Restoring Hope by 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.




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 *in*visible, 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.*