invitingly open. "Out," ordered the goblin, and he herded them out of the cart and into the lobby… where a strange scene was playing itself out.

All the clerks seemed to be frozen, motionless, at their windows. Scattered here and there throughout the room were wizards, witches, and various other beings, wearing expressions of stunned surprise. In the center of the lobby, half a dozen grim goblins stood in a circle, facing outward. They didn't wear the livery of Gringotts Bank, but jerkins and trousers of stiff, brown leather. It seemed appropriate, somehow, when worn by goblins, and Hope wondered if this was what goblins wore when they weren't interacting with humans.

"Are these the last from the caverns?" demanded one of the leather-garbed goblins. The guide nodded woodenly.

"What is the meaning of this?" cried Manwaring, every inch the outraged Ministry official.

"The meaning, madam," said the goblin, putting a world of contempt into the word, "is that from this day onward, the goblin race will no longer accept the insults and indignities rained upon us by human wizards and witches. This day marks the end! This day marks our withdrawal from your affairs, forever!"

"By what authority?" cried a Bank director Hope recognized – Brasslock, Uncle Bill's boss. "Our Charter guarantees Gringotts independence! Your political maneuvers in the Royal Court do not concern us, Forgenail…"

Forgenail, who seemed to be the leader of the leather-clad rebels, interrupted Brasslock with a response in some harshly guttural language – Gobbledegook, Hope guessed. They traded increasingly heated barbs, as the lower-level goblin employees remained frozen in place… as though physically unable to act while the power play before them unfolded.

Finally, one of the human spectators, a sallow-faced old wizard, decided to intervene. "Look here," he barked, stepping towards the leather-clad goblins, "I don't know how you people manage your affairs, and I don't care. But I'm a depositor in this Bank, and I have rights. You can't simply shut up shop here without giving notice to…"

Impatiently, another of the rebels lifted a silver whistle that hung on a cord around his neck. He blew into it sharply – a thin, shrill note sounded – and from the ceiling flew a weighted net, such as might be used for snaring birds. It wrapped itself tightly around the sallow wizard, who screamed once and fell heavily to the floor. The net gave off bright electric sparks as it lay atop him, and his unconscious body continued to twitch.

At this, Brasslock and another director shouted angrily at the rebels in Gobbledegook. They reached into their waistcoat pockets, presumably for their own magical devices; but before they could bring them out, Forgenail had quickly raised his own whistle and blown it. Something very like a Bludger zoomed out of a niche in the wall behind Forgenail, flew over his head and struck Brasslock in the stomach. He fell behind one of the counters and disappeared. The other director hastily lifted his hands over his head.

"Interesting," murmured the voice in Hope's ear. "Some of the human types don't exactly look shocked…"

"No more argument!" screamed Forgenail. "Gringotts Bank is now closed forever! All the vaults are now ours! And the content of our vaults is hereby declared forfeit, as restitution for centuries of oppression!" His gaze swept over the remaining wizards and witches as he finished, "Anyone attempting to leave before the vaults have been transferred will be considered thieves – and dealt with accordingly."

And all the wizarding world knew how the goblins dealt with thieves.

11. XI

(A/N: First of all, I just want to thank everyone who's been concerned for me. No, I haven't tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs, or any such catastrophe. It's simply that the last two months at work have been busier than they've been in, well, years. I haven't had a chance to visit Portkey at all, much less write. But I have not abandoned this story, and I will not. Unbreakable Vow, friends.

Second, as always, my gratitude goes to Mary Caroline for her beta duties. Especially given her other distractions at the moment.

And third, I'm embarrassed to admit that I made an error in the last chapter. A dumb little calendar error, doesn't affect the plot in any way, easily fixed by reposting the chapter, but still… I hate making dumb little errors.)

(Disclaimer: Jo Rowling owns everything in the Potterverse; she controls everything that happened there, up to the end of her published books. I control what happens after that, BWAH-hah-hah-hah-hah!!)

**************************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

10 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

"A small, quiet gathering," suggested Fleur. "Tomorrow night, at the Leaky Cauldron. Ginny will not wish for anything more elaborate."

"Oh, wait a couple of years until her big three-oh," Angelina said with a laugh. "We should start planning for that one now."

Luna nodded pleasantly and opened her mouth to speak. She was interrupted by a low, harsh warbling that seemed to reverberate from the very walls of Ma Maison. "That's an odd sound," she said, curiously looking around. "Is it niklik mating season already?"

"I hardly think so… Sacristi!" Fleur started at the violent pounding on the front door. Faintly they could hear someone shouting, "Let me in!"

She rushed to the door, drawing her wand, as Angelina and Luna followed. "Who's there?" she shouted through the door.

"Fleur, it's me! Let me in!" came Bill's voice.

Angelina frowned as the pounding resumed. "Bill wouldn't be kept out by his own security wards…"

"What is my…" Fleur hesitated and gave the other two witches a sidelong glance. She changed what she was about to ask. "What did I give you for our first wedding anniversary?"

"You mean, besides proof that pregnancy didn't slow you down?" A flash of amusement broke through Bill's urgency. "A new earring."

Fleur unbolted the door and opened it. Bill dashed inside as the door wrenched itself from Fleur's hands and slammed shut behind him. "What is this all about?" demanded Fleur.

"There's some sort of trouble at Gringotts," Bill said grimly, as he strode to an abstract painting on the living room wall. A wave of his wand vanished the painting to reveal a miniature version of a Gringotts vault door. He traced a pattern on its face with his wand's tip. "They've raised the security level to maximum – all but impenetrable from the outside. And since our protections are based on the same magic, I was locked out of the house."

The wall safe's tumblers fell into place with a soft snick. Bill opened the safe and took out a tool belt, with some odd (and dangerous-looking) implements hanging from it. He buckled the belt around his waist and said to Fleur, "I have to go to Gringotts now. This is likely to be serious trouble, but don't worry, love. I'll contact you as soon as I can." Turning to Luna, he added, "Until we can get this whatever-it-is under control, Luna, I'm afraid you'll be locked out of your house too. You're welcome to stay here until then."

Luna blinked once, accepting the news as calmly as ever. "I'll need to send an owl to Ronald, then… I don't think Hogwarts has any Speaking Glasses in general use as yet."

"He," Bill began, and came to an abrupt halt.

His wife eyed him shrewdly. "Something is derangé. I've seen that look on you. Why should Luna not send an owl to Hogwarts?"

"Erm," explained Bill.

"And come to that, mon mari," Fleur continued with mounting alarm, "why were you not already at Gringotts?"

*

Professor McGonagall stood motionless and aghast in the Gringotts main lobby. The scene before her was impossible, simply and literally impossible. Not because the goblins were no longer capable of rebellion – they were, unquestionably – but because never before had the goblins shown less than a unified front to humankind. Fights between factions at their Royal Court were only rumored, never witnessed – and never involved such a major institution as Gringotts Bank.

Her sense of unreality multiplied tenfold as she watched Manwaring march forward towards the band of leather-clad goblin rebels.

Manwaring stopped just as the rebel leader Forgenail lifted his whistle to activate another of the bank's security charms. "What are your grievances, then?" she demanded.

Forgenail paused with the whistle halfway to his lips. "What did you say?"

"I am a senior Ministry official," Manwaring declared. "I am asking you to officially state your grievances." She placed her hands on her hips as the goblin sputtered. "Come now. 'Insults and indignities,' weren't those your very words?"

Forgenail swore viciously at Manwaring in Gobbledegook. He fell silent in shock as Manwaring returned fluent fire in the same language. I had no idea the woman spoke goblin language, thought McGonagall in astonishment. Not even the goblin liaison at the Beings Division speaks it that well…

Manwaring's response caused another of the other goblin rebels to shout at her, still in Gobbledegook. She responded again, not angrily, but with an air of assurance that seemed to give the rebels pause. Everyone's attention was on the elderly Ministry witch… providing McGonagall with what might well be her only opportunity.

She drew her wand surreptitiously and thought of a happy memory: the day Gryffindor won the House Cup in Granger's first year, snatching it from under Severus Snape's hooked nose. As soon as the memory was firmly fixed, McGonagall mentally added a message and whispered, "Expecto Patronum."

Her Patronus burst out of her wand and sped immediately out of sight behind one of the tellers' counters. McGonagall smiled to herself: in moments it would fly up and out of the building, locate the closest member of the Order of the Phoenix, and materialize into its usual form of a house cat – there to report on the situation and ask for help.

She felt a tug on her sleeve. She looked down to see Hope trying to catch her eye. Hope waited a second, then silently turning her gaze to the ceiling. As casually as she could, McGonagall turned to follow her gaze.

A silver streak was circling the rafters of the ceiling, searching for a means of escape. Of course. I should have realized, McGonagall chided herself as she quickly brought her eyes back down. This emergency will have brought the Gringotts security spells to full power. No messages can get out – we're on our own for the moment.

Although, she admitted grudgingly, it may be that Muriel will bring the situation under control. For the elderly witch was still in her face-off with the leather-clad goblins – engaging them in angry debate but stopping just short of provoking them into action. The longer Manwaring could keep them occupied, the likelier that help would arrive.

Forgenail seemed to sense this, too. Impatiently he strode forward, spitting out a nasty-sounding Gobbledegook phrase that had to be an insult. At any rate, Manwaring reacted to it as such, gasping in surprise, swelling in angry indignation, and raising her hand to slap Forgenail's face.

With a savage, satisfied smile, Forgenail caught Manwaring's wrist as it came down, and dug his nails into her flesh – sharpened bronze nails, glued onto his fingertips. Blue-white energy sparked from his nails and around her hand. Manwaring yelped in pain and fell to her knees, bringing her head to the same level as the goblin's; she clawed frantically at Forgenail's grip with her free hand, to no avail.

"Enough of this!" Forgenail snarled, dismissing Manwaring's existence. "The time for talk is past! We will not be sidetracked by this Ministry lackey any further! You!" He pointed at one of the frozen-faced clerks. The clerk gave a start, as though released from a binding spell. "Take three more and go to the Eighth Level at once. Empty all the vaults and bring their contents to…" He looked around, considering quickly. "To the Directors' Vault," he concluded triumphantly.

A well-dressed witch who had been watching the proceedings, intently but quietly until now, cleared her throat in warning. Forgenail paid her no more attention than he did Manwaring.

Eighth Level… that includes the Potter vault, McGonagall realized with a start. Suspicions that had begun to form when they'd first entered the vault that day were gelling into certainties.

"But that's…" Hope began, apparently reaching the same conclusion as McGonagall. "But you can't! That's where my vault is!"

"'Can't'?" Forgenail gave a nasty laugh. "Who is there to stop us, infant? You?"

Hope hesitated, and McGonagall almost fancied she was listening to something. "So what's all your talk about thieves, then?" she demanded. "Or do goblin rules only apply when the thieves aren't goblins?"

McGonagall had never seen a goblin's face turn such a dark, furious green – had he been human, he would have been livid. Hope's words must have cut to the very heart of his race's morality. Where had she learned…?

She abruptly lost her train of thought as too many things began to happen at once:

Forgenail brought his silver whistle to his lips in a fury.

The witch who had tried to get Forgenail's attention stepped forward angrily, as did a young wizard from another part of the room.

Manwaring made another attempt to free her trapped wrist.

And Hope whipped out her wand, pointed it at Forgenail as he was about to blow into his whistle, and said in a voice of cold steel: "Expelliarmus!"

The whistle sailed from Forgenail's hand as he flew backward, to bowl into the group of rebel goblins. Several tumbled to the floor, Forgenail among them, as Manwaring collapsed where she knelt. Hope stepped over to Manwaring and tugged on her arm. "And don't call me 'infant'," she added sotto voce.

Under Hope's insistent tugging, Manwaring struggled to rise. She was almost to her feet when she glanced up and gave a shocked gasp. "Dear, look out!" she cried, pushing Hope away from her, just as the well-dressed witch fired a hex in their direction. The hex missed them both, and as Manwaring scrambled to one side, the witch turned to Hope and aimed her wand again. "Stupefy!"

Hope didn't scramble away – she stood her ground. "Protego!" she countered, and the hex was reflected back to shoot past the witch's ear. The witch ducked hastily and…

And that seemed to be the signal for a full-scale donnybrook to erupt. The rebel goblins were using every weapon in their arsenal to attack every human present in the bank. The humans (the ones who weren't screaming and running in circles, at any rate) were responding by firing spells – some were firing at the goblins, while amazingly, others were firing at fellow humans. The young wizard who'd come forward earlier was one of these; he was also yelling at the goblins. "You incompetents! Get to the vaults before it's too late!"

Meanwhile, the well-dressed witch was pressing her attack on Hope. Her curses were fast and powerful, but for the moment, they weren't well aimed: Hope was able to duck or block them all. McGonagall realized that Hope's charmed cloak must be responsible – its Aversion Charms made the child difficult to pin down.

McGonagall stepped forward to intervene… only to be knocked backwards by a spell from another source, a bulky middle-aged wizard from across the lobby. Winded, she painfully crawled behind a teller's counter to recover her strength. I cannot be getting too old for this, she told herself with some asperity, I'm not even a hundred…

She felt a hand take hers and drag her forcefully to safety. McGonagall looked up to see Brasslock scowling at her. "What is all this?" he demanded.

"Perhaps you should tell me," she shot back. "This has nothing to do with dissension at your Royal Court, does it?"

Brasslock's face gave nothing away. "Forgenail has never agreed with Gringotts policies," he admitted after a moment. "He's proposed stricter isolation any number of times, and has been voted down each time."

"Do you mean to say he's actually a director of this bank?"

At that, Brasslock's lips drew back in a rictus of disgust. "He was until today." It made a certain sense, McGonagall realized. Only a Gringotts goblin could command the bank's defenses.

On the other side of the counter, Hope continued to defend herself. The well-dressed witch was only one of her concerns – at the moment, for instance, another weighted net had flown from the ceiling and was trying to ensnare her. But Hope had an advantage no one else in the room could boast…

"Roll left – now!" commanded Harry in her ear. Hope unhesitatingly obeyed. The net smacked against the floor at the spot she'd just vacated. It seemed to be at a momentary loss as to what to do next… then it rose slightly, hovered for a split-second, and began to fly at her again. "Try Reducto," Harry told her.

"Reducto!" repeated Hope, and was gratified to see the net blasted into fragments. Out of pure instinct she kept moving… her eyes flicked back and forth, seeking the Headmistress… at a warning from Harry, she raised her Shield Charm in time to deflect a hex from the bulky wizard… she broke into a run and headed for the door leading to the conference room, thinking she might barricade herself inside…

The well-dressed witch appeared in front of her suddenly. Hope froze in surprise, unable to respond to Harry's urgent "Move!" The witch smiled – it was chillingly familiar somehow, that smile – raised her wand again, and fired a bolt of purple flame.

And just as suddenly as the witch had appeared, so did another figure – wearing the scarlet livery of Gringotts Bank, and topped with a mane of bright red hair. He hoisted Hope under one arm while he blocked the witch's curse…

… with his cane.

Hope reached over the arm holding her and returned fire at the well-dressed witch. "Expelliarmus! Stupefy!" The witch lost her wand, and had to dive into the conference room very quickly indeed to avoid being stunned in return. Hope squirmed around to look at her rescuer's face as he sprinted for cover. "DAD!? What are you doing here?!"

Ron Weasley managed a sickly smile for his daughter. "Looks like I'm rescuing you, dunnit?" His face looked leaner, and it was scarred just as Uncle Bill's face was – but at this close range, she now saw that the changes were done with simple makeup, not a glamour. No wonder he'd been able to get past the doorgoblin's scans for magical disguise!

There was so much Hope found herself bursting to say to him, but it would have to wait. For the moment she'd settle for holding on to him for dear life, and calling it a hug. "They're trying to get into my vault," she said quickly. "All of them, the goblins and those others. It even sounds like they're…"

Any pretense to a smile on Ron's face was quite gone. "Working together, yeah, I caught that. Petrificus totalus!" The goblin in their path stiffened and fell away. Ron glanced from side to side, and set Hope on her feet. "Stay close to me, princess. Not that you were doing all that badly…" There was a question in his voice that Hope postponed acknowledging.

Two Bludger-like spheres zoomed from a wall niche. Spikes sprouted out of them as they aimed themselves for Ron and Hope. Ron and Hope ducked in opposite directions, and came back together with almost choreographed precision as the spheres sped past them. "Impedimenta," instructed Harry in her ear, and Hope cast her spell at the same moment Ron cast his. Their twin spells hit the spiked spheres and froze them, immobilized.

"You can't win," called a human voice – the young wizard who'd shouted angrily at the goblins. He and another witch, dark-haired and pudgy, had their wands aimed at Ron and Hope, while the remaining goblin rebels put their whistles in their mouths, ready to blow. "Don't care how good you are, you're majorly outnumbered. If you keep fighting, someone's going to get hurt." He gestured at the bulky wizard, who had his wand at the throat of a sobbing teenaged witch. The remaining humans who were still conscious looked too scared to move.

"And if anyone does get hurt, you'll never get out of here," Ron called back. "What in Merlin's name do you think you're going to accomplish? Even if you get all the gold in the vaults, where can you go with it? A bit much to carry in your pockets, even if you shrink it."

"Oh, there are ways," said the young wizard, arrogant and confident. "You should worry less about us getting out, and more about yourself. Help won't be coming – not through those doors," he added smugly.

Hope and Ron glanced at each other, and seem to share the same thought. "Put that way…" Ron said.

"Easy to fix," Hope agreed, and as one they raised their wands to the massive Gringotts doors. "Reducto!" they cried together.

The doors exploded thunderously outwards. Sunlight streamed into the foyer through the cloud of dust. Beyond the ruins of the doors could be seen Diagon Alley, where a crowd of humans was gathered, peering in anxiously.

From the ceiling, a silver streak flashed through the now-opened doors and was gone from sight. No one noticed its departure… least of all the goblin rebels and their human allies. They stood in shock, all but petrified, as Ron and Hope lowered their wands and traded a quick, triumphant grin. "That – that is not possible!" choked Forgenail at last. "Our wards – Gringotts security is impenetrable –!"

"From the outside," came a new voice, and Bill Weasley (the real one this time) leaped over the debris in the doorway. Before anyone could react, he slid a device from his tool belt, square and metallically black. He held it over his head, and pressed a button. A klaxon sounded, and Bill swept the device to cover the entire room. Refastening the device to his belt, with a wolfish grin he brought out a silver whistle identical to Forgenail's.

Forgenail eyed it with mixed fear and outrage. "You could not have… that is for directors only…!"

"I've worked on the security here for years… credit me with knowing something about it." Bill brought the whistle to his lips. "Care to find out?"

With that as her cue, McGonagall rose from behind the teller's counter to lay down a rapid barrage of hexes. The attack from the unexpected quarter caught their opponents off-guard. One hex hit the bulky wizard in his wand hand – he cried out in pain as it was Engorged to the point that he couldn't lift it. His teenaged hostage promptly elbowed him in the stomach and darted away. One of the remaining humans, emboldened by the sudden turn, cast a Shield Charm over the teenager as she made for cover.

"Spread out," Harry whispered, and Hope started to obey.

"Stay next to me, bright eyes," said Ron, pulling her closer. He used his cane's built-in Shield Charm to deflect a curse from the dark pudgy witch, and returned fire at her. Hope, trying to reconcile her fathers' wishes, compromised by staying close to Ron, but standing back to back with him. "Sorry," she whispered.

Harry didn't answer immediately. "D'you know Levicorpus?" he asked after a moment. "It's a nonverbal spell, just use your wand…"

More people were coming into the building through the ruined doors: a squad of Magical Law Enforcers, led by Aurors Tonks and Featherstone. They pressed against the foyer walls for cover and sent Stunners at the goblins rebels. Caught in a crossfire, the goblins lost their heads: some threw themselves onto the floor, hands over their heads in a bid for mercy, while Forgenail and the remainder of the rebels ran out of the lobby through the door leading to the underground vaults.

The young wizard, his arrogance gone, tried to follow them – but found himself unexpectedly dangling by one foot in mid-air. Hope nodded in satisfaction.

A final blast from Tonks Petrified the dark pudgy witch in her tracks. "Sonorus! Now listen up, all of you!" Tonks barked as the fighting died down. "I'm Special Auror Tonks, and I want every human in the bank to line up against that wall, now!" She gestured with her wand, as Featherstone and the Enforcers took their stations throughout the lobby. Tonks cancelled the spell on her voice and added, "Except for you, Weasleys. You're with me."

*

"We owe you no gratitude," said Brasslock. "You were merely doing your jobs… and we did not ask for your help."

They had retired to Brasslock's office: McGonagall, Tonks, Bill, Ron, and Hope. Manwaring was outside giving a statement to Featherstone; the Enforcers were doing the preliminary questioning of all the human witnesses, as mediwizards from St. Mungo's attended the injured. Meanwhile, three human captives – Forgenail's human allies – lay Stupefied in one of Gringotts's more secure chambers.

Ron sat with shoulders hunched and hands clasped tightly together, trying not to give way to the shakes that usually hit him after a battle. Hope knew what her Dad needed – or more accurately, who he needed – but didn't know what to do about it. Helplessly she reached out and tried to pry his hands apart, tried to wrap her hand around his.

But it was Brasslock's pronouncement that brought Ron's attention back into focus. "Tell me again how it's my job to pull your chestnuts out of the fire."

"You were here impersonating one of our employees," Brasslock pointed out acidly. "And destroyed our main doors as well. By rights, I should have you charged with breaking and entering! Criminal trespass!"

Bill raised a placating hand as Ron was about to explode. "You may not have formally asked for our help, sir, but we were still glad to give it. And you must admit it proved useful."

Brasslock grimaced. "Perhaps."

"Then perhaps you can give us some aid in return," said McGonagall, "by answering some questions. Such as why your fellow director tried to take over Gringotts by force."

"And where he and his cronies are now," Tonks added.

"By now, they are probably well on their way out of the country. You saw them escape into the underground tunnels… from there, they could blast their way to the surface. As Weasley so disastrously proved, our defenses can be broken from the inside. As for why?" The goblin shrugged. "I've already told you that Forgenail has disagreed with our policies…"

"Enough to foment another goblin rebellion? Rather a violent disagreement, surely." McGonagall tapped her chin as she regarded him. "I find it suspicious that one of the first vaults Forgenail wanted to raid was Miss Potter's vault."

"No more suspicious than the fact that your human thieves wanted the same," retorted Brasslock.

"Human thieves might well be after Miss Potter's gold, but why would goblins? Surely Koboldheim could provide all the gold any goblin would need." McGonagall gave a most Hermione-like sigh at Ron's look of confusion. "Koboldheim, Professor Weasley, is the goblins' ancestral home, and where the Royal Family holds court."

"Binns never covered that," muttered Ron defensively. McGonagall didn't reply, but the skeptical look on her face was eloquent.

The door opened a crack and Featherstone stuck her head into the room. "Chief, we've had a new development," she told Tonks. "Our three yobbos are changing shape… they were under Polyjuice Potion. Too soon to tell for sure, but I think the fat one's Avery."

"Be right there," said Tonks, and turned to the goblin as Featherstone withdrew. "This just keeps getting better and better. Care to tell me how three Polyjuiced Death Eaters got into Gringotts undetected?"

For once, Brasslock was visibly shaken. "I… I cannot imagine…"

"Forgenail," said Hope unexpectedly. "We were all scanned at the front doors when we came in… but what if Forgenail brought them in through a private door? Or just told the doorgoblin that they were with him, and not to bother scanning? I mean, if he was a director and all…"

"That'd be it," nodded Tonks. "And maybe Death Eaters would've wanted gold, Brasslock, but I've got another thought on that. I'm betting their main objective was to shut down Gringotts." She nodded to McGonagall. "It's like you said, Professor: they're going after our institutions. If Gringotts closed, there'd be panic in the streets." Tonks stood and walked to the door. "Hell, even if people only thought they couldn't trust it any more, it'd serve Bellatrix's agenda as well," she offered as a parting shot.

On that note, Tonks opened the door and left the room to deal with her prisoners – but as she left, her eyes fell on Hope, still trying to take her father's hand. Hiding a sly smile, she made her way through the bank; she caught the notice of one of the Enforcers in the lobby and gave a quick order before she continued on her way.

Back in his office, Brasslock seemed more struck by Tonks's remark on trust than by anything else. "I'd remind you all that today's incident was orchestrated by a few dissidents," he said. "Of course Gringotts Bank will stay open... and of course we will do what we can to prove ourselves worthy of wizards' trust. As we have for hundreds of years," he added pointedly.

"It's a valid point," conceded McGonagall. "For all my lifetime, Gringotts has been synonymous with security."

"Speaking of security," put in Bill, "when will the wards be reduced to normal strength?"

"It requires directorial authority to oversee the wards. It seems I must deal with them myself: Gnatooth is currently occupied with your Enforcers, and our remaining directors are in South Africa this week. So if you will excuse me…?" Brasslock gave the assembled humans a slight bow before retreating through a side door. He maintained a dignified, autocratic stride that was, nonetheless, just short of a run.

Turning to Ron, Bill explained, "You haven't tried to go home yet. Don't bother: until Brasslock's done, you won't get in. The wards on our houses are based on the same magic as the Gringotts wards, remember? I couldn't get into my own home until Fleur let me in…"

Ron sighed heavily. "Which means she knows you borrowed her cosmetics to help me look more like you?" He ran his fingers through his longer-than-usual hair. "And if Fleur knows, the entire Red Hennery probably knows…"

"All on the remote chance that you might see Hope, in express violation of Ministry decree," accused McGonagall, her voice frosty. "Professor Weasley, you've put me in an impossible position."

"Yeah, well, I won't tell if you don't." As McGonagall's eyebrows rose to dangerous levels, Ron added, "Besides, you didn't say Hope would be at the bank today, so you can't take any blame. I came here on my own today, er, pretending to be Bill because, er…"

"Because you lost our bet, loser," Bill put in smoothly. "You had to try to do my job for one day, if I won. I keep telling you not to back the Cannons, but hey…"

"Right. I lost a bet." Ron nodded and managed a smile for McGonagall. "That's our story, and we're sticking to it."

"Oh, Ronald. I thought you'd learned to control your gambling impulses," came Luna's voice from the door. "If I had a Sickle for every time you've bet the Cannons would win… no, wait, that's right, I do have a Sickle for…"

"Oh, ha bloody ha," said Ron, with a completely unbelievable grumble in his voice. His face, his whole manner, had lit up when Luna entered the room. Luna came up to stand behind Ron's chair; one hand began to stroke his new mane of hair while the other wrapped itself around Hope's shoulder and squeezed her close. Hope leaned into her mum, for the moment utterly content.

McGonagall watched this family scene for a moment, and felt her frost slowly evaporating. "Very well then, Professor. It seems I must agree to your terms."

Ron blinked in confusion.

"I won't tell if you don't," McGonagall clarified, deadpan.

The door slammed open, and Brasslock strode angrily into the office with Manwaring trailing behind. "Weasley! What did you do to our wards?" he demanded of Bill. "That… that clumsy excuse for an Artifact," and he pointed at the square black device in Bill's tool belt, "has ruined them!"

Shaking his head, Bill took the device from his belt and offered it to the goblin. "No, sir, it shouldn't have. All it can do is fool the wards into thinking I'm a director… briefly. And it should only have affected the internal security charms, like the snares." He matched Brasslock's glare with a frank look of his own. "Those're the only ones I had a chance to examine, after all."

"Well, you did something, you…!" He swallowed whatever epithet he'd been about to use, and continued with a forced calm. "The outer wards aren't responding. I've reduced the vaults and inner defenses to normal security levels, but the outer wards remain on maximum alert. Which is just as well, seeing as our main doors have been demolished…" Brasslock transferred his glare to Ron.

Ron glared back. "Gee, any chance that someone else might've tampered with your bleedin' wards? Someone planning to take over the Bank, maybe?"

"If you mean Forgenail, say so."

"We already know he had, what'd you call it? 'Directorial authority to oversee the wards.' No one else would've been as well placed to fix them so that only he could turn them on or off."

"Forgenail must have planned and prepared for today's events well in advance, then," said McGonagall. "Which does bring us back to the question of what he hoped to gain."

"Oh, I should have thought that was obvious," Luna said brightly. "Poplolly, didn't you mention something about all the strange silver gadgetry in your vault? The items that Harry inherited from Professor Dumbledore?"

Not since that dinner at the Burrow twelve years ago – when Hermione had matter-of-factly announced to the Weasley family that she and Ron weren't returning to Hogwarts, preferring to join Harry in a top-secret suicide mission, thanks all the same – had Ron seen a single remark so utterly flabbergast an entire room. Brasslock and Manwaring were doing remarkably similar impressions of goggling goldfish; Hope and Ron had turned to stare at Luna in amazement; Bill's face lit up with sudden enlightenment, before he began to frown in thought; and McGonagall, after a moment of surprise, watched Brasslock's and Manwaring's reactions with a tight little smile, as though confirming suspicions.

"I'd often seen those instruments in the Headmaster's office, when Albus was Headmaster," she began. "Indeed, they were there back when I was a student, and Dippet was Headmaster. And I suspect they'd been there long before him, as well – they were dusty enough. Since the 18th Century, perhaps?"

The goblin gave McGonagall a resentful look, but said nothing.

"They've always struck me as extraordinarily well-crafted devices," McGonagall continued. "Artifaction is the goblins' special manifestation of magic, is it not?"

"Wait half a mo…" Bill looked from Brasslock to McGonagall and back. "18th Century… the last major goblin riots were back then, weren't they? Professor, are you suggesting…?"

"If some goblin Artifacts had been confiscated at the end of the uprising," McGonagall pointed out, "where would they be taken for safekeeping? The two safest places in the wizarding world are Gringotts and Hogwarts…"

"And in this case, I reckon Gringotts would be right out," finished Ron. He turned in his seat to confront Manwaring. "You knew this, didn't you?! That's why the Ministry's been so damned eager to get its hands on Harry's inheritance!"

"They are ours!" burst out of Brasslock. "They have always been ours! Your Headmasters may have guarded them, but it was always understood that they would one day be returned to us – not bequeathed to a, a schoolboy, no matter how heroic!"

Outside the open door, several Gringotts goblins were gathering. Ron didn't notice them, or he might have moderated his voice. "Harry saved the goblins' arses as much as he saved humans'…" he shouted hotly.

"We know that! It was only for that reason that we allowed Harry Potter to keep custody of our property! Do you imagine goblins don't know exactly what is owed to them, and what they owe?" Brasslock looked up at Manwaring. "But those Artifacts were never yours," he finished, his voice falling to a whisper.

"The devices were justly confiscated…" Manwaring started to say.

"Stolen!" Brasslock screamed. There was an ugly murmur of agreement from outside the office.

Hope interrupted. "What do the things do?"

Everyone stared at the girl. She shrugged. "Father never used them against Lord Voldemort… doesn't that mean he didn't know what they can do? It's not like they came with instruction manuals or anything."

Brasslock inhaled deeply. In measured tones he replied, "Each Artifact has its own unique purpose."

"Are they safe? I mean, safer than Weasley Wizard Wheezes, at least? If they are, I wouldn't mind giving them back to you." She looked at Luna and Ron. "Er, I could do that, couldn't I?"

"Returning stolen property is always the right thing to do, anchorling," Luna told her with a pleased smile.

"They were not stolen," hissed Manwaring. "The Ministry of Magic had just put down a rebellion, the devices were obviously a danger, and they were legitimately seized. How you can even think of letting them be used against humans again…!"

Hope nodded, then looked Brasslock square in the eye. "Are they safe?" she repeated.

Brasslock didn't reply. Hope's lips twitched as though she were suppressing a smile. "You don't know what they do either, do you?" she asked.

"It shouldn't matter," snapped Brasslock, nettled. "Every human walks into our Bank carrying a lethal weapon, and we are forced to permit it. Yes," he interjected snidely at Manwaring before she could speak, "we know, all in accord with the law – human law. Goblins smile and allow humans to flaunt the wands we aren't permitted."

"I'm sorry," Hope said humbly. Brasslock paused in mid-diatribe and eyed her appraisingly. Hope returned his gaze, seemingly oblivious to the surprised murmurings of the goblins standing outside.

Luna put in, "There isn't a great deal Hope can do about wizarding law today. But she can do something about the things in her vault…"

"Hmmph," said Brasslock.

"Perhaps, before we can decide anything, we could learn what the devices are for," McGonagall contributed. "Once that's done, and if they are determined to pose no hazard, it shouldn't be a problem to transfer custody to the Court at Koboldheim."

Slowly, Brasslock nodded. "That might be feasible," he conceded. "We will have to bring out Master Artificers from the Royal Academy to examine the devices. We might even consent to having one or two of your Unspeakables present. Yes, yes, this might do well…"

Manwaring looked obstinate, but her protests were cut short when Auror Featherstone appeared in the doorway. Almost immediately, the group of eavesdropping goblins dispersed. "If you're all done in here," she announced, "we need a few more statements and I.D.'s before we're finished."

The humans were leaving Brasslock's office when Bill, who had been silent for minutes, stopped short and smacked his forehead. "OVERSEE!" he bellowed. "Of COURSE!!" He spun on his heel and, seizing Ron's arm, strode angrily back into the office, Luna and Hope in tow. Brasslock looked up in astonishment as Bill slammed the door shut.

None of them had ever seen Bill so blindingly furious. He and Charlie had always been the best-natured of the Weasley clan – even the werewolf attack, so many years before, hadn't changed his basic good nature. Now a feral snarl twisted his lean face, and the werewolf's scars stood out lividly.

"Oversee," he said again, this time in a voice soft but throbbing with controlled anger. "Oversee the wards."

Instinctively, Brasslock took a step backwards. He didn't take his eyes from Bill's face. It took him a moment before he could say cautiously, "No harm has been done, I promise you. But our first priority must be to look out after our race's best interests." His eyes flicked to Hope in appeal. "Your mother would agree, I'm sure."

It took another moment for Hope to understand. When she did, her words exploded out of her mouth at the goblin. "You know about Mother? How? Nobody knows about – oh Merlin! Do you have her? Is that why she's gone missing? Mum…!"

"No, no, Hope, don't worry, she's safe," Luna assured her soothingly. "She's perfectly safe. I collected her from your room where you'd hid her. I also told your father about her… it seemed only right that he know."

"And that was our mistake," said Bill tightly. He pointed a finger at Brasslock, who looked distinctly worried. "Directorial authority to oversee the wards. The wards you so graciously installed at Ron's and my homes. You could oversee them. As in, monitor them. As in…"

"Spy on us!?" Ron yelled, finally cottoning. "My God, that's how everyone knew Hope was Harry's heir! I wondered how the Ministry could know, just days after her birthday – because you heard her announce it herself, on her birthday!"

"The… the Ministry was trying to claim the Potter estate," said Brasslock, nervously backing away from two enraged Weasleys. "We had to produce a legitimate heir…"

"The Phoenix meeting…" growled Bill.

"Only I monitored that! I told no one!" the goblin cried, now truly frightened. "On the head of my father, I swear!"

Bill said nothing, letting the silence grow painful. "You will take me to your ward runes, now," he finally said, softly menacing. "And you will show me exactly how they work. And together we will restore them to normal strength. And we will make sure you can never again listen in on us. You will do this, or you can kiss your precious Artifacts good-bye."

Brasslock gulped. "Agreed. It, er, it will still take a day or two… I don't know what Forgenail might have done to them. You will still be locked out of your homes until then," he added, with an apologetic bob to Luna and Hope. "I would count it a privilege to pay for your lodging until then…"

"Mum," said Hope, and then paused as if listening. She turned white. "Mum, where's Mother?"

"I told you not to worry, dear, she's safe," Luna said. "I left her at home today… I wasn't anticipating all this excitement. But it's not as though anything can happen to her there, with the protective spells so strong…"

"No! We have to get her, now! We have to save her! Before it's too late!"

"We can't get to her, Hope, weren't you listening?" Ron said impatiently. "Our house is sealed. Can't Apparate in, can't Floo in, can't break down the door… even house elves can't get inside. What's the problem?"

"But Forgenail can! And the problem…" Hope hesitated, then said (using words she'd undoubtedly learned from Ron), "Oh bugger all." She unfastened her Cloak of Anonymity, swung it from her shoulders, and turned the hood inside out.

Harry waited for a second, barely allowing enough time for his existence to register, before he replied grimly, "The problem, Ron, is that Tonks said three."

12. XII

(A/N: Well, most of you have been waiting patiently for this chapter, and here's where patience is rewarded. That's all I'm sayin' for the moment.

Mary Caroline, as usual, has been my beta, and any errors of omission or commission that remain are strictly my own fault.)

(Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. Oh, I have my own opinions about how what should happen to them in the Seventh Book, but so have we all.)

***************************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

10 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

Headmistress McGonagall was loitering.

To be sure, had anyone asked her directly, she'd point out in perfect accuracy that she was an eyewitness to the attack on Gringotts; that she was helping the Magical Law Enforcement agents sort out the various testimonies; that she was waiting while the Healers dealt with more serious injuries than hers… but truth be told, she was loitering. After Bill Weasley had hauled his younger brother back into Brasslock's office and closed the door so firmly behind them, she was very interested indeed in seeing what would emerge.

There was a reason, after all, that her animagus form was a cat.

Unobtrusively she glanced over as the door opened abruptly. Bill Weasley and Brasslock walked quickly out of the office, heading down the corridor, obviously intent on some errand. Luna Weasley followed them for a few steps, saying as she walked, "I know you'll both do what you can. Do please try to work quickly – in fact, if it's faster to bring them down completely and rebuild them later…"

"Yes, Luna, thank you, Luna, we know," Bill shot over his shoulder, as the goblin director stopped before a small side door and brought out a ring of ornate iron keys. He opened the door, led Bill inside, and closed and locked it after them. Luna watched them leave, completely unconcerned about giving advice to experts. With a shake of her head, she turned and went back into Brasslock's office…

…where Ron Weasley was lying on the floor, out cold.

Hope was kneeling by his side, worriedly shaking his arm. "Erm, Dad, wake up? Dad? Mum, is he all right…?"

"I think so, nightingale. Your father's always been a bit off after combat, you know… I remember the first time I ever saw him fight, in my fourth year, he acted quite peculiar, although that may have been because of the curses that hit him. Hummm…" Luna knelt beside Hope and drew her wand from her pocket. "Ennervate!"

She waited until she saw him begin to stir, then leaned down and licked his nose. Ron's eyes jerked open as he gave a sort of coughing snort. "Wha-wha!?"

"I would have let you continue dreaming," Luna said apologetically, "but time is pressing." McGonagall wondered briefly how Luna knew Ron was dreaming, then decided she didn't need to know.

"We have to find some other way of getting into our home, and that quickly," continued Luna. "William and Brasslock are seeing what can be done about the wards, but they might take some time."

"There…" Ron sat upright, rubbing the back of his head. "There isn't another way of getting into our home, Good Love, remember? It's sealed tighter'n a drum. We'll, uh, just have to wait 'til Bill's done. And let's try to stay calm 'til then… remember, we aren't sure how urgent it is…"

"But Dad! We can't take the chance! Forgenail could already be there! And Mother…" Hope's words stopped short as she noticed McGonagall through the open door. McGonagall immediately looked away, a touch of pink on her cheeks.

Easily, Luna caught the door with one hand and swung it. As the door closed, McGonagall could hear a few last words: "There might be another way, though. Ronald, I'm afraid it would mean you couldn't come along…"

*

It was odd that Hermione had never considered the matter before. But she now realized that portraits spent a lot of their time asleep.

Of course, she'd known that portraits slept at night, as living humans did – she'd lost count of the times she'd had to awaken the Fat Lady to be let into the Gryffindor common room – but more than that, portraits would go dormant if they didn't receive enough mental stimulation. Portraits needed that stimulation, she now knew: needed to talk, to interact, to be helpful. Really, it wasn't as though there was much else for portraits to do. She'd gone dormant in the years before she'd been delivered to Hope… and again, more recently, when Hope had hidden her away in a drawer.

So here she was, tucked inside Luna's purse, fighting desperately to keep her mind active.

Luna had left her here while she paid a visit to Fleur (Hermione had asked to taken along, so that the Weasley clan could be made aware of her existence, but no). Thank goodness the purse was still perfectly transparent from the inside: she could at least see the entire room from her spot on the coffee table. She'd spent the hours amusing herself by playing Sherlock Holmes, deducing the characters of the house's inhabitants solely from the contents of the living room.

A niche by the fireplace, holding a pot of powder – must be magical folk. A whole shelf of books on brooms and Quidditch, including "Flying With The Cannons" – must be at least one Quidditch fanatic. The Quidditch shelf is disorganized and messy, unlike the rest of the room, which is tidy – the Quidditch fanatic must be male, but a female lives here too. She's interested in, shall we say, exotic magizoology, judging by her shelf of books. And two mirrors in the room – concerned about her personal appearance, perhaps?

Not many photographs on the walls. One of an older gentleman, I'd guess it must be Luna's father. One of Hope, Ron and Luna together… another of Hope and Luna alone. A photo of the Weasley family, complete with spouses and children. Mmm, exactly one photo with me in it; I recognize it. Colin took it back when we were all at Hogwarts: with Ron and I in the center surrounded by our fellow Gryffindors. Harry's not in that picture… in fact, I don't see a picture of Harry anywhere in the room.

Hope hasn't told me how you died, Harry, or how I died… only that we died together. Is the real Hermione with you in heaven, beloved? God of all mercy, please let it be so, amen. I miss you, Harry, I never thought I'd miss you so much… Hermione felt tears collect in her eyes, and tried to move her mind to less maudlin thoughts.

She was startled by a sudden, harsh warbling that seemed to echo from the walls of the house. An alarm of some sort? I don't see any danger… Nonetheless, she spent a few minutes scanning the room for any suspicious changes. No danger seemed imminent, and she began to relax again.

Two hours later, the danger materialized. Literally.

With a series of snaps quite unlike standard Apparation, several dust-clad figures appeared in the room. Hermione suppressed a gasp as she realized they were goblins… and another gasp when she saw that one of them wasn't goblin, but human.

One of the goblins carried a shallow square tray; it held what looked to be irregularly shaped black tiles, about a dozen or so. Hermione immediately recognized them from her Ancient Runes classes at Hogwarts: runestones. Her classes had never discussed using them in this way, however…

The goblin plucked two runestones out of the pattern and switched them. "Back to full strength now," he said, and hacked a cough. "We won't be followed any time soon." He set the tray on the coffee table, next to the purse.

"Good," said the human – a witch about thirty years old, in stylish clothes that were somewhat the worse for wear. It looked as though she'd been crawling through dirt, or underground – as indeed, they all did. Like the goblin, the witch coughed, hacked, and tried to clear her throat of dust. Then she swept her wand theatrically around the room and cried, "Accio portrait!"

Sweet Merlin, they're here for me!

Hermione couldn't help cringing. She expected to be pulled out of the purse and fly to the witch's waiting hand… but nothing happened. An Anchoring Charm? she wondered. To counter the Summoning Charm? Luna said Hope had used one when she tried to hide me in her room, a few days ago… I suppose Luna could have used one on her purse. As long as this woman doesn't try Alohomora…

"Nothing," said the goblin contemptuously. "So much for you humans' precious wands. Are you sure there must be a wizarding portrait here?"

"Try to remember that you had no idea of what's been happening here, this last year and a half, Forgenail," the witch replied coldly. "You had to come to me for an explanation, didn't you? From your descriptions of who's said what, a portrait's the only explanation." She turned to the other three goblins, who had so far remained silent. "Search the entire house," she ordered them. "Tear the place apart if you must. You're looking for a painted portrait, flat, probably framed."

"How big?" asked one of the goblins.

The witch hesitated. "If it's like most wizarding portraits," she said after a second, "about so by so." She moved her hands in the air to describe a rectangle two or three feet on a side. Hermione smiled. That was much larger than her own portrait; they'd be looking in the wrong places.

Two of the goblins headed up the stairs to begin searching there; the third went to the kitchen. The sound of breaking wood started immediately. The witch smiled to hear it, then gave a quick grimace. She reached into a pocket of her robes and pulled out a stoppered vial. She uncorked it, sniffed at it, and tossed it aside. "Empty. Well, it's not as though I need it any more…"

"I still don't see why we are wasting precious time," said the goblin called Forgenail, "when we could be making our way to Koboldheim. What's so special about this portrait?"

The witch grimaced again, more strongly, and pressed her hand to her stomach. "The girl was brilliant," she said at length. "She worked with Dumbledore. She has the information we need." She spent a minute in a vain attempt to brush the dirt off her clothes… more to gather her thoughts than with any hope of being clean.

When she looked at Forgenail again, she wore a sly smile. "Come now, my ally," she said softly. "Just imagine how the balance of power will shift at the Royal Court – shift in your favor – when you arrive bearing these prizes. The very fear that you might use them to your advantage will be enough. You will gain prestige, influence…"

Forgenail cut her off with a slicing gesture. "Yes, you paint a pretty picture. Don't think I've forgotten." He examined the tray of runestones, then twisted one minutely. Hermione studied the arrangement of the runestones, trying to commit it to memory.

"Nor have I forgotten our covenant… ally," the goblin continued. "Your use of our Artifacts will benefit us both. You get what you want… and by showing the Artifacts can be used, my bargaining position becomes that much stronger." He met the witch's gaze levelly. "Still, I would remind you that we don't have the Artifacts as yet."

"We will." The witch spoke with absolute confidence.

The goblin nodded. "As you say. I trust that your new plan will prove more successful than your last."

"Once we have Granger's portrait in hand? Oh yes." The witch stepped to the wall, unaffected by Forgenail's sardonic tone, to look at the photo images of Hope and Luna. They looked back at her warily, the smiles slipping from their faces. "You must have heard it when you listened to them. The brat dotes on this portrait of her mother. Given a choice between it and the items in her vault – that she's had for barely a week, and doesn't understand in any case – which do you think she'll choose?"

There was a resounding crash from upstairs. Hermione guessed that one of Hope's bookshelves had been thrown to the floor. She concentrated on picturing the damage the goblins must be doing, preferring that to the image of herself held hostage by this woman. Who was she? And what vital information did she think Hermione knew?

"Hist," said Forgenail suddenly. He laid three fingertips delicately on the runestone pattern, concentrating, as though listening. He then looked up at the witch. "We're about to have visitors… attempted visitors, I should say. We've a few seconds before they arrive. I could strengthen the wards… set them to kill…"

The witch smiled broadly. "No! No, get ready to open the wards and close them again. This is perfect." She raised her voice. "All of you! Get back in here, now!"

The goblin underling entered from the kitchen, his face a sullen mask. Hermione guessed he wasn't used to being bossed around by a human; she wondered why Forgenail, who seemed to lead these goblins, permitted it.

"Stand on either side, there, and be ready," the witch ordered, as the remaining two goblins came down the stairs. She gestured at the fireplace, from which a low whooshing sound was coming. Floo travelers, thought Hermione, beginning to panic. Who would have to include the only member of this house who can't Apparate yet… No!

There was a rush of green flames in the fireplace. Faintly Hermione heard a voice say, "Oh dear. I'm sorry, urchin, it looks like Floo access is still blocked…"

"Now!" hissed the witch. Forgenail removed one of the runestones from the tray. The witch flicked her wand at the green fire. "Accio!"

With a sliding thump, Luna and Hope fell out of the Floo and onto the floor. Immediately the goblins grabbed them – one on each of Luna's arms, the third holding Hope by both elbows – and roughly hoisted them to their feet. Forgenail restored the runestone to its place.

"No, I take it back," Luna said cheerfully. "It wasn't blocked after all. Well, it probably is now, I suppose." She didn't seem to object to the goblins holding her arms.

Hope certainly objected to hers. She yanked one arm free and used it to wrap her cloak around her. Its mild Aversion Charm wasn't doing any good at the moment, with everyone's attention focused so strongly on her, but the act of wrapping it seemed to comfort her.

"Why, hello there," said the witch genially. "So good to meet you again, child. I was hoping we could continue our little dialogue from earlier today."

Hope didn't reply. Her features had gone as blank as Hermione had ever seen them.

The witch gestured with her wand. "Accio wands," she murmured, and looked somewhat surprised when no wands appeared. She smiled slightly at that.

"Hope, dear, were you having a discussion today?" asked Luna, blithely unconcerned that they'd been shown to be without wands. "I didn't think you two knew each other."

"Well, actually," smiled the witch, "I've known her since the day she was born…" She closed her eyes and turned to one side, as a spasm racked her body. "Ugh… I hate this part," she added, remarkably calm as her face began to melt and transform. Hermione recognized the symptoms: those of Polyjuice Potion finally wearing off. It should have been extremely painful, but the witch seemed used to pain; she bore it stoically, giving only a final gasp as the transformation ended. Then she turned to face Luna and Hope again.

Hermione remembered that face all too well, from the battle in the Department of Mysteries. Bellatrix Lestrange had changed since that day, in ways far more profound than simply losing her Azkaban gauntness. Her skin looked tighter and duller, almost waxen, and her cheeks and brow were indefinably distorted. But what caught the eye was a long, blood-red scar, running from her hairline to her upper cheek. It looked ready to ooze thickly, as though it had never fully healed – small wonder the woman could bear the pain of the Polyjuice.

"There," Bellatrix announced. "Much better. Now we can talk more openly. I'm hoping you'll agree to a small favor I need to ask from you." Her smile was colder now, and supremely self-assured. "You have a portrait of Hermione Granger. I want it."

"I don't…" Hope clamped her lips together.

"You do. Please don't try to lie to me. Oh, I'll want your Gringotts vault, too, but first I want the portrait."

"Really?" asked Luna, all interest. Hermione was pleased to note that Luna's eyes hadn't once glanced in the direction of her purse. "Now that's not what I'd have expected. I know why Hope wants the portrait, it's of her birth mother. But you do know, don't you, that Hermione's parents were Muggles?" She shook her head in wonderment. "I can't imagine why you might want a picture of a 'Mudblood'." The quotation marks were clear in her voice.

"Actually, you can. You're one of the few who can," said Bellatrix. "You were there, after all… according to my reports."

Luna blinked. She was honestly puzzled now.

Bellatrix sighed and turned to Hope. She spoke almost gently. "Many years ago, when Dumbledore was still alive, he and the Ministry became enemies… and the Ministry may be incompetent, then and now, but they still outnumbered him, and he was forced into hiding. So with Granger's help, he built a weapon – a weapon designed to bring the Ministry down. But even Dumbledore couldn't have built a weapon so powerful, in so short a time – unless he started with goblin weapons. The ones taken from the goblins after their last rebellion. The ones kept in safekeeping by the Headmasters of Hogwarts."

She crouched to bring her face on a level with Hope's. "The ones now in your vault."

I don't believe this, Hermione fumed. She's talking about my bluff with Umbridge, in her office! And Malfoy, that odious little toad Malfoy, told his aunt Bellatrix all about it. He must've been in contact with Bellatrix even then! And Bellatrix fell for my story just as thoroughly as Umbridge did. The… the idiots!

Her disgust became fear again. Bellatrix would never believe that there'd been no weapon, that she'd been lying that day because it was the only way to save Harry. She'd have to bluff again, this time to save Hope and Luna. But what could she say? She'd never even seen these strange goblin devices…

Bellatrix was still speaking. "So you see, my dear, I really need to talk to Granger. And I need you to give me your vault key. You can transfer that to me, you know, just by saying the words, and it will be magically binding."

Hope's eyes flicked to Forgenail, and her lips compressed further. Still a thief, her posture shouted.

With a sigh, Bellatrix rose. "I'd hoped to spare you this," she told Luna. "Your blood is pure… unlike hers." This, with a sneer at Hope. "Bad enough when we thought Weasley was her father. But the union of a half-blood and a Mudblood? A travesty of nature. Utterly unworthy of the magic she wields." A buried gleam of fanaticism flashed in her eyes at this last statement.

Bellatrix pointed her wand at Luna. "But, as my ally will tell you, the vault transfer isn't valid if done under physical coercion." With no warning, a fearsome snarl blossomed on her face. "Crucio!"

Luna screamed – a terrible, heart-rending cry, doubly so for coming from Luna – and collapsed to the floor. She writhed in agony and continued to scream as Bellatrix kept her wand trained on her. The two goblins who'd held her backed away, as if afraid the curse might affect them, too.

"Mum!! NOOOOO!!" Hope cried, and struggled to go to her. "Oh, let go of me!" she snapped over her shoulder to the goblin who still held her arm. "Mum!"

It was too much for Hermione. She had to call out, she had to stop this, she had to surrender herself to keep the Cruciatus Curse off poor Luna or, God forbid, Hope. She filled her lungs, opened her mouth…

… and a hand came out of nowhere, to clamp down on that mouth.

Furiously she whirled, ready to confront this intruder – it had to be another wizarding portrait, although that was impossible, she knew there were no others in the house – and froze at the sight of unforgettable green eyes, so dear to her, so close to hers. For a moment, her concern for Luna and Hope vanished utterly, replaced by a flood of longing such as she hadn't felt for months.

Before she could move, Harry put a finger over his lips, silently imploring her silence. Hermione blinked once in puzzlement, then once again in agreement; he took his hand from her mouth, grabbed her arm, and tugged. For the first time, she had the odd experience of moving beyond the boundaries of her portrait, and into another.

Meanwhile, Hope had finally broken free from her captor, and had flung herself onto Luna's prostrate form. "Stop it!" she screamed at Bellatrix. "You're hurting her!"

Bellatrix lowered her wand. "Well, yes, girl, that's the idea." Sweet sympathy filled her voice as she added, "It's your fault, you know. If you'd just hand over the portrait and the vault, your mother's pain will stop. Otherwise…" She raised her wand again, nonchalant, chillingly casual. "It's up to you."

"But I don't know!" cried Hope. "I don't know where Mother is! She's gone missing – it's the truth!"

"Oh?" Bellatrix considered Hope carefully, then turned to Luna. "But surely you know where the portrait is?"

Luna's face was almost unrecognizable. Its customary serenity had crumbled away: instead, it was taut and drawn, twisted by suffering, streaked with tears. Her entire body trembled as she raised her head.

But when she spoke, it was with her usual otherworldly calm. "I'm afraid I don't know, either. We've tried looking for it, but…"

"I heard you speaking with it just a few days ago," interrupted Forgenail. He looked at Bellatrix. "Enough of this. Torture them both. Sooner or later, one of them will talk." He grinned nastily and added, "Which means the other of them will have been tortured needlessly."

"You're lying," blurted Hope. "You said you couldn't take my vault key if I was, was coerced!"

Forgenail's smile broadened. "There are other ways into the Gringotts vaults – ways that not even my former fellow directors know. Do you think I don't know the bank's defenses from top to bottom?" He jerked his thumb at the tray of runestones. Not even his ally Bellatrix was prepared to call his bluff – if it was a bluff.

"Well?" Bellatrix still had her wand raised. "One last chance."

Fearfully, Luna began to crawl away from Bellatrix, towards the wall of the room. Bellatrix smiled and used the Cruciatus Curse, just a touch, on Luna's leg. She laughed as Luna collapsed to the floor again, reflexively drawing up her feet – trembling, nearly in a fetal position. Hope came up and hugged her, glaring at Bellatrix.

The move had brought them close to one of the room's mirrors: a full-length mirror propped against the wall. Luna started to uncurl, gave Bellatrix a pitiable beseeching look, and drew a shaky breath.

And before she could speak, the mirror gave two quick, low chimes in rapid succession. At the same moment, a voice spoke from the empty air. "Got her! GO!" Bellatrix gasped at the sound of that disembodied voice – the voice of a dead man, the murderer of her Lord.

Luna's entire attitude changed in a heartbeat from supplication to triumph. She tapped the frame twice with one hand as she grabbed Hope firmly with the other. The glass went transparent – to reveal Ron, standing with his wand drawn and ready, posed to attack.

If Bellatrix had already been surprised by the voice of Harry Potter, it was nothing compared to her shock at seeing her own mortal enemy before her. For one crucial instant, she stood frozen, trying to wrap her mind around the sudden turn of events – and Ron took full advantage of that instant. "Accio! Accio! Accio!"

The three Summoning Charms worked perfectly: Hope, Luna and the purse sailed through the air, through the Speaking Glass, and into the bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

Forgenail gave a wordless yell of anger – whether it was because his unbreachable wards had been breached, or because he saw his future flying out of his grasp, no one could tell. At any rate, his shout awakened Bellatrix from her paralysis. Her eyes flashed with pure hatred; her scar visibly pulsed. "You!" she spat, and aimed her wand.

"The name is Weasley," said Ron with a savage grin. He gestured again with his wand, and did the last thing Bellatrix expected him to do: he broke contact. The Speaking Glass became a simple mirror again.

"Weasley!!" roared Bellatrix. "Damn you, Weasley! Face me, you coward!" Furiously she cursed the Speaking Glass and blasted it into a thousand shards. "WEASLEEEY!!"

"Forget him!" snapped Forgenail. "We've lost! We need to leave this place now!" He began playing with the runestones, getting set to lower the wards.

"Not before I leave him my regards!" In blind anger at her frustration, Bellatrix began firing Reductor Curses randomly, destroying bookcases, pictures, furniture, everything within reach. "And perhaps some special surprises for when he returns… something that will wait for an appropriate moment to strike, yesssss… What was that?!"

From outside the house came a new voice, amplified by the Sonorus Charm. "Lestrange! Forgenail! This is Special Auror Shacklebolt! We have the house surrounded!"

"What? No!"

"What's more, we've covered the house in an Anti-Apparation jinx," Shacklebolt continued. "You're outnumbered, and you can't escape! Throw out your wand and surrender!"

"To be sent back to Azkaban?" Bellatrix muttered. "Never."

*

At number 12 Grimmauld Place, a double reunion scene was playing itself out. Ron had Luna in one arm and Hope in the other – Hope had both arms around Ron's neck, and Luna had hers around his waist – and The Hugging Contest To End All Hugging Contests was going into overtime. At the moment, Hope appeared to be in the lead, with a shivering Luna close behind. None of them said anything: words would only get in the way.

While within the folds of Hope's cloak, another reunion seemed to be overflowing with words. At least at first:

"Thank God you're safe It's you It's me How did you Dean painted me He painted me too Oh Merlin I've missed you I've missed you You're safe You're here We're here Don't leave Never I love you I love you more That's not possible Okay you're right It doesn't matter Right What matters is that we're here Right When I never thought I'd see you again Hermione Yes Shut up and kiss mmph Mm-hmmm Mmmmmmmmm…"

Words were in short supply after that.

*

Faced with a new crisis, Bellatrix was regaining her composure and her wits. She turned to Forgenail. "Keep your wards in place. In fact, if you still can, set them to kill. They'll never be able to get through them – we can hold them off indefinitely."

"A stalemate is not a victory." Forgenail was patently controlling his temper. Clearly, only the wand in Bellatrix's hand kept him and the other goblins from subduing the witch and tossing her to the Aurors outside. "And should Brasslock discover how to undo my modifications, the wards will be no defense at all!"

"Then we'll have to leave before then." Bellatrix thought for a long moment, her eyes never leaving her erstwhile allies. "You still have control over your wards?"

"For the moment, yes."

"Then expand them. Burst their Anti-Apparation spells apart. Once they're opened, we can leave…"

"Except the wards block Disapparation. That is what they're designed to do. And if I open the wards to allow us to Disapparate, your Aurors' spells will fall back into place." Reaching a decision, Forgenail barked a command in Gobbledegook to his minions. They moved to obey, albeit hesitantly.

Their hesitation cost them their lives. Three purple flames flashed from Bellatrix's wand and struck them in their chests. With resigned looks on their faces, as if this was the fate they'd always expected, the three goblin rebels fell dying to the floor.

Bellatrix whipped her wand around to cover Forgenail, whose hand was in his pocket. "Leave it there, ally."

Neither of them moved for a long-stretching moment. Forgenail broke the silence. "A stalemate is not a victory," he repeated, velvet-soft.

"Lestrange! Forgenail!" came Shacklebolt's voice from outside. "This is your last warning! Surrender now!"

She set her mouth grimly. "Very well, then. Expand your wards and break their spells. Then drop the wards on my signal. I'll Disapparate at the same moment… before their spells can fall back." She gave a Gallic shrug. "You can do the same, or you can surrender. Whatever you like."

Forgenail shook his head and gestured at the front door. "I choose not to risk it. Imprisonment is still better than death." At Bellatrix's scornful sneer, he pointed at the runestone tray. "Your timing would have to be perfect… nothing less than perfect. If you brush the wards at full power, human, you will die."

Bellatrix smiled confidently. "Oh, I don't think so. Dying is for lesser beings."

*

She hadn't known physical pleasure since she'd awakened. Now she was luxuriating in it, tasting Harry's mouth, running her hands through Harry's hair, welcoming the touch of Harry's hands on her waist, on her back, exploring her inch by inch. The sound of Ron's voice seemed light-years away… but, unfortunately, it did penetrate:

"Um, Harry? Hermione? You might try to remember that there's a minor present."

The minor was, in fact, watching them raptly, probably taking mental notes for later revising. Hermione reluctantly broke off kissing Harry, though she didn't let go of him. With one hand she made a futile effort to straighten her messier-than-ever hair. "Hope dear, did you…? How?"

Hope nodded happily as she began to unfasten the (now double) portrait from the inside of her hood. "When you said that Mr. Thomas spent that Christmas sketching everyone, I took a chance… and it worked!" She beamed at Hermione. "I thought it was the least I could do, after, you know, everything…"

Harry smiled. "Thanks, Hope," he said simply, but in a way that made Hope and Hermione blush.

"Never mind that now," said Ron impatiently. "What was up with Bellatrix? Am I going to have to join Kingsley and face her now?" He made to separate himself from Luna, but Luna refused to allow herself to be separated. It was an odd contrast, her calm visage versus the iron grip in which she desperately held onto Ron.

"Shacklebolt'll have things well in hand," said Harry. "For once, let's let the professionals do their job."

Ron nodded and tried to relax, but he continued to grumble. "I just know I'm gonna have to get Bill in to check for curses, now she's been in our home… So what happened?" He looked down at Luna, still shivering uncontrollably in his arms. "My Good Love?"

"Perhaps I should tell it," said Hermione, after Luna failed to reply. She gave a concise synopsis of Bellatrix's visit. As she spoke, Luna's trembling began to subside. "Luna took the Cruciatus Curse twice," she concluded. "But she wouldn't give me up. Thank you, Luna."

"What else could I do?" asked Luna. Hearing Hermione's dispassionate explanation had calmed her considerably – possibly it had touched the Ravenclaw in her. "She would have used you, as leverage over Hope – and to learn about your mythical 'weapon'. And she'd have destroyed you once she was done with you, I feel quite sure."

"And that would have been immediately, once she learned that the 'weapon' was a hoax. You know, Ron, that I made up that story about a weapon to fool Umbridge. Dumbledore would never use the goblins' Artifacts that way… he'd have considered them a sacred trust."

"Which doesn't mean they weren't weapons originally," put in Harry thoughtfully.

"We'll never know, I daresay," said Luna. "Even the goblins don't know what the Artifacts in Hope's vault can do."

"In the vault? Maybe not. But…" Harry looked around the room significantly. The others followed his gaze.

Until Hope's birthday, the master suite of the House of Black had remained undisturbed for eleven years. Ron had forgotten all the bric-a-brac, now heavily coated in dust, that filled the room – Dumbledore's Pensieve, and his old books, and boxes of potions, and… strange silver instruments.

"Bloody hell, Harry," Ron said at last. "You really think Dumbledore…?"

"I think Dumbledore had a reason he sent these Artifacts here, rather than to my vault," said Harry.

Luna nodded. "I think, little heiress, when you offer to share your vault with the goblins' Royal Court, you might limit your offer to the vault," she told Hope. "Well, these things do belong to her, don't they?" she added to the adults. "Perhaps later, we can all look them over. Together."

Hermione bit her lip and wrapped both arms around Harry again. Wordlessly, with a squeeze and a nod at Ron, she told Harry what she wanted to do. With an upward quirk of the corner of his mouth, he agreed.

"Perhaps we can, later," she said. "But for the moment, Luna, Hope, could Harry and I talk to Ron alone?"

"'kay," said Hope, handing the portrait to Ron. "Mum, does this, um, Place have a library?"

"I think a more important question is whether it has a kitchen," said Luna, and led Hope to the door. She paused to listen, wondering if she was right about what was to happen next.

"Ron," she heard Harry say, "did you know that Bellatrix has made a Horcrux?"

"I'd guessed it," Ronald admitted. "But you know it for sure?"

"I remember one of Dumbledore's Pensieve memories of Voldemort… before he changed completely. He had the same look. Still, I don't think she's made more than one."

"We need more information, before we can help you," Hermione said. "Ron – Harry and I need you to… we need you to tell us how we died."

Ronald didn't answer straightaway. "I can't take you into the Pensieve," he finally mumbled. "You're not, well, you're not…" Alive, he didn't finish.

"Well, you can give us all the details you saw in the Pensieve, with Hope and Luna," said Hermione, kindly but firmly. "But we need you to tell us, Ron."

Luna didn't wait to hear more. With a tiny smile, she shut the door behind her and led Hope down the stairs. She hoped the kitchen was magically self-stocking, otherwise there'd be nothing edible in it. And Ronald would certainly need something to eat, once his best friends were done helping him.

*

11 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

Ginny dropped the packages onto the coffee table, kicked off her shoes, and sighed in relief. She fell into the comfy-chair in her flat and let herself relax. Clan Weasley had celebrated her birthday at the Three Broomsticks, and for once she'd actually looked forward to it. Certainly after the momentous events of the day before. Why did everything seem to happen to Hope?

Well, Ron too. And Luna, come to that… She sighed again, not in relief this time.

Forgenail was in custody, awaiting extradition to Koboldheim. Bellatrix was, predictably, nowhere to be found. Bill, after working with Gringotts to repair their security, had gone to Ron's house to check for any clever curses that Bellatrix might have left behind. He was still checking, and until then Ron and Luna were guests at Ma Maison.

And Hope had been forced to return to Hogwarts. Sometimes Ginny thought a crateload of unhousebroken baboons could do a better job than the Ministry of Magic.

She felt the need for something stronger than butterbeer. A wave of her wand brought a bottle of well-aged mead and a glass from the pantry. She poured herself a drink, sipped it, and relaxed back into her chair.

Well, if today's Prophet were any indication, the Child Welfare Committee were going to find it very hard to take Hope from Ron and Luna permanently. Very hard indeed. Ginny got no small satisfaction out of that. Don't mess with Clan Weasley, fools. That goes for you too, Bellatrix.

She'd warned Ron about becoming a father-and-daughter media darling… but at least it was working to their advantage.

She took a larger sip of mead before setting her glass down and looking over her birthday presents. Most of them were the usual gifts she expected from her family – a knitted scarf from Mum, something from Fred and George that she'd wait to open until she could inspect it carefully, and (she had to laugh) a Speaking Glass from Ron and Luna.

And two quite unexpected gifts.

She picked up the first gift and opened the box again. The emerald necklace glittered at her, reminding her of Harry's eyes… but this time, bringing no tears to her own. It had been Hope's gift to her: she'd included Harry's scribbled For G's 17 note, with a card that said merely, He wanted you to have it.

"It's very nice," she'd said when she read Hope's card, "please thank Hope for me. It's just that… it's not quite the same, is it? Only I wish I could've heard Harry say so…" She'd noted Ron, Luna and Bill exchange a glance, but she couldn't fathom what it meant.

Setting the box down, she picked up the second gift. It was a framed sketch, done in pencil with charcoal highlights… a sketch of her, in her sixth year at Hogwarts. A birthday gift from, of all people, Dean Thomas.

Ginny gave a quirky half-smile, indulging in a moment of nostalgia. She of course remembered exactly when Dean had done that sketch – she'd always encouraged him in his art, and besides, she genuinely enjoyed modeling for him. But she was surprised when Angelina told her that Dean had kept every sketch he'd ever done of her – kept them all. And doubly surprised that Dean had remembered that this one was her favorite.

She picked up her glass and took a gulp.

Included with the framed sketch was a ticket to some Muggle art showing in London: Soho, or somewhere. Angelina had mentioned that Dean was a successful Muggle artist these days… was this one of his own showings, then? And he'd invited her?

He'd invited her.

Another large gulp of mead, and another, and Ginny stood. She carried the necklace into her bedroom and over to the dresser. Drawing out her wand, she tapped one drawer with its tip and whispered a password. The drawer unlocked with a quiet click, and she opened it smoothly. This drawer stayed locked at all times: she'd shown it to no one, told no living soul. Not her co-workers, not her family, not any of the men she'd brought home for an evening and then forgotten. None of them could possibly understand.

Inside the drawer was a collection of memorabilia. Clippings of every article that mentioned Harry's name, from the Daily Prophet, the Quibbler, Witch Weekly, many others; fragments of Harry's first broom, the Nimbus 2000, smashed to pieces by the Whomping Willow; a lock of raven-black hair, from a barbering session with Mum at the Burrow; a carefully preserved wildflower, which he'd picked by the lake and put behind her ear, that wonderful night they'd first kissed.

It was a shrine to Harry James Potter, the Chosen One, The Boy Who Lived.

The one item missing from the shrine was an icon. Ginny hadn't been able to find a photo of Harry, Harry alone: the photos had always included the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, or the other Triwizard Champions… or Ron and Hermione.

Delicately, she laid the emerald necklace into the drawer. "Thank you, Harry," she said to it softly. "It's beautiful. And very thoughtful, too… I'm so glad you remembered my birthday. I'll always cherish it." She sniffled. "And you."

In her mind's eye, she could see Harry smiling at her. Harry had always smiled at her, in her mental image of him. Tonight, for the first time, she could see that his smile was warm and friendly… but no more than that.

"But…" Ginny sniffled again. "But… you know…" She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and continued doggedly. "But I… I think I'll wait for an appropriate moment before I wear it. You understand, don't you, Harry? It's not like I could wear it to… to…" She had to swallow hard.

Harry nodded encouragingly.

"… to an art showing," she finished, and felt a great weight lift itself from her heart. Even though her cheeks were slick with tears, saying those words somehow released her. Or, at least, made a start.

Silently she shut the drawer, and locked it again with her wand.

*

20 August 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

"Well, this has been most enlightening," said Agatha Beldam, as she looked around at the other members of the Child Welfare Committee.

"Indeed it has," said Headmistress McGonagall. "I think we're all agreed that young Miss Potter has been well cared for, these last eleven years." She gestured at Ron and Luna, who sat across the hearing table from the Committee.

Muriel Manwaring sniffed in disbelief.

"The girl's been well fed, well clothed… all in a warm, loving, nurturing home," McGonagall elaborated.

"And learning to use some of the most dangerous magic possible," retorted Allan Goodlett. He was an elderly man who, had he been a Muggle, would have made the perfect village rector. "'Twas bad enough she was fighting Death Eaters at Hogwarts two years ago – but this is beyond acceptable!" He thrust the issue of the Daily Prophet away from him in disgust.

The paper was dated the day after the battle at Gringotts. Its headline screamed: "ASSAULT ON GRINGOTTS THWARTED!! Death Eaters, Goblin Rebels Captured!" Prominent on the front page was a photo taken by one of the spectators in Diagon Alley that day (and for which the Prophet must have paid through the nose). The photo looked from the street into Gringotts through its ruined front doors, to show Ron and Hope standing back to back, wands still poised, seconds after the doors had been blasted down. And the photo's caption?

"Learning The Family Business. Hope Potter, daughter of the Chosen One, and her foster-father, Ron Weasley, clear a path for Ministry of Magic Aurors (see main story, pp.1, 2, 4)."

"I trust the Committee will properly disregard the opinion of the press when it reaches its decision," Manwaring said acidly.

"Nonetheless," said the Committee's fifth member, Hezekiah Smith, "even disregarding public opinion, we do have a fair amount of evidence to consider." He picked up the draft of Harry's will and scanned it again. "Potter and Granger were a married couple at the time of the girl's birth. Potter's wishes for the girl are clear, even if not legally binding. The girl herself wishes to remain with Professor and Madam Weasley. They are respectable members of the wizarding community…"

"Mr. Weasley broke several laws by concealing the girl's identity," injected Manwaring.

"With the girl's best interests at heart," Smith responded.

Chairwitch Beldam cleared her throat. "Our primary concern is the child's home environment," she reminded the Committee. "Her safety and well-being are paramount." She looked sternly at Ron and Luna. "You can see why we'd be concerned that you're training an underage witch in the use of some rather powerful spells."

"Actually, Ma'am, she mostly taught herself," said Ron diffidently. "You may have noticed how smart she is. She takes after her mother – both her mothers, that way." A not-so-subtle reminder that Hermione Granger had likewise practiced magic at an early age.

"Still, to have a child – a child! – engaging in pitched battle with Death Eaters, repeatedly…" began Goodlett.

"Bellatrix Lestrange is still at large," Ron reminded them. In an instant he'd turned grim, and somehow imposing. "The Death Eaters are still at large. And now everyone knows whose daughter Hope is. Where could you place her that she wouldn't be in danger? At least you know we're able to protect her." His glance at Goodlett managed to be somehow bland and yet convey scorn. "And if she learns to protect herself in the process, what exactly is wrong with that?"

"She'll begin learning Defense Against the Dark Arts next month, anyway," Luna added.

"It's true she'll be starting at Hogwarts very soon," said Beldam thoughtfully. "I'm simply concerned about her having a suitable environment to return to, once the school year ends."

"Well, do you think a larger family would be more suitable?" asked Luna.

Beldam was nonplussed for a moment. "Er, I suppose so."

"Oh good," said Luna brightly. "Because when Hope comes home next summer, we'll have one for her. One brother, I think, since that's most usual for Weasley genes, but it could be two. I haven't asked yet." She smiled at her husband.

Ronald had obviously not been paying close attention. "Uhhhh, say that again?"

Still smiling, Luna took Ron's hand and pressed it to her stomach. "It was Lammas, remember?" she said, ever helpful. "A cross-quarter day… I'm sure Hermione explained about the cross-quarter days, since Hope was conceived on one. I was thinking Taine would be a good name for a boy. Valborg for a girl, of course."

Ron blinked in bewilderment at her stomach, where his hand was still pressed. It seemed to take a very long minute for his wife's words to percolate through his brain. When they did, he turned, moving in slow motion, and faced the Committee. "Would you excuse us one moment?" he asked courteously. Then he stood, picked Luna up and slung her over his shoulder. He strode unhurried out of the room, with Luna waving a cheerful goodbye to Beldam. The door closed quietly behind them.

"YYYEEEEEEEE-HAAAAAAHHHHH!!!" Possibly there were wizards in the Orkneys who didn't hear Ron's exultant cry. McGonagall couldn't quite manage to smother a quick grin.

The Chairwitch cleared her throat. "Well," she said, "ladies and gentlemen, is there any more to be said? Are you ready to vote?"

*

When McGonagall emerged from the Committee meeting room, all the assembled Weasleys knew from her expression how the Committee had voted.

"Ronald Bilius Weasley, Luna Lysandra Lovegood Weasley," she told them formally, "it is the decision of the Child Welfare Committee that Hope Justinia Potter be remanded into your care and keeping, according to the stated wishes of her deceased parents." McGonagall waited for the roar of cheers to die down before continuing, "If you wish to begin adoption proceedings, you may apply with the Ministry of Magic's Department of Wizarding Services, any time during Miss Potter's minority. Congratulations."

Fred and George cheered again and pounded Ron on the back; Luna, Angelina, and Fleur all hugged one another, laughing and crying simultaneously. In the background, Arthur and Molly watched silently, holding hands and smiling wide enough to hurt their faces.

Only Hope thought to include McGonagall in the jubilation. She knew better than to try to embrace the Headmistress, but she did hold out her hand. "Thank you," she said sincerely.

"You're quite welcome," said McGonagall, taking her hand and shaking it. "I'm very pleased it all worked out for the best."

"Yeah, me too," said Hope. She lowered her voice confidentially. "Uncles Fredngeorge were saying they were ready to go to court to get me home again."

"Mmm, I would have hated for that to happen," McGonagall said in all seriousness. "Because, you see, unlike statements before the Committee, court testimony is given under oath."

Hope tilted her head curiously, a habit she apparently had picked up from Luna.

"And under oath," continued McGonagall, "I would have had to say that, while the handwriting on that draft of your father's will was definitely his, and the parchment was many years old, the ink was barely dry."

Hope froze in place.

"Then there was the Levicorpus spell you used at Gringotts. As it's non-vocal, there was no way to learn that by observation… someone had to have taught you the spell. Mmm, your father used it a few times, as I recall."

By now, Hope's eyes were huge. Her mouth formed a perfectly round O, but no sound came out.

McGonagall smiled slightly. "You are a very clever young witch, Miss Potter… but there's much to be said for experience." She raised a hand reassuringly. "I've kept many confidences over the course of my life. You can certainly trust me with yours."

"I'll remember that," said Hope quietly, before she was captured by Isabeau and Michelle. "Oh, this is brill," they told her as they dragged her away, "you can come to our birthday party now, Mama and Papa are holding it in the Leaky Cauldron, and we're spending the night there and taking cars to King's Cross…!"

As McGonagall watched them go, her smile broadened. So dear Miss Granger – well, she shouldn't be called that anymore, having been declared Mrs. Potter posthumously – so Hermione had found her mate after all. And a Quick Quotes Quill in the Gringotts vault, brought into place by Miss Potter, and who was the wiser? Certainly not Muriel Manwaring…

Bless the girl, she had so much of all her parents in her. At that moment, McGonagall wouldn't give a leaden Knut for Bellatrix's chances. And, she was positive, Hogwarts's next seven years were going to be… interesting? Eventful? Memorable, certainly.

13. XIII - Epilogue

(A/N: This is it, ladies and gentlemen, the final installment in our story. I deliberately left some things unfinished – if Hope is to have more adventures in the future, we have to set the stage now. Don't we?

The lovely and talented Mary Caroline has been my beta for this entire story, advising on everything from the niceties of British grammar to the social dynamics of young girls. I'm in your debt, MC. Thank you.

If you enjoyed this story, please tell your friends! And if you didn't enjoy it, I hope you'll tell me.)

(Disclaimer: I no more own these characters now than I did when I started writing. )

*************************************

"Restoring Hope"

by Paracelsus

*

1 September 2009 – Year 11 P.V.

*

Hermione wasn't simply lying on the bed. She was sprawling on it, positively boneless – enjoying that wonderful languorous state halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Her eyes were closed, and her mouth felt like it was permanently frozen into a smile of pure contentment.

The fact that she wore not a single stitch of clothing added a bit of spice to the contentment. Especially since the body next to hers was similarly unclad, with not even the bed's coverlet to separate them. She made sure to keep in full skin-to-skin contact with him, from neck to toes.

She sensed, rather than felt, his lips approach her ear. "Did I tell you I've been exploring?" he whispered.

Her smile deepened. "Mmm, you certainly have," she said huskily without opening her eyes.

Harry choked slightly. He'd somehow never quite grasped – probably would never – the fact that Hermione had a public persona and a bedroom persona. It would always surprise him, a bit, seeing that side of her… which never failed to amuse her.

"I meant," he said after his voice returned, "that I've been exploring Hogwarts… you know, the other portraits? But maybe you aren't interested in what I found."

"Mmm?" Hermione refused to open her eyes. She wanted to just lie here, snuggling next to Harry, stealing Harry's body heat… her hands beginning to slip down his torso again…

His voice turned even softer, seductive. "Hot chocolate."

Her sharp intake of breath, her sudden motionlessness, told him he had her. "There's a winter landscape, down in storage," he continued insidiously. "Skaters, drinking hot chocolate. The artist even painted wisps of steam over the cups."

Harry stopped at that point and waited, watching her reaction, gauging her thoughts. He waited until the instant before Hermione broke down and asked – then he murmured in her ear again. "Why don't I go fetch us some?" he volunteered. "Stay here and keep my place warm, love."

Eyes still closed, Hermione smiled her thanks and relaxed again – then stiffened and gasped when he kissed her nipple as he rose from their bed. She could hear him chuckle as he grabbed a robe and made his way out of the painting. Oh, he is so going to pay for that, the tease. Come to it, when did he learn to do that?

Do I care? As long as he keeps doing it!

She sighed and stretched happily. Hermione opened her eyes and looked about the room… or rather, this painting of a room. The light was dim, partially because the setting had been painted that way, but also because of the cloth that covered the painting from "outside". (Sometimes she was still confused – which irked her – by the strange dimensionalities of magical paintings: this room felt like it had depth to her, but there was a visible "edge of the canvas" superimposed overall. It further irked her that Harry had adapted before she had. Massively unfair, in her opinion, that.)

The painting had been brought up from the Hospital Wing. Originally, it had shown a nurse tending patients in their hospital beds. Once the situation was explained to them, the nurse and her patients had cheerfully vacated for another painting – leaving this painting, with its wonderful beds, to her and Harry. Harry had immediately deemed it the "honeymoon suite", ignoring her protests that they couldn't have a honeymoon if they hadn't formally had a wedding.

But in the end, she had to admit, this last week had been a honeymoon. It was one more reason to be grateful to the Headmistress.

Speaking of whom…

Hermione heard the Headmistress's voice approaching. "Hello? Hermione, are you there?"

*

The meeting with the Board of Governors had been last week. The meeting with the staff, where the year's course schedule was finally set, had been yesterday. Today's meeting was with the Heads of House. McGonagall gave thanks to the Light that no more meetings would be needed before the students arrived in the evening. Sometimes it felt as though her entire professional life had become an unending series of meetings.

She caught Professor Weasley's eye as Professors Sinistra, Flitwick and Sprout exited her office. He understood, and waited behind until the door closed behind them. "What's up, Professor?" he asked.

"I thought you'd be interested in what's been done this week for our new… boarders." McGonagall waved at the wall behind Ron. Amidst the portraits of past Headmasters of Hogwarts, two smaller frames hung side-by-side. Both were empty.

"It turned out to be safest to keep them here, in my office," McGonagall explained. Ron understood: Harry's and Hermione's essences were bound to the physical portraits, the paints and potions, in which they'd been originally painted. Even if the portraits weren't being occupied at the moment, they had to be kept safe. It was why he'd had to rescue Hermione's portrait from Bellatrix, even after Harry'd pulled her to safety.

"Also, while rumors of Hermione's existence are starting to crop up, we all thought it best to keep Harry's existence a close secret. Rest assured, every portrait at Hogwarts has been sworn to silence." Behind McGonagall, a portrait of a silver-haired witch gave a firm nod.

"Oh. Okay." Ron raised an eyebrow. "'Harry'? 'Hermione'?"

The Headmistress made a noise somewhere between a snort and a sigh. "They insisted. I'm afraid I kept dithering between 'Miss Granger' and 'Mrs. Potter', until she informed me that living tally wasn't the same as a wedding as far as she was concerned. And Mr. Pot… Harry said that if I could call my predecessor 'Albus', I could surely call him by his given name."

"Fair enough." Ron ran a finger around one of the empty portraits. "Y'know, I did think we could keep Harry's portrait at our place, and let Hope keep Hermione. But it turned out to be too far… they have to be in the same building to travel from painting to painting. They'd've never seen each other – and Luna said that would be too cruel."

McGonagall sniffed. "As though I'd let the child keep either of the portraits with her, once classes begin! She'd be asking them for all the answers… her mother particularly… No, Hope may see them under supervision, or during the holidays, but she may not use them as an academic resource. That would be patently unfair to the other students."

Privately, Ron didn't think Hope would need any help in her studies. He kept his opinion to himself: he considered that he'd already dropped enough hints. But even with those hints, and even with Hope's display of magic at Gringotts, McGonagall didn't seem to realize just how advanced Hope's abilities truly were. The Headmistress – and the staff – would just have to learn the hard way.

Ron made a mental note to ask Luna for a really nice, slightly skewed way to say I told you so.

"So where are they now?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Back here, in all likelihood. I gathered some unused paintings from around the castle, to make private quarters for them, of a sort." McGonagall headed to the back of her office, motioning Ron to follow. Three framed pictures, covered with cloths, were propped up on a table. "Yes. The thing is, you see, Mr. Thomas showed remarkable skill in bringing them to life so accurately – most remarkable, considering these were the first two magical portrait's he's ever done! But he still has much to learn… including the need for background details."

She noticed Ron's puzzled look. "For instance, it would have been a kindness to Hermione to have included bookcases behind her. Instead, Mr. Thomas left the backgrounds blank, à la Rembrandt. Classic Muggle style, I daresay, but magical portraits need to keep busy." She raised her voice slightly. "Hello? Hermione, are you there?" Without waiting for a reply, she drew the cloth from one of the paintings.

And would have immediately replaced it, had it not fallen from her paralyzed fingers.

"Good morning, Pro— Yeeeeeep!" Hermione scrabbled at the foot of the bed, where the coverlet had fallen. She seized it and brought it up to her chin, while blushing as furiously as… well, as Ron was.

The coverlet wasn't doing a very good job of covering. She tried to regain a modicum of poise. Clearing her throat once or twice seemed to help. "Ahem. Erm. Hello, Ron." When Ron didn't move, she managed to release the coverlet with one hand and make a tiny circling motion. "Do you mind?"

Ron still didn't move. His face was still scarlet, but his eyes stayed fixed on Hermione – certainly the part of her outside the coverlet.

"Do. You. MIND?" she snapped. With a start, Ron realized he was staring, and hastily turned his back. It's true, Hermione decided. Even a nude picture can strike the male brain into stupidity.

"My apologies, Hermione," said McGonagall, as Hermione quickly rose from the bed to put on a dressing gown. "I should have asked whether you were prepared to receive visitors."

"Well, you did say they needed to keep busy…" Ron muttered, his back still turned. "Um, Professor? I thought paintings had to, you know, stay the way they were painted? I mean, their clothes are painted on, right? They can't come off?"

"Evidently," replied McGonagall dryly, "no one thought to inform Harry and Hermione of this fact. You may turn around now."

Ron gave a cautious glance over his shoulder to check that all was clear – or rather, that all was hidden – before he turned back to face Hermione. "Cheers, Hermione. Whatcha been up to?"

Hermione tried glowering at him, but her heart wasn't in it.

"We wished to keep you and Harry apprised of recent developments," said McGonagall. "Magical Law Enforcement has been interrogating the Death Eaters who were captured at Gringotts. One thing has come to light: all of them were ordered by Bellatrix to avoid using the Killing Curse at all costs."

"Right. Because they're so merciful and all," snorted Ron. "They weren't making any effort to avoid killing people at Gringotts. They killed Seamus and Lavender! They used the Killing Curse then!"

"But that was when Bellatrix made her Horcrux," said Hermione thoughtfully. "Oh, thank you, Harry, you're an angel," she added, as Harry stepped into the portrait bearing two cups of hot cocoa.

Harry kissed her as he surrendered one of the cups. Ron smirked and shook his head sadly.

"Don't start," Harry warned him, and took a sip. After a moment he looked up. "Ron, tell me again about when Voldemort killed us. Didn't he say something about the Curse to Bellatrix…?"

"Yeah," Ron admitted, losing his smile. He would never be happy recalling the memories of that day. "He told her that, uh, the Killing Curse was his alone."

"Right, so maybe that's why the current crop of Death Eaters isn't using it," said Harry. "Bellatrix gave them the same order that Voldemort gave her. Makes sense, if she sees herself as Voldemort's successor…"

"I don't think so, Harry," Hermione mused. "Avada Kedavra is terrible, terrifying… a potent weapon for fear-mongers. They'd never give up using it without a good reason. And even Bellatrix gave up using it – she didn't use it at Gringotts – but she did use it when she murdered Lavender. To make a Horcrux."

"Ahhh, I see," said McGonagall. "Horcruxes require the soul to be fractured by committing murder. You're suggesting that the murder needs to be done with the Killing Curse?"

"As opposed to, say, burning someone to death with Incendio. Exactly. The Killing Curse is driven by the pure desire to kill – that's what makes it Unforgivable. And if you want someone dead that badly, you're halfway to fracturing your soul already."

"I think all of the murders Voldemort used to make Horcruxes were done with Avada Kedavra," added Harry, counting on his fingers. "His parents, Hepzibah Smith, old Frank Bryce…"

"You," she added. "Or at least that was his intent."

"And even if your theory's wrong, love, it only matters that Bellatrix thinks Horcruxes need Avada Kedavra."

"So you think Voldemort wouldn't let his followers use the Killing Curse because they might make their own Horcruxes? And Bellatrix is doing the same now?" Ron whistled and shook his head. "Suppose we shouldn't complain. I mean, as long as they're not using the Curse, it doesn't matter why."

"We can take some comfort in the fact that Bellatrix doesn't come close to matching Tom Riddle's raw power," said Hermione. "She'll only be able to make the one Horcrux – not six."

"But we've no idea what it might be," McGonagall pointed out.

"True," Hermione admitted. "She's not the megalomaniac that Voldemort was. She won't insist on relics from the Four Founders… she could use, well, anything, really. We can try to guess her choice, but I'm afraid our only real expert on her psychological profile is… you, Ron."

"Oh, bloody wonderful." Ron rubbed his eyes dejectedly. "I'm going back to my office and try to get ready for the Sorting tonight," he said with a sigh. "Harry, Hermione, you want to drop by after the feast is done? I promise to tell you which house Hope gets Sorted into…"

"Thanks, Ron, we'd like that," said Harry. "Yours is the office with the picture of St. George, right?"

"Uh huh. I'll tell him to lose the dragon. See you." Ron turned to leave.

"Ron!" called Hermione suddenly. "Tell me again – what was the spell Harry cast that finished off Voldemort?"

Ron paused and furrowed his brow. "I never heard it before, or since. Expecto... something. Not Patronum, but it did make something that looked like a Patronus. Expecto… Expecto nem…"

"Expecto Nemesem?" asked Hermione softly.

"That's the one. I remember when we were still at… at the Place, you were researching all the different Expecto spells. You must've found that one and taught it to Harry."

"Yes… I remember you telling me, now. Thank you, Ron."

McGonagall waited for Ron to leave before speaking again. "Obviously, Professor Weasley's knowledge of Latin isn't as deep as one might wish. Else he might have known that spell for what it was."

Harry coughed self-consciously. "Er… you know, we can't all be Latin scholars, Professor…"

"No," Hermione said indulgently, "but some of us compensate in other ways." She reached out and ran her fingers through Harry's hair… a gentle caress. After a moment, she began to explain. "There's a word," she said, "that's got an undeserved bad reputation in modern times. And yet, it's used over and over, when speaking about God. And it was one of the chivalric virtues of the Middle Ages." She stopped.

He waited for her to continue. When she didn't speak, he caught her eye and raised one brow questioningly.

"Expecto Patronum is powered by happiness," said Hermione obliquely. "It produces a Patronus. Can you guess what Expecto Nemesem would produce?"

"Um, well, if Patronum gives a Patronus… Nemesem would give a..." Harry blinked in surprise. "Nemesis?"

"Nemesis," confirmed McGonagall with a nod. "The divine embodiment of retribution… and of justice."

"But Expecto Nemesem wouldn't be powered by happiness," Hermione continued, wrapping her arms around Harry, "but by another positive force. The one with the bad rep." She smiled proudly at him. "Righteousness."

Harry took a moment to digest this. "So… my 'power the Dark Lord knows not'… it wasn't love, like Dumbledore always thought? It was…?"

"Your sense of right and wrong," finished Hermione, emphasizing the point with a hug. "Something Voldemort never had – and that you never lost."

Harry hastily set down his mug of cocoa and returned the hug, holding her tightly. Absently, he noted that the room had suddenly grown darker… McGonagall had considerately replaced the cloth over the painting and left them to themselves. His thoughts flitted over to the hospital bed, but he wanted to finish their discussion first, just to make sure he understood.

Not that he'd let go of Hermione. Harry kept her close to him, a full-body embrace, shifting his weight slightly as she nestled her head in the crook of his neck. With his face in her hair, he murmured, "So to use this Expecto Nemesem, Ron will have to be, er, righteous?"

"Yes," she replied softly, "in its original meaning. To be pleased for its own sake when Right prevails."

"Mm. Think Ron's matured enough for that now?"

"Let's hope so."

*

"It's really stupid," grumbled Hope. "We live in Hogsmeade. Why do we have to come all the way down here to London so we can turn around and go right back to Hogsmeade again?"

"The Hogwarts Express is part of the tradition," Ginny said firmly. "And it's a chance to meet your new classmates without the pressure of Houses and classes and all."

"But I know a lot of them already," Hope pointed out. "Five years at Potter Primary School, remember?"

"You don't know all of them, sulkworm," Luna chided her. "Even in your own year. There are a fair number of Muggleborns, after all, who've only just learned they're magical."

"Plus the upperclassmen," put in Isabeau excitedly. "They weren't at Potter…!"

"Do not pay too much attention to upperclassmen," Fleur said sharply, as she led her daughters along the platform at King's Cross. "They will certainly not be paying attention to you." Isabeau said nothing, but the expression on her face was undaunted.

"Right, then," said Ginny as they passed Platform 9. "Fred and George have gone ahead with the trunks. Are we all in position? You all have your tickets? Hope, you have your cloak? Everyone, follow me and stay close." She marched towards the brick wall between Platform 9 and Platform 10; Hope, Michelle and Isabeau were right behind her, flanked by their mothers, with Angelina as rear guard.

The moment they appeared on Platform 9 and ¾, the sharks began to circle.

The first one was talking rapidly even before he reached speaking distance. "Harrison from the Prophet, Miss Potter, I was wondering if you could give us a few words about your battle at Gringotts, how did it compare with the fight at Hogwarts last year…?"

It was obvious that Hope's Cloak of Anonymity was going to be of no use today: public interest in her was too strong for its mild Aversion Charm to repel. Other people on Platform 9 and ¾, parents and children and at least two Aurors, were watching her. Some of them, especially the children, were pointing; all of them looked excited to see her.

Meanwhile, Harrison was quickly joined by two more reporters, all trying to maneuver close enough to Hope to get her undivided attention. "Miss Potter, can you tell our readers where you studied Defense Magic? Miss Potter, is it true that you commune regularly with the ghost of the Chosen One? Miss Potter…"

Smoothly, Fleur stepped forward and caught the reporters' notice. Silvery moonlight seemed to bathe her form, even though it was mid-morning; her hair stirred in a light breeze that existed only for her. Her blue eyes grew huge, and deep, and touchingly vulnerable, as she began, "I have always been told that the gentlemen of the British press are gentlemen, indeed. I know you would like to hear about what truly happened at Gringotts, yes? Let us step over here, where we may talk privately, yes?"

With their tongues practically lolling out of their mouths, the first three reporters docilely followed Fleur away from Hope. Angelina intercepted the next reporter, a young woman from Teen Witch who wasn't distracted by Fleur's Veela magic. Luna was easily able to put off Fergus Ferriter, merely by looking irritated – there were advantages, after all, to owning the Quibbler. One way or another, Ginny and her charges managed to board the Hogwarts Express without being stopped by a single journalist.

Once aboard, they quickly spotted Fred and George waving them into a compartment. "One advantage of showing up early, you get your choice of seating," said George. "Your trunks're stowed up here," he pointed, "and Mum's packed some sandwiches for you to eat on the way."

"And if you don't like corned beef, just toss them out the window," added Ginny. "We always did, didn't we?"

Fred grinned. "Ah, those were the days, weren't they, Gin? And that reminds me. You three…" He turned to face the girls and put on a stern face. "When you're at Hogwarts this year, I want you all to remember that you're Weasleys," (this last was said with a quick smile at Hope), "and that you're our nieces."

"Which means," continued George, equally stern, "that there are certain kinds of behavior we expect from you."

"For instance, when you prank someone…"

"Not if, when…"

"We expect everyone to know who did it – and nobody to be able to prove it."

"Make friends with the ghosts if you can, they're valuable allies…"

"Remember that the house elves will never snitch on you…"

"And don't ever forget that Weasley Wizarding Wheezes has a special discount for trouble-makers who are family."

"And that we fully expect you to take advantage of it," Fred concluded, breaking out in a smirk at last.

"Out, you reprobates! Out!" laughed Ginny. "Corrupting innocent minds, you should be ashamed!" She shooed the grinning twins out of the compartment before she turned back to her nieces. She hugged each of them in turn, taking advantage of the moment to whisper in their ears privately. She said goodbye to Michelle first, then Isabeau, before coming to Hope.

It seemed to Hope that Ginny hesitated for a second, as though changing what she was about to say. "Thank you again for the gift, Hope," she finally whispered as she held the girl. "It… it really helped." She straightened, gave them all a big smile, and left the compartment with her head high.

"I don't know about you," said Michelle as they settled into their seats, "but I think Aunt Ginny's starting to channel Gran."

*

Two hours into the journey, and Hope had grown very fond of her Cloak of Anonymity.

There had been a constant stream of students of all ages, trooping past their compartment and gawking through the window while trying to not look like they were gawking… hoping to get a glimpse of Hogwarts's new celebrity. Isabeau and Michelle had waved to some of them, but hadn't opened the door to any; as long as Hope did nothing to draw attention to herself, the gawkers didn't seem to notice her.

"I'm bored," announced Isabeau finally. "I'm going to find the food trolley. Are you two staying here?" This was asked in the tone of voice which expects compliance.

Hope nodded and tried to return to the book she was reading (Hermione's fourth-year Transfiguration textbook, though she didn't show it to anyone). Michelle looked ready to join Isabeau anyway, simply to be contrary, but she found herself yawning uncontrollably. Isabeau took the opportunity to slip into the corridor and close the compartment door firmly behind her.

"I don't think she's looking for the trolley," muttered Michelle, settling back into her seat. "I think she's looking for trouble."

Hope gave Michelle a slight smile. "I think she'll find out she can't get away with as much at Hogwarts as she does at home. She hasn't met Professor McGonagall yet."

Michelle gave Hope a Gallic shrug in return, and leaned back in her seat. Her eyes closed… soon she began to gently snore. Hope smiled again and tried once more to return to her book. Yet for once, she found herself unable to concentrate on the pages. Her mind was spinning, still struggling to digest everything that had happened in the month since her birthday.

Got a wand. Lost Mother. Got a new last name. Lost Mum and Dad. Got Father. Got a vault. Got attacked. Got Mother back. Got Mum and Dad back. Lost Mother and Father again – well, separated. For now.

Haven't got A Nickname yet, but give the Prophet time.

If this was what Harry Potter had gone through in his first year, she really felt sorry for him. Yet she didn't see what else she might have done. After all, it wasn't her fault, was it, if Death Eaters attacked Hogwarts, or if the goblins wanted their Artifacts back… in her opinion, she'd been an innocent bystander each time. Well, pretty much.

But try telling that to all the people who pointed at her, goggled at her, wanted to interview her… whose faces brightened just for seeing her. Hope resolved to find every one of her classmates from Potter Primary that evening at the feast, and make sure they understood that nothing had changed – that she was still their friend Hope, not very exciting, not all that pretty… just Hope. Nothing had changed.

Except for the color of her eyes, and her last name, and a few other minor details…

She was startled out of her reverie – and Michelle out of her doze – by the bang! of the compartment door slamming open. Isabeau stormed into the compartment and flung the door closed behind her. She was in a towering fury – what was more, she was shining with a silver aura of Veela magic. Evidently, she'd been inspired by her mother's display from earlier that morning, and had tried to match it.

Isabeau pointed an accusatory finger at Hope. "You!" The single word was an indictment.

"Me what?" asked Hope, bewildered.

"I walked up to a group of fifth-years, from Hufflepuff," snarled Isabeau, "and one of the good-looking ones acted like he wanted to talk with me alone, so I took him to one side…"

"When did you start showing Veela powers?" demanded Michelle, clearly jealous that her twin had come into them before she had.

Isabeau waved her hand impatiently, dismissing the question. "And he got me into a little nook at the end of the car, and I even thought he was going to… but… but…" She stomped her foot. "He only wanted to ask me about you! What it was like to be your cousin! Could I introduce him to you! Ooooohhhh!" She flounced to her seat, folded her arms over her chest, and glared daggers at Hope.

"A fifth-year is too old for you anyway," said Hope, trying to be reasonable.

"That's the point, idiote! He wouldn't have done anything with me, but I could have practiced on him!" Isabeau's silver aura was fading rapidly as she fumed. "But non! I am only his passport, his entryway to the Daughter of Heroes!"

Hope's throat went dry. "Did he… did he say that?"

"His very words! So I left him and came to tell you to… to stay away from the upperclassmen! You heard our Mama, we should pay no attention to them!" Isabeau transferred her glare to Michelle. "And that goes double for you, ma soeur!"

Michelle was laughing gently. "Oh Isabeau, don't ever change," she said with a grin.

"Hmmmmph!"

Hope was no longer paying attention to the twins. She was listening to the words running through her head, over and over: Daughter of Heroes. She knew, knew with unshakeable certainty, that those words would appear in the Daily Prophet before the week was out.

Miserably she wrapped her Cloak around her again. She was no longer looking forward to the Sorting, or to Hogwarts… not if everyone expected her to be the Daughter of Heroes. At that moment, even her classes didn't seem so inviting. Instead, she wondered if anyone would ever again like her for herself, and not as some sort of… of hero. She'd never felt less like a hero.

It occurred to her that Harry probably hadn't felt like a hero either, on his first train to Hogwarts.

She was startled by a tapping at the window. Hope looked up to see a white blur outside the glass, keeping pace with the train. With a quick glance at the twins, still discussing Isabeau's misfortune, Hope opened the window.

Into the compartment flew a snowy owl, with something large and shapeless clutched in its talons. The owl settled down on the seat next to Hope and regarded her with unblinking amber eyes. Hope quickly shut the window and examined the bird carefully. It seemed almost familiar, somehow, as though she'd seen it once in a dream…

Not a dream. A memory. In the Pensieve.

"Are you… are you Hedwig?" she asked hesitantly. The owl made a soft heep-heep-ing noise and sidled closer to Hope. Tentatively, she reached out a finger to stroke the owl's breast feathers, and was surprised when the bird nipped her finger – but gently, affectionately.

"Ohé!" exclaimed Michelle, breaking off from her teasing. "Whose owl is that?"

Hope held out her arm. Without hesitation Hedwig climbed onto it. That seemed to settle the matter. "Mine."

Isabeau looked at Hedwig with a touch of scorn. "Hmph, I thought your papa was full-bore into using Speaking Glasses. Uncle Fred says owls are a thing of the past."

An hour ago, Hope might have agreed. Gazing into Hedwig's eyes, though, holding the elderly owl on her arm… Hope could feel a bond starting to form, and knew that no Speaking Glass could ever replace it.

She examined Hedwig more closely. The owl seemed slightly larger than it had in Dad's Pensieve memory… and her feathers far more unkempt. Clearly, she hadn't been living in a house as a pampered familiar. "Have you been living in the wild all these years, girl?" she asked softly. "Why?"

Hedwig gave no reply, not that Hope really expected one. She turned her attention to the shapeless thing Hedwig had brought into the train.

It was filthy and weatherbeaten, as though it had spent years unprotected in the elements. Hope brushed some dirt off it, and saw the straps, and suddenly recognized it – again, from the Pensieve. It was the rucksack Harry had been wearing when he arrived at St. Mungo's, the night Hope was born. Hedwig must have taken the rucksack away when Harry died… stowed it in a tree or something, and left it there for years while she waited for…

For Hope to come to Hogwarts.

But if this was Harry's rucksack… Hope remembered the scene, and what Harry had stuffed into the rucksack as soon as he arrived at the hospital…

Frantic with excitement, she unzipped the pack – and there it was. A mass of silvery silken fabric – her father's Invisibility Cloak.

Isabeau whistled. "Is that what I think it is?" she asked, greatly interested. Her previous annoyance had vanished at the Cloak's appearance.

"Don't make me have to Obliviate you," Hope said absently, as she opened the rucksack wider. She shifted the Cloak to one side and began to rummage. She found a wand – Harry Potter's wand! – and a couple of old dog-eared books, including a Potions textbook. There were some vials of potions, probably gone bad after eleven years. Something that resembled a magnetic compass, but which Hope was willing to bet was something else entirely. A toy top – no, she realized, a Sneakoscope – and a folded parchment, old, and at first glance, blank.

And a smaller slip of parchment, with writing on it. She brought it out of the rucksack for closer inspection. "The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix," she read silently, "may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place."

And Hope couldn't help gasping aloud, as thoughts and memories came rushing back into her brain. All the details of Grimmauld Place, all its furniture and trappings, the books in its library, the street outside… the master study where Harry had kept items too precious for his Gringotts vault. All the details that had been blocked from Hope's mind by the Fidelius Charm protecting the House of Black.

The Fidelius Charm's Secret Keeper had died over a year before Hope was born. Only Ron Weasley, of all living people, could remember the Place's existence and location. He could Apparate there, but no one else could; no Floo or Portkey could find it; and with Bellatrix's destruction of their full-length Speaking Glass, no other way to get there.

But now I can remember the Place, too! And Father said the house is mine now. I should be able to get into it, now that I know about it – if only I could get there! Can I learn to Apparate? Dad can't Side-along Apparate me… oh Merlin, will he even want me going there?

Well, I'll think of a way. Can't leave school before the Christmas hols anyway… that's plenty of time to think of something. Unless there's an emergency…

She looked up at Michelle and Isabeau, who were watching her with eager, shining eyes. They might not understand exactly what this rucksack represented, but they could tell it had to be important. And they didn't flinch from Hope, or gawk at her… they were willing to help her, while treating her as they always had.

Without a word, Hope passed the slip of parchment to them. They read it together, their heads nearly bumping, before looking back at Hope. "I don't understand," confessed Michelle.

"Grimmauld Place was Harry, Hermione and my Dad's hideaway. They spent a year there getting ready to fight the Dark Lord," said Hope, retrieving the precious parchment and replacing it in the rucksack. "It's hidden under a Fidelius Charm. But now that you've read that, you can know about it... and all the things in it."

"Is that good?"

"It could be." Hope smiled at the twins and made her decision. "When we get to Hogwarts, there're two people I want you to meet. I know they're there, somewhere…"

"Really?" said Isabeau. "Who? Are they teachers?" She sounded slightly disappointed, and craned her neck to look into the rucksack to see what other treasures lay inside.

"You'll understand when you meet them," Hope promised. "It might take me a while to find them." And maybe I can find out more about what's happening from them than I can from Dad.

She began to grow excited again, her earlier fears not forgotten, but put aside for now. She would be at Hogwarts, practicing all the things she'd studied with Mother. And unlike Father, she had family: Dad taught at Hogwarts, and Mum would surely visit… and she'd definitely find Mother and Father… and now Hope knew that, if it ever came to a fight again, Isabeau and Michelle would stand by her.

Father wasn't alone – he had Mother and Dad. Dad's not alone – he has Mum and me. Maybe I don't have to be alone, either. I really don't feel like a hero, or even a Daughter of Heroes… but if I have to play the part, I'll take all the help I can get.