Here With Me by Lynney

Rating: R
Genres: Romance, Mystery
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 04/02/2006
Last Updated: 24/04/2006
Status: In Progress

from chapter 28... She rolled over in his arms then and tried to tell him so, how singular and
lovely and irreplaceable every inch of skin, every thrum of pulse, every instinctual movement and
sound he made was to her. It was hell to think of losing him, ever; it would be heaven to be able
to simply give herself over to him without imagining the bitter taste of loss one day upon her
lips. She lived now to sense for that moment when the rest of his preoccupations fell away from him
as they came together, when she managed to draw him so certainly into their private cocoon of touch
that the only thing he really cared about was where the next one would come and what it would feel
like and how he could mimic its sensation back for her...




1. Into the Wood
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**Here With Me**

Disclaimer: My utmost admiration for the inimitable J K Rowling requires me to be most clear in
the fact that I own none of this and humbly offer my thanks for her absolutely magical world so far
removed from work, kids (well, I share it with mine but on a much *different* level…) and
never-ending laundry. I always come back renewed. And I don't make a cent.

*Special Thanks Department: To Mina for the beta of these original chapters - without you, I
never would have posted here on Portkey.*

**A/N:** To anyone who might be reading this story for the first time, welcome. Please excuse
this lengthy authors note, but it's here because some of the nicest, most unselfish and
supportive writers and readers are also here at Portkey. You've found the best place on the net
for HP fiction.

To all of you who wrote me after the recent incident with a truly nasty reviewer brought me to
take this story down, all I can say is thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I owe each and every
one of you so much.

I am that most awful breed of writer; *deepus insecurus.* You rarely ever see us; our
natural habitat is alone with our keyboards, preferably after midnight. The invention of the laptop
is the only reason we actually experience sunshine, but its cousin in technology, the internet, has
been a mixed blessing for the species. We hop out like hopeful bunnies and post, and your reviews,
positive or negative but constructive, make us thump our feet in joy. Take a shot at us, and we run
like Bambi from the flames.

It hurt to delete this story; it had over 500 reviews attached and they were my first ever, so
they meant a lot to me. It hurt even more, though, that someone could say such nasty and unreal
things about me personally and my *other* story without ever even reading it. I felt singled
out and eviscerated in the most awful way, and I thought the answer was to erase all my tracks and
make like I'd never hopped out of the forest. That was my plan anyway.

So many of you pointed out something I'd never thought of at all; if I took down my stories
and ran for the woods the jerk who attacked me or others like him/her might feel emboldened enough
to pick on other writers here with the same effect. I know now that several other writers were
victims of the same person - and being far more resilient than I stayed put. No matter how much
I'd feel like licking my wounds in private, I really couldn't bear it if my behavior meant
that kind of thing became any more commonplace at Portkey.

Several of you even quoted Dumbledore and Harry to me - a couple of you even my “own” Harry -
about facing dark times and making decisions. I'm no Harry, I'm afraid, but it seems deeply
hypocritical to work so hard to write something and not take it to heart.

So, anyway… I've decided to repost this story again and put up its final chapters here as
well, and to leave Magic Never Dies up indefinitely for anyone that wants to read it. The least I
can do for all the amazing kindness and encouragement you guys have shown me - I owe you far more
than that.

I loved working on MND, but it took a lot out of me. I write chapter by chapter, making it up as
I go along, so I had general sense of where I was going but it often surprised me as much as anyone
where it went. I am a bit burnt out at the moment and content to leave Harry and Hermione in peace
while I work on some original stuff. But if any ideas should come to me and I have the time to
write them I will post them here first. GOF is coming to DVD soon, so I am more than likely doomed
to feel the need to try again. I am in the process of archiving my stuff, and if you asked for the
info it will be emailed to you. I am truly looking forward to finally getting the chance to read
many of your stories as well.

Once again - you are the best, an island of hope in a rapidly scumming-over pond. If all the
kindness you guys have shown me is born of delusion, than to be delusional is a higher form of
consciousness devoutly to be wished for. Thank you so much. I'll shut up now and let you just
read.


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Here with Me is set in Harry's sixth year, rendered AU by HBP. There are three preceding
chapters first posted as Goodbye Privet Drive. They'll be reposted when Dell returns my old
laptop, but Here With Me stands without them. Enjoy or skewer at will. I'll post them one a day
til it's back up and then the ending chapters, so if you notice anything truly dreadful let me
know and I can work on it as it goes back up. Thanks! ~ Lynney


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**Chapter One**


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The Great Hall hummed faintly under its stormy enchanted ceiling, mirroring the overcast
conditions outside the castle. Hogwarts' usually cool fall temperatures had given way to a last
gasp of summertime and the air felt heavy with the latent electricity of an imminent thunderstorm.
Across the vast room students from all four houses were caught up in the usual turmoil of the first
weeks of a new school year; wide-eyed, panicky first years clumped together and conversing in
hushed tones, returning students adjusting to new schedules and expectations, the resumption of old
friendships and rivalries.

Harry and Ron had just finished their first Quidditch practice with the new season's
potential replacement players. The always challenging task of beginning to fit together the raw
strengths and weaknesses of a new team had caused practice to run long and mentally knackered Ron,
the new Gryffindor Captain. Harry had just been happy to find that Dolores Umbridge's lifetime
ban had been officially lifted and he could play for Gryffindor again. Mounting the Firebolt,
despite its powerful memories of Sirius, had been the best thing that had happened to Harry in
months. The two had had to race to shower and change in time to make dinner, both starving and
desperate not to miss their evening meal. Now Harry was on the hunt for Hermione, having promised
to give her his notes from History of Magic, which she had missed talking a tearfully homesick
Gryffindor first year down out of the Owlery. So far, she was nowhere to be found.

He dropped into his usual seat at the Gryffindor table across from Ron, who was already
attacking his dinner with mindless gusto. He poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice, surveying the
hall hopefully for Hermione's presence at one of the other tables. No prefect business with
Hannah Abbott over at Hufflepuff. Not comparing Arithmancy assignments anywhere at Ravenclaw,
though Luna Lovegood gave him a characteristically absentminded little wave. No point even checking
out the Slytherins, although old ferret boy was looking somewhat out of sorts over there on the end
by himself. And what were Crabbe and Goyle so disgustingly cheerful about?

“You haven't seen Hermione, have you?” he asked Ron.

Ron grunted “Nawrfhi?” Harry roughly translated “Nope, why?” from the mouthful of Shepherds
Pie.

“She really wanted the notes from History of Magic before she went to the library tonight.
She's got that Educational Decree Reversal Committee thing to go to.”

Ron kept chewing and looked at him skeptically. “Why would she want *your* notes?
Wouldn't she want to get them off someone who was actually paying attention?”

“And they would be…” Okay, so Harry's feeble attempts were usually interspersed with their
games of enchanted hangman; he didn't even remember Ron *bringing* parchment to most of
Binns' bore fests. He'd actually attempted to pay attention today to please Hermione;
he'd found it far easier than usual without her actually there in class. Perhaps it was almost
losing her in the Department of Mysteries last year, but Harry had suddenly come to realize that
Hermione was completely enchanting when she was utterly absorbed in something. Unfortunately Binns
was so unrelentingly boring even *she* had slowly become aware of Harry's new penchant for
getting lost in the swirling shades of brown and blond and gold that made up her mane of unruly
hair. He had a permanent bruise on his left side exactly the size and shape of Hermione's right
elbow.

“D'nno, mate. You've got a point. Don't worry though, she'll turn up.”

Harry looked at his still empty plate, mind wandering. *So where was Hermione?* He scanned
the Gryffindor table again as he took a sip of pumpkin juice. Parvati, Lavender, Neville, Seamus,
Dean, all intently chatting about the first week of classes. Ginny… *Where was Ginny?*

A shadow fell across his plate, followed by a sharp **crack**. Which turned out to be the
near simultaneous sounds of Goyles' elbow connecting soundly with the back of Harry's head
and Harry's teeth connecting soundly with the - thankfully now nearly empty - glass. Which in
turn connected soundly with the table and promptly shattered.

“Oops. Sorry Potthead. My bad.” Goyle sniggered. Crabbe guffawed and Goyle pushed him on toward
the door. “Clumsy oaf, look what you made me do! How's Potty going to snog his mudblood with a
bloody lip?”

Harry could feel a lump starting to tighten at the base of his neck and tasted blood. He stood
up and turned toward the two Slytherins' retreating figures as they passed through the door to
the entrance hall, too surprised to even fully register his own anger for a moment. What the hell
was *THAT*? That was a classic Malfoy move, the name Malfoy was a trembling snarl on his lips.
A quick check, however, revealed Malfoy to be still seated at the Slytherin table, head bent over a
book. Yeah, **right**. But since when did Crabbe and Goyle venture out on their own? He glanced
back at Ron to find his best friend similarly thrown. Ron reached across the table to hand him a
napkin.

“Wipe up, Harry. You alright?”

“Yeah,” Harry dabbed gently at his lower lip to staunch the flow he felt dribbling slowly down
his chin. It stung, his head now ached, and something was *itching,* scratching at the back of
his neck. He sunk back down in his seat.

“Stupid gits, those two. Shouldn't have thought they'd have it in them without Malfoy
leading the charge. What'd you do to get up their noses, Harry?” Dean asked as he resumed
eating. Parvati kindly *reparoed* his glass and the rest of the Gryffindors at the table
seemed to breathe a small, relieved sigh of house-points-lost averted and tucked back into their
meals as well.

“Woke up this morning, I expect,” Harry replied glumly, and reached back to rearrange the collar
of his school shirt. What was that *annoying*… a small piece of parchment met his questing
fingers.

He unfolded the scrap to find a crudely drawn wizard cartoon. Whatever else Crabbe and Goyle
might be, they weren't artists. It took Harry several minutes of studying the scrap, turning it
side to side and squinting, to suss out what they were getting at. The figure with what he had
first taken for a Kneazle on its head was meant to be … Hermione? Her awkward posture revealed
itself to be a result of being tied to what he was rather sure was meant to be a tree. A balloon
repeatedly blew from her lips with the words “Hary! Hary!” scribbled across it. Merlin,
couldn't those morons even spell his name right? Unless she was trying to say, *Hurry*? Or
that she saw something Hairy? Or…

Harry pushed himself away from the table, making his way to the door as fast as his legs could
carry him. He'd been looking for Hermione for the better part of a half hour… because effing
Crabbe and Goyle had left her alone somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. And it was getting dark.


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Harry ran. Without thinking, without reflecting, without pausing for advice from Ron, (w*ell,
really, what was the point of that*?) or anyone else (*Hermione was the one he went to for
advice, and she was the one who was missing…*) Every part of his being screamed *find her!*
He told no one where he was going, stopped for nothing, took nothing with him other than his wand.
He shrugged off his robes somewhere around Hagrid's hut and left them puddled on a rock. The
unusual heat had him sweating already and he well remembered how they had slowed him down on
previous visits requiring forays through the underbrush. He plunged into the trees and ran without
stopping until his adrenaline had carried him quite deep within the forest.

There he paused, doubled over and gasping for breath, and it occurred to him at last that the
Forbidden Forest was a very big place…*wheeze*… and Crabbe and Goyle were very bad artists…
*heave*… and it was unlikely that there was anything really distinguishable about the tree
that Hermione was tied to in the cartoon. So… exactly HOW was he going to find her? He stood quite
still, listening with all his might to the sounds around him. Even if he couldn't hear her, he
might hear something that had seen her and could lead him to her. *Like what, Harry? A
Unicorn?* Not too fond of boys, those. *Friendly little bowtruckle?* He still had a scar on
his hand where one of those had bitten him during Care of Magical Creatures, and he didn't have
a handy pocket full of - *blech* -- wood lice to bribe the little buggers with anyway. *How
about a Centaur? Now there's a wizard-loving creature likely to want to help you out…
NOT.*

“*Bugger* me.” Harry knew somehow that he'd managed to do it again. Turned off his
brain and clicked into Harry-mode. And now he'd just have to make the best of it and hope that
Hermione would be grateful enough to be saved that she wouldn't hex him into next term just for
trying to. *Why* did he keep on doing this? Talk about slow learners…

Assuming, of course, that she really needed saving and this wasn't just another trap to
prove how stupid and predictable he *really* was…

“Harry Potter.”

*Uh, oh. Not good.* Harry knew that voice, and it hadn't been particularly pleased with
him the last time he heard it either.

“Bane.” Harry slowly turned and instinctually bowed as he did before raising his eyes to meet
the centaur's gaze. *Well, it works with Hippogriffs, and they can be right moody creatures
when they want to be,* he reasoned. Bane was still big, black and very angry. The chestnut red
centaur Magorian stood on his right; a quite dark gray one Harry had not seen before, seemingly
younger than the other two, took Bane's left.

Bane furiously stamped a powerful hind leg, his hoof making a dull whumping sound on the forest
floor. “We warned you, Harry Potter. Your kind are not welcome here. And yet you come again. You
are not a foal to be coddled any longer. You have surely reached your manhood now.”

*And now I'm gonna die a virgin…*

“I only came to free someone who is held here against her will. I only want to help her and
I'll go…”

“We do not care about that. If you would but look to the stars as we do you would not bother
with these useless quests. The foolish superiority of all wizards washes through your veins. It is
time it was washed OUT!”

All three centaurs raised their bows, arrows at the ready. Before he had really taken in the
immediacy of his peril, Harry heard the singing twang of three bowstrings. He dropped to the
ground, hearing the deadly swift hiss of the arrows pass over his head, then broke left and ran
hard, hoping the younger centaur might take longer to re…

*Nope*. The arrow pierced his right bicep, passed through, and buried its head in his side.
He immediately felt strangely lopsided, grew increasingly aware of how much he used both arms for
balance and how hard it was to stay upright, dodge tree branches and leap over rocks and logs with
only one free to steady him. They were damned fast, centaurs, but he was smaller, more
maneuverable. The back legs that gave them their propulsion also required more space to move. He
stayed away from clearings, crashing into the depths of the forest and aiming for cover. He needed
to stop running to wrestle his wand from his right jeans pocket with his left hand, but he sensed
if he stopped even for a moment now it might be his last. Arrows whistled around him or thonked
into tree trunks but for the most part it was an eerily quiet pursuit, his footfalls and the hoof
beats of the three centaurs were muffled by the thick loam of the forest floor. It seemed to go on
for hours but could only have been minutes at most. Long minutes. Even as he ran for his life,
Harry kept looking desperately through the trees for some sign of Hermione. *What would you do if
you DID find her, idiot boy? Lead the centaurs to her? You'd have to run in the opposite
direction. But if I could reach help, Hagrid, the school, if I could just tell someone where she
is…*

Harry staggered and failed to clear the trunk of a large tree fallen to the forest floor. He
felt something in his ankle give out with a sideways twist and fell hard, carrying all his forward
momentum into the ground. He lay stricken, the breath knocked out of him, face buried in the
decaying leaves that gathered at the far side.

The centaurs soared easily over the log and the still figure so close behind it, galloping on in
hot pursuit.

It was some time before Harry made any attempt to move. Everything hurt. His split lip - the
scene in the Great Hall seemed a lifetime ago, surely it should have healed by now? - had opened
again and he could taste the blood once more. His head throbbed. His arm and shoulder were
unmentionable, the pain a fierce burning sensation even when he remained completely still. And now
his left leg, his ankle. Bloody, *bloody* HELL.

“Stupid git.” he mumbled blearily, trying to force himself into a sitting position. It was
starting to grow dark. If the centaurs came back there was nothing for it now, anyway. He made a
fumbling attempt to finally free his wand.

“Now that,” said a soft, sibilant voice, “is usually *my* line.”

He knew that voice.

Malfoy. *Malfoy? Oh, like this wasn't going badly enough… Okay, this HAD to be a dream. A
really pathetic bad dream. Malfoy will just kick me in the stones as I lie here and I'll wake
up on the floor of the boy's dormitory screaming but essentially alive. Right? Please?*

“Oh, just kill me now,” Harry snarled. “Get it the hell over with. What a freaking nightmare…”
He expected to hear something like “Oh, I haven't even begun what I'm going to do to you
yet, Potter,” or “It's time to take you to the Dark Lord now, Potter,” or even “Avada Kedavra,
Potter!” He was totally *not* expecting:

“I sincerely hope your feeble brain can appreciate this, Potter, because *I'm* going to
be The Boy Who's Totally Screwed if I save you now. Understand this. You will do everything I
say. There will be no whimpering. There will be no feebly rising up to hex me when you finally
manage to get that wand out of your pocket. There will be no dying on me, or I WILL do
unmentionable things to your corpse. Got it?”

*The Boy Who's Totally Screwed If I* **Save** *You? Save me for what? So Voldemort
can finish me? Thanks, friend. Piss off.*

Harry was tired. Harry was confused. Harry was bleeding *a lot*.

*Unmentionable things to my corpse? What the hell was that all about? Like I'd care? Whoa…
what was that? That rumbling sound… not hoof beats again. No way.*

“Listen, Malfoy, no offense, but I gotta run,” Harry staggered to his knees and tried to pull
himself upright against the log. The sound came again, louder now. He suddenly realized Malfoy
wasn't moving to stop him. Wasn't hexing, jinxing, full-body-binding or *petrificus
totalus*-ing. His wand was held loosely in his hand, not cocked and ready to let fly. And what
was *that* look for? Harry didn't see anything the least bit amusing about any of
this.

He pushed off from the log in the direction he thought vaguely should lead back to the castle.
He managed three floundering strides and fell to the forest floor again. The thunder of hooves was
louder now. *Or wait. Was that just… thunder?*

*Must be. Because* **that** *was definitely rain*. *Brilliant*.


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2. Chapter 2
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**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them.

***I have been rereading these for any corrections I can catch and will repost one or two
chapters a day until they are back up to Chapter 27. Chapter 28 begins the new chapters ending the
story, and I will be sure to note in the story synopsis when the new chapter kick in. Thanks for
reading – or re-reading. ***

Here With Me

Chapter 2


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Harry didn’t exactly ‘wake up’ later. Consciousness snuck up on him gradually. He had flickers
of awareness, and none of them were tempting him further along. For one thing, where was Madam
Pomfrey? And uncomfortable though they were, the Hogwarts infirmary beds didn’t have lumps this
hard. Or… gritty? And to her credit, Madam Pomfrey did a *much* better job with the whole pain
management program. So this wasn’t Hogwarts, and Harry wasn’t waking up until it was, thank you. So
there.

“Ow!” Except all of a sudden now he found himself attempting to sit up, eyes wide open, looking
for a weapon. Something deadly. But he was in a… cave? With rain streaming down outside the
opening. Caves in the Forbidden Forest were *not* good. Caves had spiders in them. BIG
spiders. Big, *hungry* spiders that could talk.

“Ow!” This, however, was not a spider. It was something *worse.* It was Malfoy, stabbing
away with his wand at the arrow still sticking through Harry’s upper arm and into his chest. And
Mother of Merlin but that *hurt*.

“Will you quit it with that already? The word you’re looking for is *Crucio*. Say it with
me. Cruuuucciiioooo. Swish and flick.” said Harry through gritted teeth.

“And I said no whimpering. No whining. No ‘ow’ing.”

“Then keep your effing wand to yourself.”

“They’re poisoned, you know. Centaur arrows. Slow acting. It causes muscle spasms throughout the
body that ultimately lead to death by strangulation.”

“You actually listen to Snape, then? I always thought he just gave you O’s for being such a
Slytherin.”

“Believe it or not, I earned them. Lucky for you I did. Lucky for you that the Forbidden Forest
is full of obscure potion ingredients. I can’t make the full antidote, but I made something that
should get you to last long enough to make it back to Hogwarts.”

“Which you would do because…”

Because this is, after all, the ferret. His father is Voldemort’s left hand man. He’s done
nothing but ooze darkness for the six years Harry’s known him. If the world were not tilting on its
known axis, he’d be casting the dark mark in neon sparks to make sure Voldemort had the exact
coordinates of Harry’s demise. So what was up?

“Because at the moment, Scarhead, it seems to be in my best personal interest to keep you alive.
If things change, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

Harry slowly became aware that there was a small enchanted fire near the front of the cave
heating a bowl of sorts crudely blasted from stone, the contents of which emitted a faintly
greenish misting of steam. His eyes traveled from the potion to its maker. Draco Malfoy? Nope. No
way. Voldemort himself couldn’t make him take so much as a sip of **that**.

“Sit up.” Draco told him.

Harry cautiously levered himself into a more upright position using his good arm.

“First things first. If we’re going to make it out of here alive we need to free up your wand
arm.” Draco examined the feathered end of the arrow, running a finger backwards and forwards along
the fletches.

“Nice workmanship?” Harry asked through gritted teeth, mainly to keep on breathing. *Malfoy
was enjoying this, he had to be.*

“The best. Really know how to make an arrow, those centaurs. Pity for you though,” Draco told
him. His silvery grey eyes glittered. *Like a snake, but not*. Harry mused. *Something
else.* *Something else that hypnotizes its prey. He’s not a ferret,* Harry thought
distractedly. *He’s a mongoose. Wait, don’t they eat snakes?* Okay, it was official. He was
losing his mind now.

Draco grasped the tail of the arrow in one hand and Harry’s elbow in the other. He quickly bent
the shaft of the arrow until it cracked just above the skin and broke free, then pulled Harry’s arm
hard up and away from his side. It came free of the remains of the shaft with a sickening squelch.
Harry felt as if he were falling. Sounds were echoing, images spinning dizzily before his eyes. His
stomach heaved, but it had been so long since he had eaten now there was nothing to lose. He was
faintly aware of Draco pouring some of the heated potion into the wound, tearing off the tail of
Harry’s shirt and binding it around his arm with his own green Slytherin tie. He had never known
pain quite like this before, coursing through his veins like consuming fire. There was no one to
fight, nothing to push against, no presence to throw off. He tried to interest himself in keeping
the extent of it from Malfoy *(he’ll tell the whole school you cried!)* and found he didn’t
really care. There was one thing he wanted, only one thing that could make this bearable.

*Hermione!* his mind seemed to scream. The cave was deathly quiet but for the crackling
fire. Draco was pouring more of the potion over the wound where the head of the arrow was buried in
Harry’s side.

“This has got to come out as well.”

*Oh, Merlin, not again….*

*Hermione, oh, damn, Hermione…Think! Nothing else matters.*

Almost as if he could hear inside Harry’s head, Draco said, “She’s alright, you know. The
Mudblood. She’s at the castle. She was always at the castle. They were having you on.”

Harry felt sweet relief take him like a waterfall over the edge of consciousness.

Draco grimly dug the remains of the arrowhead from his side.


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This time he wasn’t expecting comfort and there was no momentary hope of opening his eyes to
find the Hogwarts infirmary. He could still hear the sounds of a torrential downpour from the open
mouth of the cave. A sudden crackling BOOM of thunder jolted almost directly overhead.

His mouth and throat felt parched, as if it had been days rather than hours since that shattered
glass of pumpkin juice. The cascading rain outside was like torture, an abundance of the very thing
he craved just out of reach. He groaned softly and rolled to his good side, trying to push himself
upright. His arm felt shaky beneath him, the muscles quivering as if they had just finished a
punishing Quidditch practice. He was out of breath and tried to inhale, suddenly conscious of the
sharp, tearing pain beneath his right arm. He looked down and saw that most of the rest of his
school shirt had been torn off and wound tightly into a makeshift bandage. *Ouch*.

His new, semi-upright position brought more of his surroundings into view. Malfoy was sitting
with his back propped against the wall of the cave, about halfway between Harry and the
rain-curtained opening. He had both Harry’s wand and his own and was absent-mindedly drumming with
them on his extended legs. He appeared to be watching the rain outside, and Harry wondered if
surprise would offset the rest of his obvious disadvantages and allow him to retrieve his wand.

“Welcome back, Potter.” Malfoy said, without turning.

*Guess not*.

“How are you feeling?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed while he considered possible answers. *Really stupid?* *Royally
pissed off? Still not quite ready for your red-eyed friend yet?*

“Alive,” he said finally. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, hoarse and unfamiliar.
“*Accio* wand.”

His wand shot out of Malfoy’s hand and back into his own like a… well, like an arrow. Which had
been a major miscalculation on Harry’s part, because it homed in on his usual right hand, not his
uninjured left as he had vaguely intended. The smack against his palm, usually a small familiar
sting, sent shockwaves of pain up his arm that made him more than a little nauseous and slightly
dizzy. He shook his head like a wet dog, attempting to clear it.

Draco grinned, and Harry knew he was trying not to laugh. Okay, so it *was* a pointless
move. So what. If Draco really wanted Harry’s wand there was very little that Harry in his current
state could do to stop him… but there was still something deeply disturbing to Harry about the
sight of it in Malfoy’s hands.

“What did you mean before, about it being in your best interest for me to be alive,” Harry
croaked. “Since when?”

His nemesis made a pained face and scooted forward onto his knees toward the fire, retrieved
something that appeared to be a fist-sized rock, then moved to the mouth of cave and thrust it out
into the downpour. After several more moments, Draco turned and came back toward Harry, balancing
the object before him.

Oh, sweet, *sweet* Merlin, it was water; the stone had been blasted out in the center like
a cup and contained several inches of rainwater. Harry felt the tip of his tongue run over his
split lip before he could stop it. It had been a long time since he’d wanted anything as badly as
he wanted that water. Hermione was the only thing that came to mind. So, was Malfoy going to spill
it out in front of him? Splash him with it? *Please, let him splash my face, please let him go
for my face…* No? Make him beg, then. *Okay, I could probably handle that about now. Please,
oh exalted heir to the henchman of the heir of Slytherin, you guys may be a little evil, but hey…
so’s the Minister of Magic these days!!*

“Drink up. You sound like shit. It hurts *me* to listen.” Draco extended the rock towards
Harry’s left hand. Harry took it hesitantly, still expecting an Uncle Vernon type maneuver, the
sucker punch at the last minute that would spill the contents into his lap. Nothing.
*Amazing*… He raised it to his lips and felt his eyes close involuntarily as he drank, still
waiting for the punch, or at least the punch line of this strange joke. The cool water swirled
through his mouth and trickled down his raw throat. He opened his eyes again only when the rock was
empty.

“More?”

It cost Harry a lot to shake his head no, but he wanted – needed – to hear the answer to his
question first, “What did you mean?”

Draco’s face, so often an easy-reader in the art of malice, seemed to shift gears slightly from
the usual actively menacing to guarded and impassive.

“Exactly what I said. For the moment, at least, I actually need you to be alive.” Draco smiled
the cold, enigmatic smile Harry knew so well, a cross between a sneer and a grimace. “But before
you get too sentimental, Potter, let me inform you that the key words here are *need* and
*alive*. I’ll do my best to counteract enough of the centaur’s poison to keep you that way. I
don’t particularly care if it hurts, and I have a very low tolerance for whining. I also bore
easily, particularly when it comes to Muggles and mudbloods and the welfare of house elves. You
dream loudly. Work on it.”

Draco stood up, his lean height hunched by the confines of the caves’ roof, and moved to the
fire. Harry watched as he used another hollowed rock to remove more of the green potion from the
steaming bowl.

“I saw that look on your face when I asked how you were feeling,” he continued. “Don’t fool
yourself. I frankly couldn’t give a toss what’s going through that excuse for a mind you use. I
need to know how far the poison has progressed. We stand our best shot of getting out of here alive
if we stay undetected until morning and head back then.”

“You always were scared of the dark, Malfoy.” Harry snarled. “Isn’t that a bit of an
occupational hazard for a Death Eater?”

“I’m not the one full of centaur poison, am I? Anyone but your typical Gryffindor with more
stones than brains is afraid of this effing forest at night, you half wit. You wouldn’t have caught
me crashing off through the underbrush after dinner hour looking for Pansy.”

“Even I wouldn’t have gone in here after *her*.” Harry retorted, although a small portion
of his brain questioned this even as he did. Would he actually let even Pansy Parkinson spend the
night tied to a tree in the Forbidden Forest? Without trying to help? No. He’d have reported it to
McGonagall or Snape and let them handle it. This was, of course, technically what he should have
done about Hermione as well.

“For future reference, Potter, one; I am not, in fact, a Death Eater and two; it’s a tactical
error to insult the assumed girlfriend of the person who’s about to apply potion to your open
wound,” Draco told him softly, and the look in those silvery eyes made Harry’s stomach clench. He
tried to lift his wand, and the pain brought tears to his eyes. He switched to his left hand.

“Stay away from me, Malfoy.”

“If I do, Potter, you’ll die. Strangulation is not a pleasant way to go… or so I’ve heard.”

*I don’t feel like I’m strangling yet. I don’t feel like strangling anything but you.*
Harry thought.

Unfortunately, he also knew that whatever else he felt; he wasn’t strong enough to reach the
castle on his own. Malfoy began untying the green and silver school tie that bound the wrapping to
Harry’s injured arm. The makeshift bandage was fairly well soaked with blood and after wiping at
the wound with it he threw it into the darkness at the back of the cave.

“Give me the rest of your shirt, Potter.”

Harry unbuttoned the one remaining button and pulled what was left of the white school shirt
from his good shoulder. There was the sleeve and about half of the front side left to work with. He
sensed that Draco was trying to use as little magic as possible to avoid being detected, but if
that last bit was anything to go by he’d bleed to death before the centaur poison got him. He
wished he hadn’t thrown off his robes by Hagrid’s hut. *Unless Hagrid found them, and came
looking for him…* *Hagrid wouldn’t mind coming into the forest at night – he did it all the
time. Please, Hagrid.*

Despite his proclaimed enjoyment of the concept of Harry-in-pain, Harry reflected that Draco
seemed to have a little more difficulty with the actual follow-through. He appeared both
discomforted by the state of Harry’s shoulder and undecided how best to apply the potion to it. The
trickle of the green liquid into the entry wound on the outside of his bicep stung sharply and he
jerked back involuntarily, knocking the cup from Malfoy’s hands.

“Hold still. It’s got to get in there, the hole goes right through.” Draco hissed, wiping up the
spilt potion.

Harry closed his eyes and tried to be somewhere, anywhere else. He let his mind wander, hearing
faintly some probably very unmanly whimpering sounds that he knew must be his own, and some
increasingly un-upper-class swearing from Malfoy as he worked.

He tried to picture Hermione safe in the castle, wondered what she was doing now. *Studying in
front of the fire in the squashy red and gold armchair, the one that almost seemed to embrace her
while she read.* Harry’d actually reflected on what it would be like to BE that chair before,
he’d spent enough time sitting at the foot of it. He pictured the familiar glow of the firelight on
her hair, watched as her front teeth trapped her lower lip as she read.

*Suddenly her lovely brown eyes gleamed with an emotion he couldn’t place and turned from the
book to meet his. “Harry,” she said, “you have to read this. Look!” He rose to his knees before her
and she turned the book so they could both see the page she was indicating. She was so close he
could feel her warm breath against his neck as he read what appeared to be a handwritten note to
the text. It said, HARRY YOU USELESS PRAT! IF IT’S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT AND YOU’VE GONE MISSING
IN THE FORBIDDEN FOREST DO YOU REALLY THINK I’D BE SITTING HERE PEACEFULLY STUDYING IN FRONT OF THE
FIRE???*

*So much for my happy place,* he thought. Occlumency was no defense against a guilty
conscience cloaked as an enraged Hermione. Things still weren’t very welcoming back in the real
world from the sound of it, either. *Nice mouth, Malfoy*. He felt a cold shudder run down his
spine. *But it’s warm in the here, in fact it’s hot…*and a strangely vivid vision crashed over
him like a wave.

There was Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew, scurrying along like the rat he was, although he was in his
wizard form this night. Harry was following him, but he wasn’t Harry. There was no pain in this
body. The heart in this body barely beat, and there seemed to be rather long periods when breathing
was almost unnecessary. He was very cold. There was a feeling of great latent power but no way to
access it, like a powerful bomb without a flame to light the fuse. Frustration and weakness warred
within him.

*Oh, not now. Not again. Please.*

He knew only too well who he was.

They were walking somewhere unfamiliar to Harry, although he got the sense it was not so to
Wormtail. There was a large, imposing house, very old and beautiful in a way, but faintly evil as
well. All was quiet, the inhabitants probably sleeping, except for a light in one downstairs
window. Wormtail crept past the formal front doors and along a stone path that led past the lighted
window and around the side of the building, where French doors spilled light from the same room out
onto a stone terrace. Harry watched as Wormtail turned aside, looking back at him with obsequious
eyes. He knew somehow that it was he who had gotten them this far, only he that could force the
powerful wards protecting this house. He saw a wand raised before his eyes; heard a terse hiss of a
spell. The doorframe splintered and the glass panes gave way with a resounding crash..

Wormtail pushed open the shattered doors and stepped aside.

“My Lord, I…” Harry heard someone say inside. He stepped into the room and saw Lucius Malfoy’s
startled face through Voldemort’s slitted eyes.


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A sharp, stinging slap brought Harry back to his own body – or thrust Voldemort out of his mind.
He heard a suddenly stifled keening sound and guessed that he had been the source.

*Sweet Merlin, by all that’s remotely magically possible, I want out too!* Harry thought
bitterly. *Who the bloody hell would want to see the world through MY eyes now? This really,
really hurts.*

“Would you shut the hell up, Potter? Why don’t you just whinny a mating call to every centaur in
the forest already, you couldn’t make it any plainer where we are!” Malfoy snarled at him, and
clamped a hand down over Harry’s mouth.

He had a faint flash of panic as he suddenly had to struggle to breath, bared his teeth and bit
down hard.

He heard Malfoy’s muffled shriek and felt the hand fly off his mouth, gasped in air desperately
and fought to fill his contracting lungs. *Okay, so the centaurs’ poison thing was probably true.
Fine time to turn up right for once, slither-brain!*

Malfoy pushed him down hard against the floor of the cave and trapped Harry’s good arm under his
knee, grinding it into the stone. The bitten hand grasped the base of Harry’s throat; the other
pointed his wand directly at the zipper of Harry’s jeans.

“Make one more move like that, you ungrateful little mudblood loving fuck and I WILL rid the
world of Potter-kind for all time,” he snarled. “You really can be the last.”

“I don’t think so,” said a soft voice from the mouth of the cave, “unless you’ve decided to put
an end to the illustrious House of Malfoy as well.”

A disembodied, wand-bearing arm moved deeper into the cave and Harry’s invisibility cloak
slipped off to reveal Hermione. A beautiful, soaking wet Hermione, eyes flashing like an offended
Valkyrie.

“Get off him, you twisted little blood snob,” she said, wand trained on Malfoy in a roughly
similar location.

“Go ahead. Granger. Make my day. Hex it off. It won’t make much difference to me if Potter
doesn’t shut up. The centaurs will just have to battle the Death Eaters to see who gets first dibs
on the three of us.”

*“Stupif…” began* Hermione.

*“Petrif…” started* Draco.

*“Expelliarmus!* *Expelliarmus!”* thought Harry desperately with everything he
had.

Neither finished their spell. Hermione and Draco’s wands jerked from their hands and fell with a
clatter to the floor of the cave, close by their respective owner’s feet. Both visibly started and
narrowed their eyes at the other as they reached down.

“What was…?”

“What did you…?”

“Not me…”

“I didn’t…”

Harry was still struggling to breathe; air seemed to be finding its way into his lungs now but
it was like trying to inflate a too-small balloon. Dumbledore’s wand less magic lessons must have
finally taken some hold. At least he’d managed to distract the two momentarily, even if their wands
were lying right at their own feet. Hermione had never appeared scarier, or more glorious.
*Please* let him not die just yet.

“Don’t,” he managed to rasp out.

“Harry?” Hermione queried softly. She clearly wanted to move to where he lay but needed to
assess the situation first. Clever Hermione. *She* never ran first and came up with a plan
after.

“Harry?” she asked again, more urgently this time. Her eyes were taking in the blood soaked
shirt bound with the Slytherin tie and the fact he wasn’t exactly leaping to his feet and putting
two and two together. She didn’t look happy, either.

*Potter*, a suddenly clear voice said inside his head, *if this is going to go any
further you need a plan. Better late than never, right? Step one, you need Malfoy to finish dosing
you up with that bloody potion of his on the off chance it might actually work, buying you time to
tell Hermione that she is the most beautiful witch in existence and that you are never, ever going
to do anything this stupid again. So, step two, you need to tell Hermione that Malfoy was not in
fact the one who shot an arrow through your arm or else she won’t let him anywhere near you, in
which case you’ll probably die here choking in your own spit. Step three… hell, you can tell Malfoy
about Voldemort’s house call to Lucius later. There’s nothing you can do about it now and neither
can he, even if he wants too. Okay, so, Step one, tell Hermione about…*

“Gah,” said Harry. He could feel the muscles in his throat spasm, his tongue tightening against
the roof of his mouth.

*Okay, Plan B. This is the part where she looks into your eyes and sees how much you love her
and begins to read your mind or hear your thoughts or… something. Hello! Harry to Hermione – leave
the wand and let Slimey the Slytherin get back to work before I die here, okay? Please?*

Hermione abruptly crossed the distance between them and dropped to her knees beside Harry.

*Whoa… does this really work? Hermione, I could pass on the whole rib crushing hug thing, but
I bet you could kiss it all better in no time, honestly…*

Her eyes flickered over him and then on to Malfoy and the rest of the cave.

*Rats.*

“Let me guess… you, Harry, ran off half-cocked into the forbidden forest at nightfall and met
a…” she picked up the broken shaft of the arrow from the floor of the cave where Draco had tossed
it, examining it for a moment, “centaur? Oh, but Harry, centaurs’ arrows are really poisonous,
they’re deadly!” He saw the sudden flicker of fear in her eyes as she turned to Malfoy, and pointed
at the potion. “What’s in *that*?”

Malfoy listed ingredients, and Harry could almost see her mixing them together in her mind.

“That should be alright...” she murmured.

Harry felt himself give a sudden, involuntary shudder, almost like a shiver, that seemed to
squeeze his contracted lungs even tighter. His eyes sought hers. *Hermione, please…*

Her hands swiftly began untying the remaining bandage around his chest. “I’ll do it, Malfoy.
Bring it here.”

It didn’t really hurt any less when Hermione applied the steaming green liquid to the wound
beneath his arm – in fact, it still hurt like hell – but Harry found he somehow *minded* a lot
less. He also found it extremely amusing to see her order Malfoy around and to watch him, however
grudgingly, acquiesce. When she had cleaned the wound and saturated it with as much of the potion
as she could manage she soaked a small wad of cloth, positioned it over the gash and motioned to
Draco. “Give me your shirt.”

“My what? Forget it, Granger. I’m not ruining a perfectly good shirt on Potter! Use your
own.”

“Mine is soaking wet, as if you hadn’t noticed. Don’t hate mudbloods enough not to eye one up,
do you? His is already ruined and now it’s all bloody as well. We need a fresh bandage over
this.”

*Hey! Eying who up? Keep your sick silver eyes off Hermione, you… dungeon-dwelling
snake…*

“He’s already bled all over my tie,” Draco grumbled, fingers reluctantly moving to his buttons.
“This is one of my favorites, it’s monogrammed.”

“You can afford more. Just do it already.”

He pulled it off and passed it to her. Harry noticed he didn’t seem quite so Slytherin-sleek and
menacing stripped of his shirt. The luminescent white of his skin actually made him appear almost…
vulnerable? Out from under his rock, certainly.

“Ever met the sun, Draco? It’s that big warm yellow thing in the sky during daytime.” Hermione
said, tearing the shirt apart.

*Go Hermione!* Harry silently cheered.

“Ever met a brush, Granger? It’s what the rest of us use to keep our hair from looking like
yours,” Malfoy rejoined.

“Ha, Ha. So amusing. Help me sit him up so I can get this around his back as well.”

Her hands felt gentle and cool wrapping the bandage around him. It still wasn’t the Hospital
Wing, but Harry reckoned he felt as close to good as he was going to get anytime soon. When she had
tied it off in a firm knot Hermione sank down beside him. He noticed that she really was very wet.
He shifted slightly so that his head was closer to her knee and her hair dripped onto his forehead,
running slowly down into his eyes. She pulled it back into a ponytail with her hands and wrung it
out behind her, then used the tip of her finger to wipe the water from his lashes. He closed his
eyes, feeling suddenly at peace. *Hermione’s here*. There was a moment of quiet, only the
sound of the rain washing over the front opening of the cave.

*Wait a minute… how* come *Hermione’s here?* His eyes flew open again and met hers
looking down at him. She seemed to understand the question in his, because she said softly, “I
heard you screaming Harry. I was in the Common Room and we were looking for you on the map when all
of a sudden I could just *hear* you inside my head. It was the strangest thing. Ron said he
couldn’t hear anything, but I was so sure I heard you. You were just saying my name, over and over
again.” She turned from Harry to Malfoy.

“Ron said Crabbe and Goyle bumped into Harry in the Great Hall and a few minutes later he just
got up and ran from the table without a word. Know anything about *this*, Draco?”

Harry heard what sounded like the scratch of parchment unfolding, and saw Malfoy holding what
looked to be Crabbe and Goyles’ cartoon.

Malfoy sighed and shook his head. “Cretinous imbeciles. Crabbe’s always wanted to do something
like this. It’s just embarrassing, frankly. I can’t believe you two actually thought I had anything
to do with it.”

“How silly of us, Draco. It’s so unlike you to taunt Harry.”

“If I had been involved in this, you would have actually BEEN in the forest, you would have been
yelling ‘scar head, my scar head, wherefore art thou scar head!’ and it would have been SPELLED
correctly.”

“An educated Death Eater is still, Malfoy, a Death Eater. Punctuation and grammar don’t change
the leopard’s spots. A high class whore just costs more.”

*Erm… Hermione?*

“I sit before you shirtless, Granger, thanks to your bloody boyfriend over there. Spot the dark
mark anywhere? Anywhere at all? My father is a Death Eater. I am not. Nor am I *going* to be.
So you can trot that little bit of information back to your other red-headed friend.”

*Why would Ron care about Draco Malfoy’s post-Hogwarts career choice? Uh oh, wait a minute,
was THAT why Voldemort took a field trip to the Malfoys tonight?*

There was a moment of silence and then Hermione said slowly, “I really can not in good
conscience play messenger for you two again. If this thing between you is going to survive you’re
going to have to make it on your own. I won’t try and stop you, but it just feels… wrong.”

*WHAT?*

So much for dying in peace. Five minutes was too much to ask for, just to enjoy her nearness in
silence unbroken by the sound of MORE crap he didn’t understand?

He struggled back up, bracing his weight on the elbow of his good arm. “What… are… you… saying?”
he rasped out against the constriction in his throat. “Wahh ggart sa?’ was what he heard. *Okay
then, Harry! Clear as mud, that*. *You sound like Ron in the middle of a particularly good
breakfast.*

Hermione visibly winced at the sound of his voice. In more ways then one, he was sure. There was
something going on here that he didn’t understand, something both she and Malfoy did. *How
unpleasant an image was that?*

She handed Draco the stone cup. “Get him some water, please.”

“He’ll only choke on it.”

“Just do it, for Merlin’s sake. Must you argue about every little thing?”

*They were starting to sound a bit like Hermione and Ron. Noooooooo!!*

He thought she might explain while Malfoy took the hollowed stone to the mouth of the cave, but
she only worked her fingers under his fringe to feel for fever. “Harry, you’ve got to lie back
down.”

He let his eyes bore into hers with a look that would not be ignored. She rolled hers and
sighed.

Malfoy brought back another cup full of rain water. Hermione pulled her school shirt free of the
waistband of her skirt and ripped a piece from the bottom. She soaked it in the water and turned to
Harry. “Open.”

He was puzzled for a moment and then caught her idea. She carefully placed the scrap between his
lips and he sucked the water from it, feeling the cool wetness against his tongue. She continued to
patiently soak the cloth and place it into his mouth again and again until he managed to swallow.
He watched her watching him, smiling and encouraging. She had never appeared more heart-snaringly
precious, more completely and totally desirable. More *truly* determined to distract his
attention.

“What… about?” he managed.

Hermione turned to Draco. He was standing just behind her, watching them both.

“It’s your secret to tell.”

Harry watched the play of emotions wash across his features. Distrust, frustration, defiance and
a flicker of fear battled with something Harry had never seen before on Malfoys’ face. The
indefinable won and it looked so out of place on Malfoy’s countenance that for a moment Harry
scarcely recognized him.

“I’m in the midst of a little family argument, if you must know, Potter. It’s the big seventeen
coming up this year, time to get my apparition license and take up the hood.” He laughed bitterly.
“I was born in the shadow of the Dark Lord, too, you know. My whole life, it’s always been the Dark
Lord said *this*, if it wasn’t for the Dark Lord taking care of *that.* ‘Clean your
plate, Draco, or the Dark Lord will let the Dementors give you your good night kiss.’ Our first
year at Hogwarts, I chalked you up to beginners luck. You’d been raised by Muggles, for Merlin’s
sake, you didn’t really know what you were up against! But it worked for you. Maybe old Fumblemore
really has a plan. Whatever. You survived. And despite remaining completely clueless of the rules
of the game, you somehow keep ON surviving. It’s enough to make one think…If Harry Bloody Potter
can go on evading the inevitable, what could someone with an actual plan manage? I’ve never liked
the idea of serving Voldemort; it’s just always seemed to be a choice between that or a quick
*Crucio* and hello, green light of death. And then even the sorting hat started in with its’
two cents and it began to occur to me that there might actually be other…possibilities.”

*Holy hell…* who’d’ve thought he’d ever feel kind of bad for Draco Malfoy? As much as he
disliked the visibility of his own position, he had to admit that if Malfoy chose to stray from the
family path he’d be under a pretty unenviable spotlight on several fronts as well.

“Go on,” said Hermione. “There’s more.”

“Gods, what a nag you are. How do you stand it, Potter?”

“Do what… she wants,” Harry managed to choke out. Draco gave sharp bark of laughter. Hermione
looked like she wanted to smack Harry, but didn’t have the heart.

“Further complicating my erm… indecision, is the unforeseen fact that I seem to find myself,
well having, erm… a relationship of sorts with… with… well, with Ginny Weasley. And I’ve come to
realize that I don’t actually want to end it. Quite the reverse, in fact. Puts the whole Death
Eater issue completely in question.”

“To say the least,” Hermione said. “To be honest, I can’t see there’s much to choose from
between Voldemort and the brothers Weasley when they find out, though.”

“At least the brothers Weasley might be worth it. The Dark Lord’s fringe benefits simply can’t
hold a candle to Ginny’s.”

Harry was still stuck back at, *‘having, erm… a relationship of sorts with… with… well, with
Ginny Weasley’.*

“My father was furious. About the Death Eater decision, I mean. Obviously he doesn’t know
anything about the, um, rest of it. You think your life is hell, Potter. I’m meant to be
*marrying* Pansy, you know. It’s been arranged since last summer, at least between her father
and mine. No one bothered to ask *me*. More important than ever to keep the blood pure, you
know. You may not have had parents, but trust me, that can have two sides as well. No one’s running
your life for you. My Father will kill me himself rather than see me shame the Malfoy name, and it
won’t be a merciful *Avada Kedavra*, I assure you. Crabbe and Goyle keep begging for a look at
the mark, they can’t wait to get theirs. Pansy’s been trying to run her hand up my sleeve all week.
I was pretty much at the point of no return anyway when I saw Goyle knock into you in the Great
Hall and watched you take off. Ginny still adores you for some unfathomable reason, Potter. If I’m
going to get myself disinherited and moved up to a notch or two below you on the Death Eater hit
list, I figured I couldn’t blow it on all fronts.”

*So Draco Malfoy is trying to keep me alive to impress Ginny Weasley?* Harry felt himself
start to laugh, something of a bad move in his current respiratory state. The laughter turned to
coughing, the coughing to gasping for air. Hermione tried to get him to lie down again but that
only heightened the sense of drowning and he fought her to stay upright. She rubbed his back gently
and he tried to focus on the soothing movement of her hand, fighting reflexive panic. His mind
jumped to the feeling he had experienced in his vision of Voldemort’s body; the slow reptilian
heartbeat. It seemed to work; he felt as if his own body recognized the feeling and deliberately
measured the thudding of his over-worked heart, slowly easing the constriction of his lungs. He lay
back in shaky relief, nestling unashamedly closer against Hermione and closing his eyes as her arms
steadied him. *Draco Malfoy and Ginny Weasley.* *Mother of Merlin, who’d seen that coming?
The end time truly must be near…*


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3. Chapter 3
------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them.

Here With Me

Chapter 3


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Hermione watched him sleep, his head pillowed in her lap. Her eyes followed the sporadic,
shuddering rise and fall of his chest seeking any signs of improvement. How like the story of her
life to finally have a half naked Harry in her lap only to be too close to losing him to enjoy it…
Part of her wished she knew enough about healing to charm his pain away, the other just wanted to
run her hand down that lovely, taut-muscled stretch of skin to the button of his jeans and…
*Damn!* She could feel Malfoy’s eyes watching her and raised her own to meet them.

He made a tsking noise.

Hermione found herself laughing. “Oh that’s *rich* coming from you, Malfoy.”

“I could read you like a book just then, you know Granger. I’ll bet I could tell you exactly
what you were thinking.”

“Oh really?” Hermione questioned, steeling herself not to blush. *He’s guessing, and he’s
playing with you. Don’t fall for it.*

“Here’s a thought for you, brightest witch of your age,” Draco said, leaning forward. “He’s
likely within a year at most, probably less, of finally really facing Voldemort. Why don’t you just
drop the saintly bookworm charade and have at him already? There isn’t a male under a hundred in
the castle that can’t scent you as marked territory. You must know he worships the ground you walk
on. What is this twisted nonsense with pretending you’re just *too* good friends to fancy him?
Sex is truly a glorious thing, Granger, and if you haven’t noticed yet - the ghosts don’t get any.
If he’s got every chance of getting himself killed taking the Dark Lord out, why not send him off a
happy man instead of a regretful boy? Far be it from me to snag Potter a shag, but time waits for
no witch and quite frankly it’s getting painful to watch.”

Hermione was shocked rigid. Harry wasn’t the only one having trouble breathing for a moment.

“Go on; tell me it hasn’t crossed your mind. Fifty times a day from the look you were just
giving him. What are you saving yourself for?”

“Why don’t you mind your own damn business, Malfoy. Here’s a thought for you; if you’d thought
with your head instead of your… your little wizard, you probably wouldn’t be messing up Ginny
Weasley’s life right now!”

The eerie, silver-grey eyes glittered coldly at her from beneath his white-blond fringe; still
she somehow glimpsed in a split second what Ginny had tried to tell her, the likeness to a fallen
angel. He *was* beautiful, but in a faintly tainted way that made her feel almost unclean to
admit recognizing it. Ginny must have a bigger saving people thing than Harry if she truly wanted
to take *that* on.

“I like to think I made that particular choice not with my little wizard, as you so charmingly
put it, but with my heart. And yes, I do have one. It *knows* that Weasley loves me. She’s
literally screamed it out loud. More than once, and quite, quite happily, I assure you. If I die
tomorrow, at least I’ll die having known it without a doubt. Can you say that?”

“Oh, so a good shag proves everything, does it? Well you’ll obviously be going out knowing the
whole of Slytherin loves you then, from what I’ve heard,” Hermione shot back at him before she
could stop herself. What was she saying? Why was she even *having* this conversation with him?
Why were there tears building in her eyes? More importantly, why was Harry lying there oblivious
when she needed him?

Draco laughed mirthlessly. “For once, my reputation exceeds me. So you’ll have been what to
Potter? Study buddy? Doesn’t He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named gain even more power over you both if he’s
He-Who-Keeps-Harry-An-Emotionally-Stunted-Virgin-Forever? Let me guess, you’re waiting for him to
declare his undying love in front of the whole school, ring on your finger and happily ever after,
before you’ll take your knickers off. Meanwhile, he’s busy trying to keep you below Voldemort’s
radar and figuring out if there’s even going to *be* an ever after, let alone a happy
one.”

The tears spilled over. She couldn’t stop them, sensed the first one slipping from her eyes and
sliding down the side of her nose. How could this happen? How could he, of all people, take her
carefully structured world and just smash it to pieces? Why did she even care? She’d always thought
him vile, spent half her life keeping Harry and Ron away from him. It was such a Slytherin trick,
to ferret out perhaps the only vulnerable spot in her fortress.

“Must you?” he sighed, leaning back against the cave wall and rolling his eyes.

“Yes! I must! It’s your own fault, if you must know. You’re so very brilliant, so damn
insightful. How did you think I was going to react to you picking apart all my convictions for me?
*‘Oh Draco, you’re a genius! It never occurred to me to just, just… fuck Harry before Voldemort
does!’* And what’s it to you, anyway?”

“Nothing. Less than nothing. Forget I said anything. Look, I’m tired.” Draco yawned and
stretched. His limbs were long and luminous in the firelight. “Unless you’ve a better idea, we
should get some sleep too. I don’t think it makes sense to try and get him to the castle until
daylight. I don’t know if the centaurs have given up on us but there are enough of Hagrids’ failed
experiments out there to make staying in here worthwhile no matter how lacking in charm it may be.
Is it safe to assume you’ll keep watch over Potter? He’s not sleeping on *my* lap if we take
turns.”

“I’ll watch him.” Hermione said. “Is there enough of the potion left to dose him again if we
need to change the bandages?”

“I think so. Do us both a favor though and leave it ‘til morning. There’ll be no sleeping
through that performance.”

Hermione felt her blood begin a slow boil.

“Did it occur to you what it must feel like to have that particular potion heated and poured
into an open wound? My best guess is it hurts like holy hell, you sadist. Or is it even possible
for you to care what anyone else is feeling?”

From the look he gave her, Hermione realized the usually chilly Draco was probably pretty close
to the same boiling point.

“Did it ever occur to *you* that maybe that’s just how I happen to deal with it, you
sanctimonious little bitch? Just because you Gryffindors trot your hearts out on your sleeves every
forty-five seconds for everyone else to have to acknowledge doesn’t make you the world’s foremost
authority on feelings. I had to take the bloody thing out in the first place. It was like poking a
puppy’s eyes out, thank you. I bet you couldn’t even have brought yourself to touch it, could you.
*Could you?* Is that how much you supposedly love him? Oh yeah, I forgot, I play the role of
the heartless bastard in this drama, I’m just supposed to shut up and let your preconceived ideas
reign. Only poor Hermione Mudblood Granger’s ever been persecuted for what she is. Well, I have
*enough* sounds of people *screaming* bouncing around in my head to last me a lifetime. I
don’t want to hear any more.”

He was clearly angry too. Fine… Malfoy had always seemed to Hermione to be about control.
Distancing, mocking, menacing. It occurred to her that he probably liked to lick his wounds,
literal or metaphorical, in private. There was no retreat in the cave. Let him squirm.

“Let me guess, Daddy laughed at you if you cried. Boo hoo for you, Malfoy. You knew what you
were doing. That’s hardly a license for your attitude.”

“No, Granger. Daddy *liked* to see me cry. I learned at the foot of the master there. I
knew what the receiving end of a *Crucio* felt like a long time before I ever came to
Hogwarts. All for my own good, of course. And I know what it’s like to cast one, too. You and
Potter and Weaslebee can crack all the “Malfoy’s too scared to be a Death Eater” jokes you want.
You’re right. I am. Because I’ve had a good hard look at the Dark side and I’m making a decision to
get out. So allow *me* to educate *you* for a change. It’s more painful than the most
masterful, Aunt Bellatrix-style *Cruciatus* to listen to someone else, anyone else, even
*him*, and be the one to cause it.”

His eyes were truly angry now, their silvery color flat and reflective. “Your precious Potter
and I *do* have at least one thing in common. We both learned early on that there are vicious
pricks in this world that feed on your pain and there is something to be said for starving them
off, locking it up inside you and throwing away the key. Not every bloody thing is healed by
observation under *your* emotional microscope, you know. You’re the one who’s got nerve,
Granger. Getting one hundred and ten percent on your exams doesn’t make you fucking omniscient when
it comes to the rest of us. It just means you can read the book.”

He turned away abruptly removed himself closer to the fire and lay down with his back to
her.

And there were the tears again, running down her nose toward Harry.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Hermione slept fitfully, dozing off and snapping back to consciousness only to find herself
still trapped in a cave filled with sound of the pouring rain outside and Harry’s troubled
breathing within. She drifted off and woke again to find her legs gone heavy and numb between the
weight of Harry’s head and the hard stone floor. ‘*Time to move, Hermione, or you won’t be able
stand up in the morning yourself,’ s*he thought. She slipped her hands under Harry’s shoulders
to lift him and let out a cry of pure panic. “Oh, God, wake up. *Harry!* Oh, he’s so cold; he
can’t be breathing at all. He was alright just a few minutes ago… damn it, Malfoy, get the potion,
quickly!”

Draco woke admirably quickly and rose, crawling the short distance across the cave floor between
them. He felt around under Harry’s jaw. “There’s a pulse. Ugh, he is cold though. We need to wake
him up.” His hand moved to administer the same bracing slap that had startled Harry from his dream
state before Hermione had arrived but her fingers closed like iron bands around his wrist.

“What are you doing?”

“Waking him up! What the hell is wrong with *you*?”

“You were going to hit him!”

“To wake him up! Bloody hell, Granger. What do you want me to do, kiss him?”

Hermione felt the look of steel that turned Ron’s knees to water creep into her eyes. Draco
appeared unaffected and glared right back. She pushed him aside, knelt down beside Harry, cupped
his face in her hands and kissed him with everything she had. *Please wake up Harry, please wake
up Harry, please wake up Harry, please.*

It felt like he came from very far away. There was a slow warming beneath her lips, twitches
beneath closed eyelids. *Come on Harry!* She let her fingers stroke the sharp bones of his
cheeks and trace down to his ears, trying to warm them as well. He began to turn his face into the
pressure of her hand. She felt his jaw loosen slightly and found herself lost in the moment, her
tongue slipping softly towards his… *Hermione, you idiot, the point is to get him to breathe
here, he can hardly breathe with your tongue down his throat, can he!* She drew back hesitantly
and was rewarded by a shallow intake of air, a marked thump in his chest beneath her hand. It was
several long, long minutes before his eyes slowly opened.

*Beautiful green eyes, come on you two, open up, there you are, come on Harry…*Hermione
urged silently.

Only it wasn’t Harry in there.

His eyes were horribly blank, and flicked without interest from her own. They were fascinated,
however, by Draco.

Harry began to laugh, a horrible, mirthless *evil* sound she didn’t believe possible from
his lips.

“Hello, little Malfoy. Imagine finding *you* here. Did you think you could hide?”

It was Harry’s voice, but not his own. Hermione knew somehow that it might be Harry’s body
speaking, but Harry wasn’t home. This left one obvious candidate, forever linked by the lightening
bolt scar.

“Oh, shit!” said Malfoy, obviously coming to the same conclusion at roughly the same time.
“That’s not Potter, Granger.” He grabbed her and pulled her back, away from Harry. Harry’s body
fell back heavily when her support was so suddenly removed and seemed to thrash about to right
itself. He managed to rise to his knees, struggling obscenely against the useless arm bound to his
side by the bandages. Clearly Voldemort somehow hadn’t been aware of Harry’s injury. From the
disorientation on Harry’s face, he also wasn’t a lefty.

Hermione felt Draco’s wand arm rising behind her, and she reached back, grabbing hold of it.

“Get off, Granger!” he hissed.

“You can’t! It’s *Harry,* Malfoy. Even a *petrificus* or a *stupendo* could kill
him now. He can barely breathe.”

“Well we’re just going to have to risk it, because I’m pretty damn sure that’s the Dark Lord in
there with him.”

Voldemort seemed infuriated to discover Harry’s body not only wounded but wandless. Harry’s face
– so clearly no longer controlled by Harry – took on a self-assessing look, followed by a horrible
leer. “Ahh. Potter’s growing even stronger than I knew!”

Harry’s left hand extended toward them, fingers splayed. Hermione just had time to notice that
it looked like his aim was a little off when a pulse of green light shot out from Harry’s
fingertips and careened into the cave wall an arms’ length away from Draco’s head, propelling
shards of rock over them both.

“Draco, his glasses! I took off Harry’s glasses last night,” Hermione whispered, moving
backwards towards the front of the cave and pushing at Draco, who stepped in front of her. “He’s
nearsighted. If we can keep back a bit he can’t focus on us.”

“Come, Draconis. There’s no point in prolonging this. You knew this would come the moment you
denied me. You’ve seen my playthings before. *Crucio,* littlest Malfoy. *Crucio, Crucio,
CRUCIO!*”

The first three were near misses. The fourth was a direct hit and carried with it the frustrated
force of its misdirected predecessors. Draco went down with a strangled cry, his body curling
protectively, knees drawn to his chest, arms over his head.

“Harry!” Hermione screamed. “Harry, wake up! Stop him! Harry!”

Hermione saw something flicker in Harry’s eyes.

“Harry. I know you’re in there. *Please* stop him. Draco helped you!”

It was excruciating watching the warring emotions range over Harry’s face. Whatever was going on
in there, the *Cruciatus* curse on Draco had been broken and he drew himself trembling back to
his feet. Hermione was terrified that the visual cue of Harry, whom he had so long hated, added to
the reflex to protect himself from another curse would be more than Draco could resist.

“Last chance, little Malfoy.” The cold black-eyed Harry was in the forefront again, although
disconcerted enough by the struggle to change attacks. “Come do what you were born and bred to do.
It’s Potter after all. Look. I’m offering him to you!”

Harry seemed to throw himself against the cave wall behind him, left arm stretched out, legs
spread wide, as if held by unseen forces. His head drooped forward limply.

Draco lurched to his feet, clutching his wand.

“Take him, Draco. You know what I can do for you. Take him and join me,” came Harry’s voice, so
grossly unlike him.

“Alright! I’ll do it!”

The confident self-righteousness of earlier that evening flew swiftly out the cave door for
Hermione.

“Ginny could never forgive you if you hurt Harry, Malfoy. *Never.*”

“Shut it, Granger,” Draco whispered. “I’m not going to hurt Harry. Much. Your faith, however, is
deeply touching.”

*Much?*

Draco made his way toward Harry channeling five years of scarcely suppressed aggression.

“Look at me, Potter,” he hissed. “I want you to watch me. This is your bloody fault and I’m
going to break you before I give you up. Father always said the Death Eaters were told they could
have as much fun with you as they wanted as long as they brought you to the Dark Lord still alive.
So *look* at me!”

He made a swift slash and upward flick with his wand. Harry’s head flew back against the cave
wall as if pulled by his hair. Hermione saw his eyes shift and realized Draco wanted Voldemort to
step back from the forefront to allow Harry to be the one to feel what Draco was supposed to do to
him. He could still be in there, controlling, but it gave Harry a better chance of regaining
himself. If Draco didn’t kill him first.

“You’re think you’re so special *Potter*. You’re nothing but a scrawny left-over that
Dumbledore pinned his misguided hopes on because he had nothing better to use. Only the most
gutless, spineless, sniveling drivel of the wizarding world can possibly expect you to save them
from what’s coming. You simply sicken the rest of us. *Conlacertus*!”

The spell neatly sliced through the shirt bandaged around Harry’s chest and into the skin below.
The bandage and potion-soaked poultice fell away to the ground. Harry’s body cried out and jerked
against its splayed limbs. Hermione began to see what she knew to be Harry taking over his features
again. The pupils shrunk to their normal size and the green iris took over the balance of color,
his mouth trembled, the terrible smile gone. Voldemort couldn’t resist the opportunity to feel
Harry in pain and humiliated, and he could not do so without allowing Harry dominance in the body
upon which the pain was to be inflicted. In the exact reverse of his last awakening, Harry’s eyes
moved beyond Draco with neither fear nor resistance to Hermione’s with what seemed to her to be
both concern and regret.

And grew falteringly black again.

Draco noticed the change as well. “You know one thing I’ve always wanted to see, Harry? You, on
your knees.” He flicked his wand again, a graceful twist that brought Harry to the ground. “begging
my forgiveness for every moment of your pitiful, annoying existence. *Exposco adfectio*.”

Harry’s body lowered over his knees, clearly against his will. His good arm slowly extended
beyond his bowed head as if in supplication, trembling as it fought the force of the spell.

Hermione felt her own hand covering her mouth, wished that she could instead cover her eyes.

Draco stepped forward and positioned his foot against the side of Harry’s head, forcing it
flatter to the ground but in the process turning Harry’s eyes towards Hermione.

And he was Harry again, eyes brilliantly green and magnified by tears of pain and
humiliation.

“Let him go. Draco. It’s Harry, let him go!” No sooner had the impassioned plea passed her lips
did Hermione see the flare of impatience on Draco’s face and the resurgence of the cold black in
the eyes beneath him.

*Oh, damn, what have I done? Smart move, Hermione. That helped!*

“No, wait. I’ve got a far better task for you, Potter,” Draco said, a hint of desperation
invading his tone. “The only thing more revolting than you is the mudblood *scum* you consort
with.” He stepped away from Harry and Harry’s body pushed itself shakily back to its knees. “Tell
her. Tell her that even a half blood like yourself could never love *her*. Tell her how her
very existence repulses you. How it repulses us all.”

“No,” came a hoarse whisper from Harry’s lowered head.

“Did you say something Potter? Think carefully. I don’t think I quite heard you correctly.”
Draco’s voice was more confident now, at its sibilant Slytherin best.

Harry’s head came up, his eyes distinctly green; they sought out Hermione’s steadfastly. “No… I
said no. I meant *no*,” he grated out against the remnants of the centaur’s poison still
constricting his throat.

“Wrong answer, Potter,” Draco said, raising his wand.

“Then for your sake and mine, Malfoy, would you just stun me already and *get this demented
fuck out of me!*” Harry gasped, as his hand darted out towards Draco’s wand.

“Hang in there, Potter. *Stupefy*!” Draco spat, jumping back just in time. Harry’s seeker
instincts were homed on Draco’s wand, Voldemort’s last chance to take control and render at least
one of them a fatal blow. He dodged the first spell and stumbled to his feet, lunging, still
hindered by having to use his left hand.

“*Stupefy!”* sobbed Hermione, aiming her wand dead center at his chest.

Harry dropped like a stone and was still.

Hermione and Draco both stood frozen for a long moment, watching. Hermione dropped to her knees
and swiftly crawled to where he lay, raised a hesitant hand but could not at first bring herself to
touch him. ‘*Please let him be okay, please let him breathe, please let him be him, please,’*
her heart pleaded. *‘What have I done?’*

“Is he breathing?” Draco asked shakily.

Hermione laid her hand on his shoulder and gently rolled him over. He was still disturbingly
cold but she was almost certain she saw him take a shallow breath. Her hand moved to just below his
collar bone and she felt another small swell.

“I think so,” she said. “The question is, is he still Harry?”


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>



4. Chapter 4
------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them.

Here With Me

Chapter 4


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

“So,” Draco said. They were still in the cave; rain still dripped fairly steadily over the
entrance but a pale light was also creeping in, dawn making its way through the Forbidden Forest.
Harry’s head lay again in Hermione’s lap. He had been unconscious for what must have been five or
six hours. Draco and Hermione had together re-poulticed the centaurs’ arrow wound with the last of
the potion, thankful that he had remained seemingly oblivious during the procedure. Hermione had
sacrificed most of her shirt this time; it was now sleeveless and what was left was tied off in a
knot baring her midriff. Draco’s passing mention of his fondness for naval piercing had earned him
an undisguised glare that ensured his silence until this point. Who did he think he was? Who did he
think *she* was?

“So, do we enervate him now, or try and get him up to the castle? That’s what you’re asking,
isn’t it.”

“Yes.”

“If we enervate him at the castle, we risk bringing Voldemort into Hogwarts,” Hermione said
slowly.

“If we enervate him here, we risk picking up where we left off,” Draco pointed out. “Not my
personal choice. Scary boyfriend you’ve got yourself there by the way, Granger. I’m starting to
understand the whole withholding sex thing.”

Hermione took a deep, cleansing breath. “He’s never actually done this before. Well, he told me
that Voldemort possessed him at the Ministry of Magic last year and tried to get Dumbledore to kill
him, but other than that it’s just been dreams. Your dear friend and house master Snape has been
supposed to be teaching him Occlumency.”

“Obviously he should be doing remedial classes in that as well.”

“That’s what he’s *doing* during “remedial potions,” you idiot. Learning Occlumency.”

“My personal grading system would give him a “T” then. It’s not working as far as I can
tell.”

“No,” Hermione said sadly. “It seems not. Another reason not to take him in to Hogwarts. Which
leaves us two options; we either try to enervate him here, or one of us goes up to the castle and
brings Dumbledore back with us.”

“Or we just quietly grab our wands right quick, because I swear to Merlin he just blinked,”
Draco said nervously.

Hermione looked down in time to see Harry’s eyes open and meet her own. They were their own
lovely green again, the pupils shrunk down to normal size. He blinked… and they stayed green. She
had never seen anything so relieving, so reassuring, and so… *beautiful* in all her life.

“Hi Harry,” she said softly, watching him slowly take in his surroundings and reacquaint his
brain with their predicament..

“Are you *sure* that’s Potter?”

“Look at his eyes, they’re green again. When he was Voldemort the pupils were so dilated they
were black. I’m positive it’s Harry this time,” she told him.

Draco leaned forward and peered hesitantly at Harry…who promptly crossed his eyes at him and
attempted to stick out his tongue.

“Potter it is. I never thought I’d actually be happy to see you, scarface. Nice alter-ego. Not
hanging about anywhere nearby, is he?”

Harry started to shake his head, swallowed and said hoarsely “He’s gone,” instead. His eyes
flicked between the two of them. “I’m sorry. My fault…”

“Don’t,” Hermione interrupted him. “I could see you in there. We knew you were fighting him.
It’s *not* your fault that the scar connects you.”

“I think I let him in though. I didn’t mean to. I was so… tired and,” his eyes closed, shutting
them out, then resolutely opened again, “so scared. I panicked, about the poison. I couldn’t feel
the potion working; my heart felt like it was going to explode. I remembered being inside him in a
dream, and being his snake in fifth year. It’s like he’s cold blooded or something, his heart
hardly beats at all. It made the pain almost stop, and it felt so good. But he must have known what
I was doing. It was just like unlocking a door to both of you. It was stupid, and I’m sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Hermione said gently.

Harry met her eyes, misery contorting his features. “I should have. Dumbledore has been trying
to make me understand that this could happen. I just couldn’t really fathom it until now, what he
could make me do. What he could do *with* me. It’s not just thoughts and images like Snape and
I fling back and forth. It’s everything inside me. He can touch it all. It sickens me, Hermione,
and it scares me to death. I know I’m supposed to defeat him for the good of the Wizarding world,
but I swear I just want to kill him so that he *never* gets inside me again.”

His voice still sounded as if he had swallowed ground glass, painful even to listen to, but
there was one more thing she really needed to know.

“Harry, how did you… did he… just leave? You shouldn’t have been able to wake up. I stunned you.
We were trying to decide whether to take you to the castle or enervate you here to be sure…”

“Sure that Voldemort didn’t get into Hogwarts through me? I was afraid that’s what you were
going to do, and I’d come to in the infirmary and attack Dumbledore before anyone really understood
how far he’d gotten. I kept on trying to find something in me so horrible he couldn’t stand being
in me any longer like what happened when I touched Quirrell. All I managed to do was bore the hell
out of him. He kept trying to squirm his way into memories like the prophecy; things that I knew I
couldn’t let him see. I was getting so tired, and then I stumbled on it entirely by accident. The
one thing that physically pains him in his own body the way my scar sometimes burns me.”

He paused, and Hermione saw his gaze shift briefly to Draco before turning back to her.

“That’s fantastic, Harry, that could be really useful,” she said. “What is it?”

He swallowed. “You.”

“*Me?*”

“I’ve been pushing myself away from you, trying to push you away from me because I didn’t want
you to become a pawn in this. It was my fate, it didn’t have to be yours. I thought I couldn’t bear
it if anything happened to you or Ron because of me. I never saw the other side of that, how
letting myself care about you both made me stronger in so many ways and weaker in only one. I’d
fight for you both with my own life. There’s nothing he could do to me that I couldn’t take if it
protected you, and there’s no place dark enough that he could ever hide from me if he hurt you. But
if you died, I’d welcome death and there’d be no way in this world he could stop me from killing
him in the process. Not caring if I died if it meant I could see Sirius again flushed him out of me
at the Ministry of Magic because he couldn’t stand that feelings for another human being could be
more powerful than death.

He knows the power of it – look what it did to him when my mother used it. Tonight he knows that
I’ve got another source of that power. One he didn’t get to destroy before I knew it.

Every time I’ve punished myself like a house elf for thinking that I might love you, Hermione,
it was pure power for him. But I do love you. It can’t be anything else because… I love you
*more* than I fear him. *You* are the power the dark lord knows not. Even if you… if you
don’t feel the same about me, you’ve given me what I need to fight him.”

Hermione felt as if her head were spinning. *You are the power the dark lord knows not… I
punish myself like a house elf for thinking I might love you, Hermione… It can’t be anything else
because… I love you more than I fear him*… *You are the power the dark lord knows not.* Her
eyes sought Harry’s, her heart full… to find him unconscious once more.

“That,” Draco Malfoy said with what could be mistaken for nothing but an actual smile, “was the
single most creative appeal for a shag I think I’ve ever heard.”


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They left the cave cautiously when Hermione assured Draco that the angle of the sun meant it was
at least 7am.

“He’s not leaving unless there’s breakfast waiting,” Harry rasped out resentfully. He’d awoken
to two well-aimed wands until Hermione performed a thorough identity check; Malfoy’s had
“accidentally” poked him in a particularly tender spot and he was having a *really* hard time
retaining a sense of gratitude now the situation had somewhat stabilized..

“I’d rather not be breakfast for the centaurs, stupid. I’m hardly walking into the Great Hall
dressed like this.” Malfoy told him.

“Might blind someone,” Harry agreed.

“May I note that you don’t exactly look like you’ve just returned from the Caribbean yourself,
scarface? Plus, you’re all bloody and you reek like that wretched potion. All in all I’d bet on a
better welcome than you’d get.”

“For Merlin’s sake, will you two stop already? Malfoy, you go in front of Harry and I’ll follow
behind.”

“Oh, right, so I get the centaur arrow to the heart and you get to watch Potter’s arse? I don’t
think so.”

“I always knew you wanted my arse for yourself, Malfoy. Be chivalrous. You can’t honestly expect
Hermione to have to go first.”

“Here’s a plan, Potter. You’ve already got holes in you. You’re expendable. You go first.”

“Fine!” Harry agreed. He took a cautious step on his swollen ankle, already further aggravated
by Voldemort’s calisthenics during the night and realized he was in for a slow and uncomfortable
trip; unless, of course, the centaurs showed up, in which case he was dead. Leaving the totally
unacceptable option of only Malfoy watching over Hermione… He sighed and turned back.

“Here, Harry,” Hermione said, glaring at Malfoy and positioning herself on his left side. “Lean
on me.”

They set off through the forest, wands at the ready. The cave was off the beaten path - which in
the Forbidden Forest meant little more than a deer trail anyway - and it seemed to take an
agonizingly long time to make any progress at all. Harry wasn’t exactly sure when the differences
between them had become so marked, but Hermione suddenly seemed too small (and if the truth be
told, Harry too reluctant to lean on her as much as he actually needed) to make an effective
crutch. Malfoy ultimately lost patience and pushed her aside.

“I’ll do it. We’ll never make it back at this rate.”

Their progress increased rapidly, if uncomfortably for Harry. They began to recognize their
surroundings and be able to judge the distance; Hermione reckoned that at their current pace they
had no more than a quarter hour at most until they reached the edge of the forest near Hagrids’
hut.

“Almost there,” she said encouragingly, noting his rapid, shallow breathing and thinking that if
he was only slightly less stubborn or would just cooperatively pass out she and Malfoy could so
easily use a levitating charm. But then, he wouldn’t be Harry, would he?

“Shhh!” Draco hissed. Hermione heard the sound of something approaching at a steady pace; two
somethings, actually. They didn’t seem to be making any attempt to disguise their progress, not a
great sign in a place where most creatures made every attempt to go unseen. Draco shoved Harry none
too gently behind a nearby tree and stepped in front of Hermione, wand poised.

“*Stupefy!”*

“Malfoy, don’t, it’s Hagrid!” Hermione swatted at his wand arm, succeeding in deflecting his aim
slightly. The spell barely glanced off Hagrid’s enormous frame and he shook himself. Fang whined
and hid behind his legs.

“Malfoy? ‘ermione? What are you two doin’ ‘ere? Haven’t seen no sign o’ ‘arry have yeh?
McGonagall’s in a right fury, Dumbledore’s sent for ‘im and she can’t find ‘ide nor ‘air in the
castle. Did she send you two lookin’ as well?”

“Erm…” Hermione elbowed Draco sharply and with a reluctant sigh he hauled Harry to his feet and
out from behind the tree. He was quite bloody again despite their best attempts to clean him up and
appeared distinctly glassy-eyed and worse for wear, although Hermione was relieved to notice no
sign of anything Voldemortish in his expression.

Hagrid looked from the bedraggled Harry to the uncharacteristically mussed Malfoy and
wild-haired, barely covered Hermione with something like shocked amusement.

“I can’t wait to ‘ear this one. You three look like six weeks worth o’ detention on the ‘oof.
Alright there, ‘arry?”

“He’s been shot with a centaurs’ arrow, Hagrid. Last night. Draco’s been trying to counteract
the poison until we could get him back to the castle.”

Hagrid’s expression changed rapidly. “Shot by the… ‘oly mother of Merlin why didn’t yeh say
somethin’! Tha’s nothin’ to fool around with! Up you get, then ‘arry.” Hagrid hauled Harry over his
shoulder like a sack of dead ferrets and began to trundle rapidly off toward the castle. Draco and
Hermione had to jog to keep up with his pace.

“There’s going to be ‘ell to pay for this. They’ve gone too far now, the bloody minded
creatures! What were the three of yeh playing at in the forest at night? Yer not firs’ years
anymore, yeh know well enough what’s in there’s not to be messed with.”

“Crabbe and Goyle sent Harry a note saying they had me hidden in the forest. They were lying,
but Harry, being Harry, went running off to rescue me without telling anyone. Malfoy went after him
to warn him, but it was too late. Ron showed me the note when we got back to the common room after
rounds.”

“And you stole Harry’s invisibility cloak, which unless I miss my guess meant a trip into the
boy’s dormitory, then came after him yourself without telling anyone where you were going. Don’t
forget that part, Miss Perfect Prefect. Even Weaslebee won’t have let you go by yourself.” Malfoy
interjected. Hermione glared at him.

“We’ll sort all that out later. Important thing now is to get ‘arry safe.” Hagrid told them.

The rest of the trip was accomplished in anxious silence. Harry appeared to have fallen
unconscious again and Hermione realized with some trepidation that they were essentially right back
to the same decision they had had to make in the cave. She trotted ahead and stopped Hagrid before
the enormous doors that led to the entrance hall.

“Hagrid, wait. There’s something else.”

He pulled up in surprise. Hermione knew he expected her to be the one rushing them to get Harry
to the Infirmary, but she also knew Harry would want them to be sure it was safe before they
did.

“We need to wake him up before we take him inside. Voldemort possessed him last night. He took
control of him. Harry managed to get back, but we need to make sure it hasn’t happened again before
he’s in the castle.”

Hagrid’s black eyes grew round and he lowered Harry gingerly to the ground.

“Might ‘ave told me that before, ‘ermione!”

“I… I’m sorry, Hagrid,” Hermione said apologetically. “I don’t think it will happen again, but I
know Harry would want us to be careful.”

“How kin yeh tell? Are yeh certain yeh’d know it wasn’t You-Know-Who?”

“Trust us, if it’s anything like last night, you’ll know.” Draco told him ruefully.

Hagrid gently shifted Harry into a more upright position and tried shaking his un-injured
shoulder, to no avail.

“Come on then, ‘arry. Wake up. ‘arry?”

“So far it’s been kiss him or slap him, that’s all that worked for us,” Draco said.

Hagrid shot him a somewhat bemused look, and Hermione thought that Draco Malfoy really needed to
learn when to shut up if he was going to pass on the whole Death Eater career option.

“We’re back at Hogwarts, Harry,” she told him, squeezing his left hand as gently as she could.
“We need you to let us know if it’s okay to go in. Come on, Harry, you can do this.”

His fingers tightened around hers in response, but she knew that wasn’t enough.

“No, Harry, You’ve got to open your eyes. Please, Harry.”

“Come on then, ‘arry,” Hagrid prompted. “Open up so we can get you up to Madam Pomfrey. She’ll
put you right.”

Hermione saw his eye shift beneath their closed lids and gripped her wand tightly. They
struggled open, tired but familiar and green, pupils quite normal in size.

“Okay to go inside?” she asked.

He nodded, and managed a hoarse whisper.

“You might want to use the invisibility cloak though, Hermione, because that shirt is definitely
*not* regulation school uniform anymore.”

She could have sworn he grinned as Hagrid hoisted him back to his shoulder and through the
doors.


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Madam Pomfrey achieved whole new heights of protectiveness and wouldn’t even let Hermione
*near* Harry after she had examined him.

“This is no fall from a Quidditch broom, Miss Granger. I can not fix this with a dose of
Skele-Gro, you know! You’ve come quite close to losing young Mr. Potter this time and he’s not out
of the woods just yet. I’m going to give him a nice dreamless sleep draught and…”

“No! I mean, Madam Pomfrey, please don’t do that until we’ve talked to Professor Dumbledore.
Please! It’s very important.”

“Really, Miss Granger, I know that you are quite attached to Mr. Potter but I believe that I am
far more qualified to know what’s best for an injured student.”

Hermione filed the whole ‘*attached to Mr. Potter*’ comment away for later perusal, but
persisted. “*Please* wait. Professor McGonagall said he was on his way here, it can’t be much
longer.”

“If it helps any, I’m not attached to him in the slightest. I hate Potters’ guts and even I
think Dumbledore ought to weigh in on this one,” Malfoy added. “Trust me Madam Pomfrey; you don’t
want to see him wake up on the wrong side of the bed just now.”

Madam Pomfrey rolled her eyes and bustled back toward her office for the medicine. Dumbledore
appeared just as she was returning. He seemed tired and somewhat diminished to Hermione; the eyes
behind the half moon spectacles had no hint of a twinkle this morning.

“Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy. Hagrid told me a most interesting tale of your adventure in the
woods. Perhaps you would care to provide a few missing pieces?”

“Professor, I know what we did was wrong and we’ll be punished, but there’s something you need
to know first. Voldemort possessed Harry last night, the same way he did in the Department of
Mysteries. He was inside him and he spoke through him. Harry thinks he knows how it happened, but
I’m not sure… well, I mean, it might be dangerous for him if anything we do puts him back in that
same position. Could deep sleep or unconsciousness make you more vulnerable to unwilling
possession?”

“Indeed they could, Miss Granger, and if what I have heard of Harry’s condition is correct his
other natural defenses are most likely at low ebb as well. Poppy, I’m sure that a dreamless sleep
draught would have been your first choice for Harry, and a wise and merciful one at that, but we
will need to be very careful with Mr. Potter just now.”

“Albus, the boy has still got quite a bit of the centaur’s poison in his system and the wounds
must remain open until…”

“Perhaps Professor Snape could be of some assistance? Mr. Malfoy seems to have had some success
with a generic antidote…”

“Erm, Professor, just a thought, but if Harry wakes up as Voldemort, you might not want
Professor Snape to be the first person he sees.” Malfoy interjected. “He wasn’t very happy with me
last night.”

Dumbledore leveled a measured look at Draco and sighed. “Yes, Mr. Malfoy, I do see your point.
Poppy, I will leave you to treat Harry as you see best, but I must insist that you not medicate him
in anyway that inhibits his own control of his senses. I think he would agree that any pain from
his injuries is infinitely preferable to the alternative. I will not ask to see him just now, but I
hope you will grant me a short visit after I have spoken with Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy?”

Madam Pomfrey said, “As you wish, Headmaster,” in a most disapproving tone of voice and
disappeared behind Harry’s curtains.

Dumbledore turned to Hermione and Draco. “I am sure you feel the need of a good wash up and
something to eat after last night. I will allow you both a half hour to go to your respective
houses and change into clean clothing. Please join me in my office then. I will have the house
elves arrange for some breakfast to be sent along for you, and Miss Granger, please inform Mr.
Weasley that he is to join us as well. The password is now ‘caramel bulls’ eye’. Off you go.”

And with mutual glares of misgiving, Draco Malfoy headed off to the dungeons of Slytherin and
Hermione Granger climbed towards Gryffindor tower.


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Thirty minutes later both met again in front of the gargoyles that guarded the entrance to the
Headmasters’ office. Hermione noticed how much more unapproachable and dismissive Malfoy appeared
safely cloaked in his uniform once more. Or maybe it was just being unnerved at being glared at by
his flame- haired potential brother-in-law… either way she felt a small pang of regret. He’d hurt
her deeply and annoyed the hell out of her but she had a rather different perspective on him after
last night; a small, quite fragile, respect.

Ron just looked like he’d like to give Malfoy a large pang in the arse.

“Caramel bull’s eye,” Hermione said hurriedly, hoping to avoid bloodshed in the hall, and led
the way through to the revolving staircase as the doors opened before them.

Three straight backed wooden chairs were lined up before Dumbledore’s desk and on a small table
between two of them two plates of buttered toast and two steaming mugs of tea waited. Professor
McGonagall and Professor Snape were there as well, already seated and obviously deep in a
conversation brought abruptly to a halt by their arrival.

“Please be seated. Mr. Malfoy, Miss Granger, you two at least must certainly be hungry. Help
yourselves to whatever you wish.”

Hermione chose the seat between Ron and Draco, feeling Harry’s absence keenly. She had never
actually been in Dumbledore’s office without him. She had a sudden vision of Hogwarts without
Harry, as if he had already defeated Voldemort but been virtually erased in the process. The sense
of loss, of a hole in the universe too big to ever fill flooded through her with a sudden
knife-sharp pain. She had always held the idea at bay, an abstract concept best dealt with later,
after. What would being Head Girl or perfect scores on her N.E.W.T.s mean in a world without Harry
in it? What comfort would even the certain knowledge of peace, of safety in which to build a life,
a home and family be, if the price was Harry?

“Are you quite alright, Miss Granger?” Professor McGonagall’s voice penetrated Hermione’s
reverie.

‘*No,*’ Hermione thought. ‘*I’m not. I’m sixteen years old and I’ve just had the most
horrible realization that the whole rest of my life is something I simply don’t want to contemplate
if Harry’s not going to be in it. I’ve actually seen him laid low and struggling now, and it’s way
too real to cope with.*

“Fine thank you, Professor,” was what she said, and took a bracing sip of scalding tea.

“I have a few questions I must ask,” Dumbledore said softly, watching them carefully above his
steepled fingers. “Please answer as completely as you are able. We’ll skip the details of what
brought you together in the one place you have been repeatedly warned for the last six years
*not* to be, as it is most unlikely that the reason in any way justified the now all too
obvious danger. Tell me, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy, when did you notice Voldemort’s possession of
Harry? What if anything precipitated the event?”

Hermione glanced at Malfoy and he nodded dismissively, as if to say, *‘This one’s
yours.’*

“He was asleep, not unconscious, I think. He’d seemed to drift off, so I *thought* he was
sleeping. One moment he was okay and then maybe ten or fifteen minutes later I woke up again and he
was cold and stiff, freezing cold. I thought he was… I thought he’d stopped breathing. We tried to
wake him up, but as soon as his eyes opened you could tell it wasn’t Harry.”

“How?”

“He was furious with me.” Draco took over.

Ron snorted. “So?”

Draco ignored him. “He tried to *Crucio* me, which really isn’t Potter’s style. He was also
confused about not being able to use his right arm and not having a wand. Potter was pretty
familiar with those concepts by that point. And then he seemed to sort of, I don’t know,” he
glanced at Hermione as if for confirmation. “He seemed to try and take stock of Potter, as if he
was sort of feeling him all over, then he said something about how Harry was stronger than he knew,
and he *Crucioed* me without a wand. It was no feeble effort, either.”

Dumbledore appeared deeply disheartened by Draco’s words.

“Did you feel at any time that Harry was present or aware of what Voldemort was doing?”

Hermione nodded, and felt Dumbledore’s eyes zero in on her with the attention of a drowning man
on a distant ship.

“Impossible.” Snape stated unequivocally.

“No, it isn’t.” Hermione said. “When Voldemort *Crucioed* Malfoy, Harry stopped him.”

“Nonsense,” Snape said. “The Dark Lord simply changed his plans.”

“He changed his plans *because* Harry stopped him. He was frustrated and angry. He tried to
get Draco to attack Harry then, and Draco played along. Whenever Draco did something, Voldemort
seemed to push Harry back in control, so that it was Harry who would be hurt.”

Dumbledore actually seemed to wince, his greatest fear for Harry once again realized. Snape
shook his head, unswayed. “Unusual, but it means nothing. The Dark Lord was in total control.”

“He might have been - until I told Potter to insult Granger,” Draco admitted. “I tried to make
him call her a mudblood, to say he was disgusted by her.”

Ron, silent all this time, leaned forward to get a clear view of Malfoy.

“You tried to get *Harry* to call *Hermione* a mudblood? What the hell is wrong with
you, Malfoy?” He turned to Dumbledore. “Why are we sitting here listening to this? If you want to
know what You- Know-Who’s thinking, just ask him, not Harry!”

“He didn’t do it, Weasley,” Draco cut in angrily. “He *couldn’t* do it. He’d done
everything else I’d told him to, like it or not, because Voldemort was in there with him and I
*made* him. I made him look at me while I cut off his bandages and let him bleed. Voldemort
liked that. I made him kneel and bow down to me, head down on the ground and everything. I put my
foot right on his head and pushed his face around in the dirt. For a moment or two I actually
thought *I* was going to like that, but I *couldn’t*. He just never gave up. I humiliated
him and he begged me to stun him to, as he said, ‘get this demented f…erm… fool out of me.’”

Hermione noticed he still had the grace to flush as he took in McGonagall’s disapproving glare
before continuing. “He didn’t ask to die, and I’ve seen Voldemort drive people to that with a lot
less. He never stopped being Potter, and in the end, somehow, he … won.”

Ron’s face was contorted with a combination of rage and regret; Hermione realized it would be a
long time, if ever, before he completely forgave her for going after Harry alone. For the life of
her she could not verbalize her impulse to do so; it had been foolish, illogical, and yet somehow
the only answer she could bear at the time. She’d had to go.

McGonagall looked shattered that it had come at last to this; Snape disbelieving. Dumbledore, to
Hermione’s great amazement, seemed to have been given a pepper-up potion and a second chance at
life.

Suddenly she had a surge of comprehension. Harry’s successes has always pleased and been
acknowledged by the Headmaster, but she’d never seen before how torn Dumbledore was between what he
knew must happen and the boy it had to happen to. Dumbledore, she saw, was more than just fond of
Harry. Perhaps he was less of a pawn in this battle than he thought.

“That could be all that he needs,” Dumbledore mused. “If there was even a hint of it there he
could be taught, but there is little one can do to light a fire without a spark. Harry has always
been strongly resistant to the *Imperius* curse. Learning to throw off possession while the
scar still links them could well change the whole course of conflict.” He met Hermione’s gaze.
“This has been a painful experience for Harry, I know, but perhaps a blessing in disguise as
well.”

“It seems a great deal to expect of a boy who could not master the simplest tenets of
Occlumency.” Snape commented dryly.

“Might have done if he hadn’t had to learn it from you,” Ron muttered.

Snape’s overlarge nostrils flared.

“And you would know exactly *what* about that subject, Mr. Weasley?”

“*I* know that there had to be more than just Occlumency going on during those lessons,”
Hermione said slowly and clearly, “because Harry dreaded going down there, and he always came back
looking like a mouse pawed by a cat. And then they just stopped. He would never say why. Why did
they, Professor?”

Snape’s cold black eyes went glacial. “That, Miss Granger, is between Potter, the Headmaster and
myself. I admit to a great deal of surprise that it has in fact remained that way, but it most
certainly has nothing to do with either of you.”

Hermione was tired; worn out from the night before and the constant buzzing of newly unleashed
thoughts around her brain like a hoard of restless bees.

“So, it’s up to Harry to do whatever it takes to learn how to defeat Voldemort, no matter how
painful and difficult, but the rest of us should go on with our petty daily occupations because no
one made a prophecy about us? Is it really only Harry’s war, or all of ours? At least when Umbridge
was here a few people were shocked enough to join the DA and *think* about fighting for
themselves. If you ask me, Voldemort’s greatest power might have been realizing how revoltingly
self-involved most witches and wizards seem to be. ” Hermione heard herself exclaim. “If that’s a
side effect of constant exposure to magic I think I’d rather be a Muggle!”

She pulled her prefects’ badge from her robes and dropped it onto Dumbledore’s desk. “I’ll save
you the trouble of asking for this. I’m sure someone can let me know the details of whatever
punishment you decide, I don’t particularly care and I have no defense at all. I’d like to go now,
please, Professor.”

She thought for a moment that Dumbledore was going to refuse her but he seemed at last to think
better of it, and waved her sadly toward the door. She heard Ron rise and follow; half hoped he
would be called back. The last thing she heard as the stairs lowered beneath her was, “Sit, Mr.
Malfoy. I’m afraid that you and I have a great deal more to discuss.” The doors sealed again behind
them with a gentle “snick.”

“Are you going to see Harry, then?” Ron asked her as they passed the gargoyles.

“Maybe later. Madam Pomfrey won’t let anyone near him now. I think I really need to get some
sleep.”

“Yeah. You were right in there, you know. Strung out and daft as a duck for handing in your
prefect’s badge, but right on about Snape and Dumbledore.”

“They’d have had to take it anyway Ron, how could they explain a prefect doing what I did?
They’ll take Malfoy’s as well. But it’s not just Snape and Dumbledore, in fact I think Dumbledore
knows he’s got ground to make up with Harry. Your family has always pitched in, through the Order.
It’s the whole rest of this bloody school thinking house rivalries are still important and nothing
will change except Voldemort might kill Harry! I just feel like it’s all closing in around us and
no one’s noticing…”

“Sleep does sound a good idea then. If I get in I’ll tell Harry you’ll see him later, yeah?”

“Thanks, Ron”

Hermione set off for her room. As she climbed the stairs it seemed to be a thousand miles
away.


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5. Chapter 5
------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 5


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Hermione chose to wait until late in the day to visit Harry. Madam Pomfrey looked up from her
little office when Hermione arrived and waved her on without a word. She knew the rules by now.

His eyes were closed but struggled open reflexively when he heard movement beside him and he
smiled when he recognized her; the sweet, hesitant grin of welcome that she so associated with
essential ‘Harryness’. Nothing could ever mimic that for her. She loved that he seemed to find
solace and comfort in her company, that he openly admired her mind and willingly accepted her need
to be needed for her brains and ability instead of more typically girlish qualities. She often
wished to see herself through Harry’s eyes, well aware from his unstinting loyalty that what he saw
must be somehow far closer to what she actually wished to be.

“Hi.” His voiced still sounded forced and painful. He shifted over on the bed, making room on
the edge. She pulled the battle scarred old wooden chair she’d spent so much time on over the last
five years across the floor and settled on it, leaning forward to rest her chin on her arms and her
arms on the bed. He curled his good arm under his head and rolled to his side to bring them
level.

“Hi,” she said back. He appeared pale and tired, eyes shadowed, the split on his lower lip still
raw. ‘*Well, he lost rather a lot of blood, didn’t he?’* she thought*. ‘What were you
expecting?* *You just don’t want to see him vulnerable. It’s not like he chose this.’*

“Ron told me about turning in your prefect’s badge. I’m *really* sorry, Hermione. I never
meant for… I mean, it was my mistake yet again. You shouldn’t have to pay for that.” Genuine regret
watched her from his eyes and she wished for something simple as a charm to dispel it.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m not, not really. It’s almost as if I’ve outgrown it or something this year.
It seems kind of, I don’t know, *pointless* now…”

*Now that Voldemort has changed all the rules.*

“Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione Granger?” he joked, but sadness seemed to
swell up and join the regret. She had to lower her own eyes.

“I’m sorry too, Harry. I know saying that sort of shakes the foundation of who I’ve always been
for you and Ron. None of us can really stay the same anymore.”

*Not and survive, anyway.*

“You gave me a lot to think about in that cave, Harry,” she told him. “You and Malfoy both,
actually.”

“You want to take Malfoy with a very large dose of salt, Hermione. He seems to be trying to get
us to think he’s headed in the right direction down a very crooked path.”

“Harry, were you really asleep after he told you about seeing Ginny and not becoming a Death
Eater? Did you hear us talking, well, arguing really, after that?”

He closed his eyes briefly, as if rewinding his memory and searching for what she asked. “I
think I must have been asleep. After the bit about Ginny and Draco everything sort of goes horribly
blank. Hardly surprising, when you think about it. But then it gets very confused between what was
Voldemort and what was me.”

She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not that he had missed Malfoy’s pointed remarks about
the two of them.

“Do you remember Voldemort telling Draco to hurt you?”

He nodded slowly. “That was really strange. He kept sort of taking over and then pushing me back
again. Malfoy would be throwing a spell at me and I’d just get to where I could handle what he was
doing and sort of get back in control and *wham*, Voldemort again.”

“Do you remember what Draco made you do?”

“You mean the last bit, don’t you? Calling you a mudblood and saying that you repulsed me. I
didn’t, did I? I couldn’t have. Because… well, because you don’t. Obviously. Exactly the opposite.”
He pushed himself up onto the elbow of his uninjured arm and she sat up as well, lifting her chin
from her arms.

“Not so obviously, Harry. It’s never been obvious to me. I think I was fairly confident that you
hadn’t the slightest bit of blood prejudice and I didn’t actually *repulse* you, but I could
never be sure of the opposite. I’ve always lingered in the middle ground of
Harry’s-friend-who-happens-to-be-a-girl.”

“No. That’s where you *thought* you lingered, Hermione. You lingered lots of other places
in my imagination, believe me. But I could always find a hundred reasons not to give you the chance
to just answer the question. How could you ever want someone like me? You saw me on the train, the
clueless muggle kid wearing Dudley’s old clothes. You came to know that I’d lived this totally
messed up life, that no one had *ever* loved me, had ever even liked me and lived to tell
about. It was as if I’d pulled a fast one on you and Ron that first year and I’ve been terrified
ever since you’d actually see through whatever you thought you saw in me to what was really inside.
I thought the answer to that was nothing. Now I know that it’s worse than nothing, that there’s
some part of Voldemort in me because of this bloody scar.”

“Whatever part of wretched Tom Riddle might be attached to that scar, the rest of you, the best
part of you is Harry James Potter,“ she said fiercely. “We found that out last night. No matter how
you choose to torture yourself, there’s another side to all of this.”

“How about how I almost killed you last spring in the Department of Mysteries because of it?
Where’s the other side to that? I might have wondered if I’d been taking you for granted before
then, but that’s when I knew. All at once I just *knew* that I couldn’t go on if anything
happened to you. I… my mind just kind of stopped. And it was because of me you were there.”

She looked at him, struck wordless for once, dumbfounded.

He saw her face and went instantly still, painfully sure he’d said the wrong thing as usual, but
uncertain exactly *how* this time round. He fought the rising urge to complete the usual
cycle, to pretend there was nothing there, push her a safe distance away.

He struggled up further, sitting cross legged on the bed. Everything throbbed, and he fought to
clear his head.

“Hermione, I can’t *do* this anymore. I’m not even sure how we got here, or what I said
that hurt you, but I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to say I’m sorry and that I think I might love you
and I don’t know why I always mess it up, except that I’ve always been afraid to put everything on
the line and just ask you if you could ever love me as well. And stay conscious long enough to hear
the answer.”

He was looking down at the blanket over his knees, avoiding the consequences of her silence.
When he finished his eyes slowly rose to peer hesitantly through his fringe for her reaction and
she was utterly undone. It was as if a powerful hand had literally grabbed hold of her heart and
squeezed until the message was more than clear.

“Of *course* I love you, Harry,” she choked out against the tightness of it. “I’ve loved
you for ages. It’s just you never seemed to *see* me. I thought you’d never think of me as
anything other than the one who argues with Ron and tells you to get your homework done.” It was
her turn to look away then, her turn to say things that she wasn’t ready to watch him hear.

“There’s something about how accepting you are about things, about how you just keep on trying
no matter what happens that makes me feel safe with you, and hopeful. You make me believe in things
that aren’t in books. You make me look deep into things, and to think them through for myself
instead of just accepting what seems to be true. You make me feel like more than just a walking
encyclopedia, Harry. You make me feel special. Useful. *Wanted*, instead of… tolerated, for
all the things that make me different from the other girls.”

They were quite still a moment, as if unable to take in the enormity of what they both had
finally admitted to the other. Harry hesitantly extended his left arm toward her and with a small
squeak she flew at him and buried her head in the crook of his neck, sobbing out of sheer relief.
He patted her back gently, wondering again if there was something related to the curse of his scar
that meant no matter how hard he tried to please a girl they would *always* end up crying
their eyes out over him. As if reading his mind, which he was growing quite sure she could probably
do by now, Hermione pulled back her head, smiling tremulously through the tears.

“Sorry, Harry, I never meant to pull a Cho on you, honestly. This is the part where you’re
finally supposed to kiss me, and I’ve gone and spoilt it for you.”

“Never mind,” said Harry, fighting his shyness and the awkwardness of their position to kiss her
anyway. Hermione’s tears and Cho’s were a world of difference. For one, hers were actually for him
and not some other bloke, and, well…

Harry stopped thinking. Anything more then Hermione was simply gone. His heart was somehow full,
his brain was full, every other sense he possessed was otherwise occupied. He knew her, felt he
knew at last what she wanted from him. She was utterly familiar, like finding some missing piece of
himself that instead of complicating his life swiftly and succinctly simplified everything,
answering questions he’d barely known he had. He was dimly aware of her gentleness with his lip,
felt the rising need to explore this new connection between them warring with the desire not gross
her out by bleeding all over her.

This conflict was resolved by a shocked “Miss Granger!” from Madam Pomfrey, directly behind
them.

He felt Hermione pull sharply away like a tearing of his own skin. Her abrupt departure brought
Madam Pomfrey’s outraged countenance into view. Just as he attempted with his own heated gaze to
begin to warn her not to blame Hermione he realized that Dumbledore was standing just behind
her.

Busted.

“Now Poppy,” Albus Dumbledore remonstrated gently, “I’m certain Miss Granger meant Mr. Potter no
harm. Quite the opposite, I should think.”

Harry saw Hermione’s fierce blush out of the corner of his eye. He only wished he could manage
something half as innocent; being slightly low on blood at the moment, the rush south at the first
touch of Hermione’s lips had left him with a serious deficit… nothing left over to blush
*with*. The room was beginning to spin in a most unhelpful manner.

“Lie down, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey told him in her very best Head Nurse voice, the one you
ignored at your own peril, the penalty being proportionate to the foulness of the potion you
ultimately received.

Harry slunk back against his pillow, wincing.

“I can see that you are still somewhat under the weather, Harry. Most of my questions for you
will wait until the morning. Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy proved wonderfully observant under the
circumstances and answered quite of few of my concerns when we met this morning. My only interest
at the moment is what we need to do to assure that you sleep safely tonight.”

“I don’t know, Sir. I’ve been worried about… I mean, I managed to throw him off last night, but
I’m still working out exactly *how*. I don’t want to risk Voldemort gaining access to the
castle or anyone else being hurt because of me.”

“I am afraid we have few choices then. I have also been working on finding a solution throughout
the day, and will continue to do so throughout the night if necessary. For now, however, I am
afraid we shall have to restrain you.”

“How?” Hermione asked. “I wondered about that last night. How can you restrain him and still
keep him safe? What spell could you use without leaving him a sitting duck for Voldemort?”

“That, my dear Miss Granger, is the heart of the problem. I was hoping that Harry could give us
some insight into what might help him. I could not – would not – use any means that increased his
own vulnerability.”

“I need to be able to wake up,” Harry said at once with a shudder. “Please, as long as I can
wake up I’m not sure if I care what else you do.”

“He’s not in any condition for most traditional immobilizing spells, Albus” Madam Pomfrey
fretted. “*Petrificus* *totalus* is out of the question, for example, as his body can not
carry out any healing while he is paralyzed and only the eyes are spared. Perhaps in a day or two,
but not just yet. Most limb affecting jinxes have either such short or unpredictable results that
we’d spend all night recasting them and he’d get no sleep at all. And sleep is what he needs to
help him heal. The sooner the poison is fully eradicated from his system the sooner I can heal the
arrow wounds themselves.”

“Perhaps we should just tie him to the bed posts.” Professor Snape’s voice was at its silkiest;
none of them had noticed his approach and he was clearly enjoying the dilemma of what to do with
Harry.

“Couldn’t I go down to Hagrid’s?” Harry asked desperately. “He wouldn’t mind, and it would keep
things out of the castle if anything went wrong.”

“Mr. Potter’s condition requires reintroduction of the anti venom potion into the wounds every
four hours and I, for one, am NOT spending the night in Hagrid’s hut. I have other patients here
that require my attention as well.”

“Hagrid would do it!” Harry pleaded.

“It’s out of the question, Mr. Potter!” Madam Pomfrey insisted.

“I could do it,” Hermione volunteered. “Draco and I managed in the cave.”

“Given your behavior earlier this evening and the nature of the arrangements at Hagrid’s I
rather think not!” Madame Pomfrey said, with great finality.

Hermione’s cheeks flamed again, and if Snape’s ears could have been seen through his greasy
tangle of hair they would have pricked. Harry wished she could read his mind when he actually
*wanted* her to and tried to think soothing thoughts. He could tell he was going to pay for
their interrupted embrace later, and it had been going so well for a change…

“Perhaps Mr. Malfoy could be convinced to assist Hagrid this evening?” Dumbledore suggested
hopefully to Snape.

“Not if anyone mentions the alternative is tying me up,” Harry said glumly. “You might as well
go on and do it.”

“I believe that he is available for detention this evening,” Snape said, “but given his
statements to you earlier today and the news I came to bring you I think it unlikely you could
consider it a viable option, Headmaster.”

“And your news, Severus?” Dumbledore queried.

“Perhaps we could step out into the hall?”

“Is it Malfoy’s father, Professor Snape?” Harry asked with a sinking feeling, remembering the
vision with Peter Pettigrew.

Snape’s eyes swiveled back toward Harry, black and glittering. “And what exactly do you know
about the disappearance of Lucius Malfoy, Potter?”

“Last night before he possessed me, Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew went to Malfoy Manor. I didn’t
see what happened because Draco woke me up, but when he was in me I could feel his frustration, his
rage about something. I thought it was Draco’s decision, but if it’s Lucius you’re worried about,
he’s not dead. I’m pretty sure of it. I know what Voldemort feels like after… well he wasn’t
*that* happy.”

Dumbledore, Snape, Madam Pomfrey and Hermione all stared at Harry for a moment in silence and he
felt the sick, shamed clenching in his stomach that revealing his connection to Tom Riddle always
brought on.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I meant to tell him, but there was nothing Draco could do to stop
it…”

“Harry,” Hermione cut in firmly, stepping bravely back toward the bed as if daring Madam Pomfrey
to stop her. “You should *never* have to apologize for having to live with the knowledge of
what Voldemort thinks or does.”

“Miss Granger is quite right, Harry. Lucius Malfoy’s dealings with his master are in no way your
responsibility. But as Draco’s Headmaster and Head of House, Professor Snape and I must of course
be concerned.” Dumbledore turned to Madam Pomfrey with a reluctant sigh. “Poppy, I leave the final
determination to you as to what is best for Harry’s well being. He must be kept in control of his
own faculties, and yet he must be safely restrained. Hagrid cares deeply for Harry and would
certainly look after him with some assistance, or he must in fact be tied with restraints to his
bed here in the infirmary. I give you my permission to assign another sixth year student or even
two to help you, whichever you decide, and will return as soon as possible to be of any assistance
myself.”

“He will be quite safe, Headmaster.” Madam Pomfrey assured Dumbledore, although to Hermione’s
eyes she still appeared flustered and undecided.

Dumbledore and Snape left the infirmary deep in muted conversation.

“Well then, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey began.

“Please, Madam Pomfrey, *please* don’t. I’ll be perfectly fine at Hagrids’, no bother at
all, I promise.” Harry implored.

Hermione reckoned Madam Pomfrey would have to have a heart of stone to withstand that plea.
Harry rarely turned on his not inconsiderable charm; Hermione wasn’t even sure he knew properly how
to control it or if it just reached capacity and let loose the way his magic had occasionally been
known to do. Either way, its sparing use and the intensity of its focus was a lethally appealing
combination, almost veela-like in its effect. On Hermione, anyway. It seemed perhaps Madam Pomfrey
might not be immune herself.

Poppy Pomfrey hadn’t taken care of Harry Potter’s many and various injuries over the last five
years for nothing. She considered it her personal mission that the boy-who-lived lived long enough
graduate from Hogwarts, at very least. Such a mission required firmness, fortitude and a calm, cool
head. By far the best option she could see was to keep him safely in the infirmary under her care.
It would be difficult to ask him to accept restraints, although she knew if she insisted he would
submit without fuss when the time came. He was such a good boy, really, had been remarkably patient
and accepting of quite a string of painful treatments over the years… The thought of seeing an evil
thing like Voldemort take possession of a helpless, tied-down Harry suddenly revolted her. She met
the anxious green eyes awaiting her verdict and sighed.

“Oh all right, Mr. Potter. If Hagrid agrees to be responsible for you this evening and Mr.
Weasley will accompany you there, you may go. I will leave strict instructions as to your care and
I expect you back in the infirmary first thing tomorrow. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes Ma’am,” Harry said. “But, erm, Madam Pomfrey, I know that Ron will come with me and I
couldn’t ask for a better friend but he’s really, really squeamish when it comes to…” Hermione
noticed that Harry left Ron’s squeamishness to Madam Pomfrey’s imagination; it was not immediately
clear whether he was referring to his somewhat gory shoulder or Harry himself. “Hermione knows just
what to do and it didn’t faze her a bit… she’d make a wonderful healer, really…”

“I suppose if Hagrid is willing to take on both Mr. Weasley *and* Miss Granger as well that
would be… safe enough.” Madam Pomfrey made up her mind. “Very well. I shall send an owl down to
Hagrid. If he agrees, that will be our solution. I will pack a supply of your medicines and explain
their usage to Miss Granger. Come with me, please.” She wasn’t leaving that girl alone with him for
a minute. Perfectly lovely girl of course, brilliant little thing and Merlin knew Harry deserved a
bit of happiness in the midst of all the wretched things that seemed to keep happening to him, but
really… the boy was in the throes of centaur poisoning. Some things could just wait! If she had any
ideas of becoming a healer she’d have to get *that* through her head straight off.

Hermione glanced back over her shoulder as she followed in Madam Pomfrey’s wake and rolled her
eyes at him.

He figured he’d scored brownie points getting her included in the envoy to Hagrid’s, but he was
still just a *little* too nervous to unleash a grin back.


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It was wonderfully cozy, safely kipped in Hagrid’s house later that evening. The rain still
dripped outside but the temperature had dropped considerably. Fall was firmly in control once
more.

Hagrid had insisted in turning his enormous bed over to the invalid, attempting to smother Harry
with every blanket he could find. Harry felt cocooned in warmth, drowsy and almost comfortable for
the first time since Goyle’s elbow had found the back of his head. Hermione and Ron had sleeping
bags on the floor but now sat on the foot of the bed drinking hot cocoa and politely risking their
teeth on Hagrid’s rock cakes.

“So how did you say we could tell if he was possessed, something about his eyes; was it?” Ron
asked Hermione in an undertone with a quick, furtive glance in Harry’s direction.

“Yes, Ron, he can hear you.” Hermione replied, exasperation evident in her tone. “And no, it’s
not a secret. Harry knows. Last night whenever Volde…”

“Erm!” Hagrid spit a mouthful of tea back into his cup

“You Know Who, was in control,” Hermione continued calmly, “Harry’s pupils would dilate so that
you couldn’t really see the green bit at all. You’d swear his eyes were black. When Harry was back
the pupils shrank back down and they’d go green again. But I was thinking that there must be a more
fool-proof method than pupil dilation, something less dependent on a biological process that could
be affected by poison or controlled by Voldemort if he discovered it. A safe word, or something
like that.”

“I’m already trying to hide too much from him.” Harry said slowly, not bothering to open his
eyes.

“You said something about that at the cave, Harry, about keeping the prophecy from him. What do
you mean? He already knows that the containing orb broke and the prophecy was lost. Have you found
out what it meant?” Hermione asked.

Harry inwardly sighed and knew the time had come. He’d known he’d have to tell them sometime and
at least they were all together, the people he cared for most. He’d only have to say it once. He
opened his eyes and levered himself off the pillows with the working arm until he was sitting as
well.

“Steady on there, Harry,” Hagrid said anxiously. He was taking his responsibility quite to heart
and seemed unnerved by the prospect of anything at all happening Harry on his watch. Harry managed
a brief smile to reassure that he was okay.

“Dumbledore already knew about the prophecy,” he told them. “That’s why his initials were on the
card as well. It’d been made to him first, sixteen years ago in the Hog’s Head, in Hogsmeade.”

“Who made it?” Hermione asked.

“What did it say?” Ron asked almost simultaneously.

“Trelawney made it,” Harry admitted.

Hermione snorted, as if to say ‘well, then, that’s that settled!’

“And it said, ‘*The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who
have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…And the Dark Lord will mark him as his
equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other
for neither can live while the other survives.*

“Whoa,” said Ron. “What the bloody *hell* does that mean?”

“Dumbledore said it actually could have been made about either me or Neville. We were both born
at the end of July, his birthday’s two days before mine and his parents were members of the Order
as well. Voldemort had someone listening in the pub that night, but whoever it was got thrown out
before they could hear the whole thing. He never heard the ‘*mark him as his equal,’* part or
the rest of it. Hence the scar. So now while everyone else at in our year is trying to decide
whether they want to be aurors or healers or work in muggle relations or what all, he’s left me two
lovely career choices. Die, or become a murderer.”

“Merlin, no wonder Trelawney’s been predicting your death ever since third year!” Ron gasped,
then seemed to realize what he’d said. “Erm, sorry mate, didn’t mean, you know…”

“What’s this ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’ then, ‘arry?” Hagrid asked. “Did Dumbledore know
what yeh’ve got to get ‘im with?”

Harry shook his head, eyes on Hermione’s pinched white face. “Only a theory. He thinks it’s got
something to do with the fact that I can still know emotions that Voldemort’s cast off over the
years as worthless. In the Department of Mysteries when he possessed me… the pain was so bad…”
Harry’s voice, still straining against the residual poison, broke. He swallowed desperately. “I
thought I was dying, I couldn’t believe that you could hurt like that and still live. When he told
Dumbledore to kill us I actually wished that he would. I remembering thinking *death is nothing
compared to this… and I’ll see Sirius again…’* There was no payoff in that for old Tom.
Dumbledore said he probably couldn’t bear to be in the same body with me then, the same way the
love left in me from my Mum made him turn to dust with Quirrell. Dumbledore reckons it’s got to do
with what makes us all human, because even though my blood gave him a body back he *still*
isn’t really human. He’s just alive.”

“I know it’s not as simple as it sounds, but you’ve just got to kill him, Harry. We’ll help you.
Just kill him. Kill him and finish this once and for all.” Ron’s voice sounded harsh and frightened
and almost as strangled as Harry’s.

“I’ll try, Ron. What else can I do?” Harry said tiredly. Hermione’s uncharacteristic silence was
killing *him* and he sensed that it had both Ron and Hagrid disconcerted as well.

“Well, then I reckon the three of yeh’d best be getting some sleep. Mornin’ll be ‘ere b’fore yeh
know it.” Hagrid told them, hoisting himself from his chair. “Goin’ to take Fang fer a quick nose
round while yeh settle in. Just sleep tight ‘arry. No use lookin’ for trouble before trouble finds
yeh firs.”

Hagrid disappeared through the door with Fang in tow. Ron settled down in the sleeping bag
closest to the fire with an apologetic glance at Hermione.

“I thought it would be easier if you didn’t have to climb over me to get to the bed. You know,
to give Harry his medicine.”

“Buck buck buck…” Harry muffled the chicken noises in the pillow, just loud enough that Ron
could hear.

“Buck you, mate,” his best friend said with a grin, and rolled over. Harry grinned back.

Hermione collected one of the potions Madam Pomfrey had sent and returned to the bed, sitting
beside him without meeting his eyes.

“It’s almost time for the anti-venom one. Do you want to do it now, or do you want me to wake
you again in another half hour?”

Harry reckoned that in a half hour’s time both Hagrid and Ron would be fast asleep and if he
could manage to keep quiet it would give him at least a chance at some uninterrupted time with
her.

“Later, please, Hermione. If you don’t mind, that is.”

She shook her head wordlessly and went to settle into her own sleeping bag. Hagrid returned a
few moments later with Fang, blew out the lantern and retreated to his enormous stuffed armchair
close by the fire. Fang ignored his basket and instead sprawled back-to-back against Ron’s sleeping
bag. A faintly muffled snore registered no conscious displeasure on Ron’s part and the giant
wolfhound settled in for the evening with a yawn. Within what Harry estimated to be between fifteen
to twenty minutes Hagrid and Ron were well into the first heats of Britain’s National Snoring
Championships with Fang hardly shaming the species in the giant dog division.

“Good Lord Harry, how do you deal with this every night? No wonder you keep having dreams.
Voldemort’s wondering what all the noise is.” Hermione mumbled, crawling to the side of the bed.
“I’d go spare, as Ron likes to say, if I had to live with that.”

Harry tried to sense her mood beyond the frustration with the two happy woodsmen, still wary of
her silence during the discussion of the prophecy. He lay absolutely still while she fetched the
potion bottle and equipment Madam Pomfrey had sent. He heard her sigh when she realized that the
shoulder she needed to work on was on the side of the bed pushed against the wall.

“Shove over this way, Harry. I’ve got to get over there to see what I’m doing.”

He shifted closer to her, making room for her on the other side. She leaned over him and set the
bottles and bandages down, then climbed up on the bed. He expected her to clamber over to the space
he had made and had to remind himself to keep breathing when she chose instead to straddle his hips
over what were suddenly WAY too many blankets and rest both her hands lightly on his chest. She was
watching him intently and he instantly decided that shutting up and acting appreciative was the way
to go. There was clearly something on her mind and it was more likely to come out if he kept
quiet.

Almost a minute later he was considerably less sure of his plan. The thickness of the blankets
between them would have been a blessing in the past as he attempted to maintain the illusion of
being completely unaffected in any remotely physical manner by his best (girl) friend; now that he
was significantly more comfortable with revealing the nature of his attraction to said girlfriend
it was just annoying and growing kind of… painful. Her warm brown eyes continued to hold his and he
had the distinct feeling she was waiting for something. On impulse he reached up and touched her
face gently, stroking her cheek bone with tentative fingers. Her eyes closed and her expression
grew content and faintly catlike, Crookshanks with a fresh catnip toy. Way too good to let go
without further exploration.

“Hermione?” her eyes reopened reluctantly. “Could you either, erm, remove yourself from, um,
where you’re currently, uhh, sitting and start with the potion or maybe come down here, ‘cause I
can’t reach you with just the one arm without hurting us both.”

She grinned. Hermione Jane Granger, smartest witch of her age, was grinning at him with the most
promising little grin like he’d never said a word about any wretched prophecy. What could it
mean?

There was really only one way to find out.


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6. Chapter 6
------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 6


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Given her options, Hermione wisely decided changing Harry’s bandages would certainly wait
another few minutes. After all, she’d read that a patient’s sense of optimism was key to successful
treatment. Patients that felt that life was worth living for tended to recover faster and with
fewer complications regardless of the relative severity of injury. It was time to give Harry a
little something to live for without Madam Pomfrey’s prescription… or intervention

She dismounted and slipped beneath the covers beside him, feeling him reach for her and moving
to make room she didn’t need. She threaded her leg between his warm flannel clad ones and unzipped
the enormous, well worn muggle sweat jacket of Dudley’s she had chosen for him (to make replacing
his bandages easier, she reflected with another grin.) She nestled against the heady warmth of his
skin and laid one hand flat on his chest directly above his heart.

While his eyes appeared calm and watchful; the irregular thumping of the heart beneath her hand
betrayed him.

“Hermione?” he whispered.

“What?” she whispered back.

“It’s just that I… well, I’ve been dreading talking about the prophecy ever since Dumbledore
told me. To you, most of all. I thought you’d be more upset, or I don’t know, angry, even. Don’t
get me wrong,” he added quickly, “it’s fine that you’re not, it’s great, really. It’s just that I
don’t understand why, and I really want to know what you’re thinking.”

The hand on his chest began making slow, mesmerizing journeys of exploration, fingertips
covering previously uncharted territory without hurry and with obvious delight. Her touch was deft
and light and curious, just as he would have imagined. If he’d ever let himself. Lord, what a lot
of time he’d wasted.

“I might not have known what *your* prophecy said, Harry, but I gave prophecies in general
quite a lot of thought while I was in the hospital ward after the Department of Mysteries and again
this summer over break. I know Ron thinks that I left off divination class because Trelawney said I
lacked the proper aura and I didn’t want to be in any class I couldn’t be best at. It did hurt a
bit when she told me I had “*very little receptivity to the resonances of the future.*”
Hermione did an almost uncanny take on Professor Trelawney’s ethereal quavering and Harry couldn’t
help but smile.

“The thing is,” she continued, “that I found I just don’t believe in it. Fundamentally, I mean.
I believe that human beings have free will, the ability to make choices that affect our lives. You
made a choice while we were standing outside the Great Hall before the sorting first year. You
chose Ron over Malfoy. You asked the Hat for something else when it offered you Slytherin. Earlier
today you talked about having some of Voldemort’s powers in you because of the *Avada Kedavra*
that backfired. But in all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never known you to be less than
honorable, and you couldn’t be a truer or more loyal friend. You’ve obviously chosen somehow not to
let him overtake you. It’s one of the things I love most about you, Harry. You’ve made the best out
of a life that could have worn you down, not because you knew it was foretold that you’d have to
fight Voldemort or die but just because of the person you are.”

As much as he wanted to hear what she was saying, what she was she was saying was drawing him
closer and closer to the point where wanting to kiss her turned into needing to kiss her.
Badly.

“Prophecy or no prophecy, I think you’d have ended up fighting Voldemort,” she told him. “You
might yearn to turn away, but I don’t believe for a moment you would. I chose to love you fully
knowing that’s what you’d probably do. Tom Riddle’s made his own choices. I don’t think the person
who finally stops him is going to be a murderer. I think he’s going to be an innately good person
who just wants the evil to stop before it touches one more life. The very same kind of person who
launches himself on an Ogre six times his size without thinking twice, even though he’s only eleven
years old.”

She smiled at him then, and her hands moved from his chest to frame his face, as if
understanding his brain’s dilemma and focusing things for him.

“There’s an enormous difference between prediction and prophecy, Harry. I think divination is
really just a form of prediction, and prediction is trying to deduce what *might* be. Prophecy
is trying to tell us what *will* be… And I believe with all my heart that what *will* be
is ultimately up to you and me.”

Harry felt somehow as if a staggering weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. *Learn
from this!* he told himself fiercely, gathering her closer to him and burying his face in the
warmth of her neck and the thick, silky fall of her hair. *Tell her. Just tell her, no matter
what it is. You know she can handle it, and she’s more than earned it with that.* Everywhere he
touched felt impossibly soft and pliant beneath his fingers; how could she be so strong and so
delicate all at once? All his instincts to handle things alone, to try not to involve his friends
in the darkness of his life, to hide his fear and guilt and shame were all being swiftly usurped by
a need so powerful it shook him in his skin. He bargained with himself as he kissed her, told
himself that he *could* keep her safe, that he would never fail to keep her safe because
without her he was nothing. If he had magic at all she was his focus, if there was love still
buried within him from Lily’s gift, she was the only one he could feel safe enough with to coax it
out.

“Besides,” Hermione said softly, her lips a promise against his ear. “Nothing says you have to
do it alone. I’ll be your power Voldemort knows not if I can. I will.”

“The power I know not,” honesty forced him to admit with some urgency in her ear, “is how to
stop, if we don’t. Right now actually. Hermione, I…”

She drew slowly back and he reluctantly eased his own hold.

“I know,” she said, glancing over at the still snoring Hagrid and Ron. “I wish…”

She sat up, reaching again for the bandages and potion from Madam Pomfrey she’d set aside
before.


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Hermione opened one eye. Reluctantly. She felt lovely, warm and comfortable; sleeping beside
Harry was a lot like having an electric blanket, another bit of Muggle comfort that Hogwarts could
have benefited from. The question, then, was what had awoken her? She’d planned to wake early and
slip down to her own sleeping bag, anxious to respect Hagrid’s sense of responsibility for Harry’s
well being and uneager to gift Ron with further fodder for teasing. Hermione had an inner alarm
clock. She’d always been able to will herself to wake early to get a head start on the day, or to
pick up with an idea exactly where she’d left it the night before. It was still quite dark, though,
and felt earlier than she had planned.

Something was amiss.

Her eyes roamed around the room. The door was closed and the bar still securely in the latch.
The fire had died down to mostly embers and glowed. Hagrid was snoring away in his chair. Fang was
drooling in his sleep and had rolled lovingly closer to Ron…

Hermione sat up quickly, throwing back the blankets and shaking at Harry behind her.

“Harry…” she hissed.

“Ouch… *what?*” Harry mumbled back.

*Am I a really bad friend if I still notice how much I love the way his voice is all deep and
sleepy while I tell him there’s a giant snake crawling up Ron’s sleeping bag?*

“There’s a snake on Ron’s sleeping bag. A *really* big ugly snake.”

“Friend of Hagrid’s?” Harry suggested blearily, but she could hear him fumbling for his
glasses.

“You’re the parselmouth, Harry,” she reminded him. “Ask it.”

Harry struggled up to sit behind her, peering over her shoulder. She heard a shaky intake of
breath, and then the sibilant, undulating hiss she had last heard issue from his mouth second
year.

The snake stilled its progress, turned toward the bed and raised its head as if to get a better
view of them. Black beady eyes fixed their gaze on Harry and Hermione felt what she could only
describe as a wave of dislike, like a rush of cold in a stream of warm water.

Harry repeated the same string of softly slurring hisses. Hermione could feel that his body had
tensed behind her. The snake flicked its forked tongue, rising up higher in the air, then appeared
to answer Harry. Whatever it said, it ended the message with an open mouthed display of fangs that
glistened in the low light of the fire.

“What… what did it say?” she asked softly.

“The Dark Lord, the rightful heir of Salazar Slytherin, is displeased with me. He can no longer
allow my interference. The snake is here to claim an eye for an eye. The Dark Lord has lost
something precious of Salazar’s and he claims the red headed Gryffindor in its sake.” Harry’s eyes
met Hermione’s and he whispered “It’s talking about Draco, I think. It thinks *I* somehow
turned Malfoy to Dumbledore’s side and it wants to kill Ron.”

“Tell it something to make it stop! Quick!” Hermione whispered back, horrified.

Harry hissed urgently. Hermione watched in fascination as the snake appeared to listen to
Harry’s appeal. If it was possible for a snake to laugh, that was its response. It turned back to
the still sleeping Ron and rose up further into striking position.

Hermione felt Harry launch himself from behind her back and literally fly from the edge of the
bed to where his best friend lay on the floor, landing with full force on top of Ron as the snake
struck. The fangs sunk into Hermione’s enthusiastic re-bandaging of Harry’s arm and he hissed
something, grabbing at it. Ron sat up abruptly, screaming, dislodging both Harry and the snake on
to Fang. Fang awoke with a startled yowl and leapt up onto Hagrid’s lap, rolling the still
wrestling pair back toward Ron. Hagrid came awake with a start but remained frozen, trying to take
in the seemingly impossible scene before him. Ron appeared to suddenly realize the snake was trying
to hurt Harry; he reached out and found the fireplace poker with one hand, grabbed the snake just
behind its head with the other, yanked the fangs free from Harry’s bandages and with one smooth
continuous motion batted the snake towards the hearth. There was a hideous, slithery *whump*
as it hit stone and fell to the floor, stunned.

A moment of silence followed in which all that could be heard was heavy breathing as three
wizards, one witch and one enormous boarhound tried to persuade calm to swim upstream against the
adrenalin rush.

“Nice one, Ron,” Harry managed first. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Ron gasped. “Think nothing of it. I did think snakes were partial to you, though.
What’s the story with that one?”

“Friend of Voldemorts’.”

“No!” Hagrid was horrified.

“He told Harry the Dark Lord sent him,” Hermione said. “He said…” she broke off, a look of
dawning comprehension on her face. She hopped down from the edge of the bed and grabbed her wand
from the floor beside her sleeping bag.

“Erm, Hermione, don’t get too close, I think it’s only stunned, that thing…” Ron started as he
saw her head toward the prone form of the snake. She ignored him and crouched down quite close,
softly said an incantation and waved her wand. There was a blinding flash of light and then a
speeded-up-film effect they had each seen before. Hermione took several steps backward and to the
boys’ undisguised amazement the enormous pale snake grew and took shape as Lucius Malfoy’s
unconscious body.

“Eeewww.” said Ron, succinctly.

Harry couldn’t have agreed more.


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7. Chapter 7
------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 8


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

“So the whole Ministry Regulation of Animagi thing is a complete sham, is it?” Ron said as the
three sat in the infirmary that morning awaiting Madam Pomfrey’s verdict on when Harry could leave.
The Ministry had sent aurors for Malfoy when Dumbledore notified them of the events of the night
before and Tonks and Kingsley Shacklebolt had been most congratulatory of Ron’s zeal with the fire
poker.

(“It’s especially nice when you don’t have to listen to them go on and on about what Voldemort’s
going to do to you when he realizes you’ve got his most loyal servant,” Tonks told them with a
laugh when it became clear that Malfoy was still out cold. “They can’t all be the most loyal, can
they, and he’s never cared enough about any of them to try and get one back, except for that one
break from Azkaban.”*)*

“I mean we’ve come across six animagi now that we know of and Professor McGonagall’s the only
one who’s actually registered,” he pointed out. “Harry’s Dad, Sirius, Pettigrew, that Skeeter woman
and now Malfoy, all illegal. How many more are creeping around?”

“They’ve got a point though, don’t they,” Harry mused. “What’s the use of being able to
transform yourself into something else if everyone knows what you are anyway?”

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, bandages undone. If Madam Pomfrey’s testing
confirmed the centaur’s poison to be at last eradicated she would use healing charms on the wounds
on his arm and chest and he would be allowed to go. Lucius Malfoy’s snake fangs had become
entangled in Hermione’s thorough re-bandaging of his arm and only nicked the skin. Madam Pomfrey
had insisted on testing for a range of snake venoms as well, but Harry was actually starting to
feel quite himself again and frankly just wanted some breakfast.

“The point is to be able to make use of the abilities of your animal form, like flying, or
exceptional hearing or instinctive behaviors. It’s not meant to be a cheap disguise.” Hermione
admonished them.

“Speaking of flying, Harry, we’ve got to make sure Pomfrey vets you okay for Quidditch next
week. We’ve got our first match against Ravenclaw.” Ron reminded him.

Hermione rolled her eyes but said nothing.

“I’m fine. I’ll be ready,” Harry told him with a grin, but he made sure to find and hold
Hermione’s eyes a moment with his own. She smiled back and he felt positively optimistic. Except
for the fact that he was now definitely going to have to have a little talk with Ron about what was
going on between them. To borrow a phrase, *bloody hell!*

Madam Pomfrey returned from her office looking quite pleased. “All clear then, Mr. Potter. I
must say you’ve been extraordinarily lucky, young man. I would like you to keep that arm in a sling
at least for the rest of today to allow the healing charms to finish their work, but you should be
completely mended by tomorrow.”

Harry felt the warm tingling of the healing charms she performed on his arm, the almost itchy
ticklishness of the arrow wound beginning to close in his bicep.

“Miss Granger?” Madam Pomfrey questioned, making Hermione jump guiltily. She’d been allowing her
mind to wonder over the possibilities of a completely healed Harry and not really paying attention.
“You have really done a quite excellent job caring for such an uncommon injury, and under most
unusual circumstances. Perhaps you’d care to try closing the last wound? A simple *curatio*
should suffice by now.”

Hermione glanced quickly at Harry. She could see no obvious signs of apprehension and he smiled
at her encouragingly. She moved closer, nudged his already healed arm in the sling gently forward
and concentrated on the jagged hole the arrowhead had left in his side. She could see that it had
met Harry’s rib cage and skidded slightly at an angle toward his back. She had a moments’ vertigo
at the thought of what might have happened if the arrow had not pierced his arm first and instead
hit the ribs with force enough to pass through to what lay protected within. ‘*But it
didn’t,’* she reminded herself. ‘*Don’t go borrowing trouble, as Hagrid always says.’* She
angled her wand and murmured *“Curatio!”* clearly visualizing the wound healing itself fully
from the inside out, smoothing the surface of Harry’s skin in her mind’s eye.

Hermione was quite accustomed to performing acts of magic; her propensity to do so was what had
gained her entrance to Hogwarts in the first place and she had been practicing for more than five
years now. Never, however, had it felt even remotely like *that*. Usually magic felt like an
extension of her resolve, a bending of the forces around her to her will. Something she simply did.
Performing the healing charm on Harry felt… *different*. Wonderfully, satisfyingly different.
A warmth that seemed to start in her chest suffused throughout her body before flowing through her
fingers to her wand in a heady rush. The sensation abruptly brought to mind the feelings she had
experienced when Harry first kissed her; an intuitive letting go of a piece of herself, a giving up
that brought back a thousand-fold. She stifled a soft gasp, saw Harry’s eyes widen.

“Nicely done, Miss Granger. Very nice work, indeed! If you do decide to dedicate yourself to the
healing arts I would be most happy to recommend a course of study to Professor McGonagall for
you.”

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” she stammered. “I’ll… I’ll think about it.”

“Does this mean we can go to breakfast now?” Ron asked plaintively.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley,” Madam Pomfrey sighed. “Mr. Potter, please be careful. I don’t want to see
you again until at least after the holidays. Understood?”

“Yes Ma’am. Thank you,” Harry said, choosing not to remind her that unless Dumbledore had found
a solution to his little possession problem he’d likely be back that evening. He doubted they’d let
him go back to Hagrid’s again. Or, for that matter, that Hagrid would want him.

He pulled his shirt on and slipped down from the bed, buttoning it as the three departed the
Hospital Wing. They joined the flow of sleepy-eyed students making their way along the corridors to
the Great Hall. He found his tie in his robe pocket and slid it round under his collar while they
descended the last staircase. Hermione turned toward him while they waited behind Ron in the
backed-up queue at the door, watching as he attempted to knot it one handed. “Did you remember to
take notes for me in History of Magic?” she asked. “It feels like weeks ago somehow.” She reached
up and gently straightened his fringe, leaving the bit above his scar the way he liked it, then
frowned slightly as she tried to fix his tie. Harry briefly closed his eyes, trying to preserve the
sensation of her touch in his memory. It was almost Patronus fodder, that. She’d hugged him,
grabbed his arm, pushed him away from danger… he’d even kissed her now. How was it then that
something about those ordinary gestures, accompanied as they were by the simplest of questions,
made him feel… loved? She’d just used some fairly complex magic to heal a painful wound in the
infirmary; how was it that the simple act of neatening his hair or straightening his tie could make
him feel so much for her?

“Yes,” he told her. “I did.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, pleased.

The clog ahead resolved itself and they entered the Hall, settling at their usual seats at the
Gryffindor table. They began the comforting routines of breakfast, passing, pouring, trading butter
for marmalade, sugar for cream. Harry took several long, grateful pulls at his pumpkin juice before
he began to notice it. He lifted his gaze from his cup to find a fourth year Hufflepuff blatantly
staring at him in a most unfriendly, almost Slytherin-ish way. He narrowed his eyes slightly and
glared at the boy, who abruptly looked away.

‘*Jerk*,’ he thought absently. ‘*What’s his problem?’* His eyes shifted across the
room… only to meet a similar reception at the Ravenclaw table. From *most* of the Ravenclaw
table, as a matter of fact. With the few exceptions of those in the DA that Harry named among his
friends, the balance of Ravenclaw House seemed to be glaring at him with looks ranging from
distinctly uneasy to outright hostility. A quick glance back at Hufflepuff revealed a similar
situation at the rest of the table. No point checking out Slytherin, then!

“Hermione…”

“Ignore them. It’s shocked them out of their little ostrich colony and they’d rather try and
blame you than deal with reality.”

“Ignore what?” Ron asked.

“What, you can’t feel the heartwarming welcome back I’m getting?” Harry muttered bitterly.
“Quirrell had Voldemort growing out the back of his head and no one looked at *him* like
that.” He pushed his nearly untouched plate away.

Hermione pushed it back. “You need to eat. You’ve been hurt and your body is still healing.
Don’t let their ignorance drag you down. You didn’t really think you’d only be fighting Voldemort,
did you? Why do you think he’s so powerful? He feeds off the worst in people, even otherwise
perfectly nice, well-intentioned people. Everyone has fear inside them, Harry. He knows just how to
find it. You’ve either got to inspire something else in them or stay well clear of the ones who
fall for it until it’s over.”

Harry stared at his breakfast, hurt and rage battling the common sense of Hermione’s words. Let
them feel what it was like to have that filthy, slimy, evil git inside of you, forcing you,
fighting you, hurting you and getting off on it. Who’d choose that? Did they think he wanted it?
Let them take a turn! He tried a small forkful of egg and almost gagged on the combination of anger
and soreness that tightened his throat. He was so tired of this… all of this.

Ron was gazing around the Great Hall, dumbfounded. “They couldn’t really be thinking…”

Whatever he thought they couldn’t be thinking was cut off by the approach to the Gryffindor
table of an emissary from Ravenclaw. Cho Chang.

Merlin, but Harry was not in the mood for *that*.

“*What?*” he sighed.

“Is it true? What Malfoy said?”

“Well if *Malfoy* said it, it must be true. Why ask me?”

“He said that Voldemort possessed you in the Forbidden Forest last night. *Fully possessed
you*. He saw it happen. And she was there, too.” Cho answered, pointing accusingly at
Hermione.

“No, last night his father turned himself into a big ugly snake and tried to kill Ron. It was
the night before you’re thinking of,” Harry said, reaching across the table with his left hand and
gently pushing her finger away from Hermione’s face. “And your point would be?”

“Don’t touch me!” She stepped back, clearly repulsed. “You… you don’t belong in this school
anymore. You don’t belong anywhere near here until He’s defeated. You were trying to teach us
defense spells when you can’t even defend yourself! You’re a menace, Harry. Cedric died just
because he was *with* you and it’s only a matter of time until…”

“*Shut up!*” Ron snarled, leaping to his feet. “Stupid *cow*. He never asked for any
of it. You were happy enough to snog him when you thought he could help you. What is it you want
him to do now?”

Ron’s voice carried across the Hall where Cho’s and Harry’s had not. There was a sudden silence,
unfortunately timed for the moment Cho said quite clearly, “Leave. Leave Hogwarts and go where he
can’t hurt anyone else until it’s over.”

“Miss Chang!” Professor Flitwick cried out angrily from the head table. “It pains me to do this
to my own house, but that will cost fifty points from Ravenclaw and I will see you in my office
immediately!” A low groan arose from the Ravenclaw table, but Cho simply turned and began to follow
the little charms professor from the Hall without a backward glance, head held high.

“Well spoken, Filius. Mr. Weasley, my regret is as great as Professor Flitwick’s to have to
penalize my own house, particularly as that would in fact punish the individuals I believe you
*thought* you were defending. However your behavior is beyond admonishment. Forty points from
Gryffindor and five night’s detention.” McGonagall’s voice sounded oddly unlike her usual
forthright tone. Hermione thought she might be close to tears. The moment needed Dumbledore to call
them all to order and administer calming words as only he could, but Dumbledore had not been to
breakfast and was no where to be seen.

Harry squeezed her restraining hand gently, rose without speaking and made his way to the door,
eyes downcast. Hermione followed him without a backward glance, although she sensed Ron behind her.
When she reached the door however she paused before passing through it, allowing Ron to precede
her. She turned back then and allowed her eyes to scan the room, friend and foe alike. She made
sure each of them saw exactly what she thought, and without a word she dared them to cross her to
get to Harry.

No one moved.


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The enormous advantage to sixth year was dropping subjects they’d never liked, such as
Divination and Astronomy. (‘The class hours were ridiculous, but the tower’s still quite useful,’
Dean had pointed out with a grin.) Hermione had only convinced Harry to keep on with History of
Magic because she felt that he needed to understand the events that had shaped the Wizarding world
and left them vulnerable to Voldemort. Ron signed on for it because they had, and it was a good nap
besides. Beyond that their schedules were more varied than they had been before. Harry and Hermione
suffered Snapes’ N.E.W.T. level Potions together while Ron happily indulged in Muggle Studies,
Hermione had Arithmancy while Ron and Harry had Care of Magical Creatures (‘I love Hagrid and he
knows it, but the only magical creature I’ve ever remotely cared for was Buckbeak and he still
scared me to death. I just have too much else to do!’ she defended herself.) Harry had been pulled
from DADA this year to work individually with Dumbledore himself, and, Hermione suspected, keep
quiet exactly the scope of his growing abilities. The only other classes they had together were
Charms and Transfiguration.

This morning’s class was Advanced Transfiguration and they knew McGonagall would stand no
excuses for absence. Harry seemed to be finding his quill absolutely fascinating and Ron was
keeping a distinctly low profile in the face of his Head of House’s wrath. (“As much as I agreed
with your assessment of Miss Chang’s nature and behavior, Mr. Weasley,” she had told him quietly as
they filed into class, “that was quite simply far more than any of us wanted or needed to know.”)
Hermione was still trying to mentally clean house and make sense of all that had taken place in the
last forty-eight hours; she was only half listening when she suddenly heard McGonagall begin to
talk about their term projects.

“It is at this point that I usually begin breaking my classes up into somewhat smaller groups
depending upon the ultimate goals for your knowledge of Transfiguration. While we will continue to
meet as a class, you will be working for the most part with your peers and I will spend most of my
teaching time with you in these groupings, so I am expecting you each to be able to undertake a
much more mature and responsible view of your class time and to continue to practice and study
independently while I am with other students. Is that quite clear? Good. Now I should explain that
this is the point in your training when if you should ultimately wish to attempt animagus
transformation we begin to teach the theory of the process so that you may one day safely do so.
Only a handful of the students that sign up each year choose to continue when they understand the
complexity of the study, and of those that do continue there is no guarantee of ultimate success. I
say that you might one day safely do so because it is highly unlikely even for those who stick
through the training to manage a transformation before the end of seventh year, so this is not the
choice for those with brief attention spans or anyone desirous of instant gratification.”

She aimed her wand at the black board and *‘Group One – Animagus Candidates’ appeared*.
This was followed by *‘Group Two – Transfiguration for Magical Law Enforcement (Auror
Candidates)’* *‘Group Three – Legal Use of Transfiguration in Commerce and Trade’* and
*‘Group Four - Ministry of Magic Transfiguration Standards and Practices’.*

“You may use the rest of this class period to confer amongst yourselves while I talk to each of
you individually about your choices. I will call you up one by one to discuss your placement. Miss
Patil, I shall start with you, and take the rest of you row by row.”

“Erm, Hermione?’ Ron asked slowly.

“No, Ron, I can’t make the choice for you. It’s simple enough, though. You’d be bored out of
your mind doing the animagus study and you’ve already ruled out being an Auror. You just have to
decide whether you’re leaning toward going into business like Fred and George or working for the
Ministry like Bill and Charlie and your Dad. And, well, Percy, but remember he was a prat before he
started, working for the Ministry only made him worse.”

Ron turned to Harry. “What are you thinking of, Harry?”

“Let’s just say doing anything involving the Ministry of Magic doesn’t hold much appeal at the
moment,” Harry told him. “I figure if my Dad and Sirius could manage to become animagi on their own
I should be able to hack it in class. If Pettigrew could do it, you’d think anyone could. What are
you going to do, Hermione?”

“Well, I’m not going to be an Auror, and I’m not really interested in commerce or trade, but I
wonder if I shouldn’t do the Ministry Group. I understand how you feel about the Ministry, Harry,
but it’s not going to change itself. Someone has got to get inside and change it from within.”

Harry’s nod and slow smile warmed her heart with a rush. “If anyone can, Hermione, it’ll be
you.”

She knew at once he didn’t want her to, wished that she would choose the animagus training as
well. Even a week ago she would have expected him to argue about the worthlessness of the Ministry
as it stood; they had certainly never made life any easier for him. Standing trial for the use of
underage magic while saving his despicable cousin Dudley from the Dementors two summers ago had
left scars of mistrust in Harry as clear as the ‘I will not tell lies,’ Umbridge had caused to be
etched on his hand while Fudge’s appointee as High Inquisitor to Hogwarts. His *“If anyone can,
Hermione, it’ll be you”* was a gift of the sort she had so long craved from him, more precious
than gold. An acknowledgment of her ability to make her own choices coupled with acceptance that
making a different choice for different reasons wouldn’t make her any less loyal to either Harry or
Ron. She felt tears prick the back of her eyes and tried to think of something, anything to say
that would convey her appreciation when Professor McGonagall called her name.

Professor McGonagall accepted her choice with a smile, marking her down under the fourth group.
“You would have fit quite successfully into any of these categories, Miss Granger,” was all she
said.

Ron was called next, and Professor McGonagall seemed entirely unsurprised when he declared
himself still undecided. “I shall put you down for the Ministry group, Mr. Weasley. I think you
should be quite safe there. Mr. Potter?”

“Ministry,” Ron sighed as they passed in opposite directions.

“Least you’ll have Hermione. Guaranteed pass.” Harry muttered back.

He started to tell her what he’d chosen when she shook her head in a barely perceptible
movement. “You will be in the Auror group, Mr. Potter.”

“But I…” he started.

“You will be in the Auror Group.”

His jaw tightened. “Why? Why does everyone get a choice but me?”

Professor McGonagall handed him a folded piece of parchment and called out “Mr. Longbottom?”

Harry passed Neville without really seeing him, furious with McGonagall, with himself, with
Dumbledore and Fudge and Voldemort as well. Everyone else had choices, chances to control the
direction of their lives. All he wanted was one stupid choice. Why was he always doomed to being
told what would happen, what he would endure, what he would have to do. Bloody freaking
*hell*. He slammed into his seat ignoring Ron and Hermione’s anxious looks. He dropped the
parchment and had to feel around under his desk to find it, half tempted to just forget the damn
thing. His fingers closed on it and he drew it up and opened it.

Blank. It was blank. McGonagall gave him a blank piece of… He looked up. Ron and Hermione were
staring at him, but the rest of the class was thoroughly involved in making their own choices or
discussing their options with their neighbors. He pulled out his wand and muttered
“*Aparecium**.*”

Slowly McGonagall’s elegant spidery writing crawled across the page.

*Dear Mr. Potter,*

*Considering both my discovery during your third year of your Father and Godfather’s success
in becoming animagi in secret and knowing you as I have for these five years, I am certain you have
at very least some curiosity in regard to the process yourself. Should you be successful, however,
it would be most helpful if your animal form were unknown to those who mean to harm you. While I
can not therefore in good conscience accept you as an anamagus candidate in Advanced
Transfiguration (where you would be monitored by the Ministry for registration purposes) I should
be pleased to work with you Tuesday evenings from 7:30 to 9pm to further explore your aptitudes in
this area. I know I need not remind you of the extracurricular nature of this assignment. You may
call this training ‘Remedial Transfiguration’ if questioned about its nature by anyone you do not
already deeply trust.*

*Best Wishes,*

*MM*

Remedial Potions, remedial DADA and now remedial Transfiguration. Clearly he was the stupidest
student at Hogwarts! No wonder everyone thought he was an idiot and Voldemort would walk all over
him.

He slowly let go of his anger. Clearly he was the luckiest as well; he knew what a chance
Professor McGonagall was taking for him just because she believed it would help him in the end. He
*was* an idiot. He waved his wand over the parchment to blank it again and tucked it in to the
bottom of his book bag. The hour was ending and he rose to follow Hermione and Ron toward the
hall.

“Okay, Harry?” Ron asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll tell you later, but yeah.”

Hermione’s relief felt like the sun peeking from behind a cloud, and he was almost certain
Professor McGonagall actually *winked* at him as he left the room.


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8. Chapter 8
------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

A/N: I STILL think this works better as a short chapter on its own so I am posting it as such;
and I promise to get the next one re-proofed and up tomorrow. Remember this was written quite some
time ago, well before HBP! It’s hard even for me to work my mind back there, but this is still a
fun story with lots of plot twists coming up. Thanks so much to all of you who are re-reading this,
as well as reading for the first time. I hope you enjoy it either way.

Here With Me

Chapter 9


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“Ron?”

“Hmmm?”

They had skipped lunch before Care of Magical Creatures, neither quite ready to face the Great
Hall again after the drama at breakfast that morning, and had instead made their way down to the
lake to sit in the brilliant afternoon sunlight. They were alone; the wind was too brisk to make
studying outside remotely productive. Hardly a problem, as neither Harry nor Ron had any intention
of wasting a perfectly good free half hour studying this early in term. Ron was mentally trying to
calculate the weather’s effect on their scheduled Quidditch practice later that afternoon. Maybe he
should swap drills, save the ball handling for closer to the match and concentrate more on broom
skills today…

Harry was working up his nerve to talk to Ron about Hermione.

“Erm, *Ron?*”

“What?

“I, unh, actually need you to listen for a minute here.”

“Right. Sure. Go ahead.”

“Great. So… Ron.” *Was there a good way to do this? ‘Cause it sure as hell hadn’t occurred to
him anytime over the past two days.*

“Yes, Harry. I *will* marry you.”

*What the…* Harry raised his eyes from the stone he’d been worrying between his fingers and
met his best friend’s laughing gaze. “Git.”

“Prat. Well, it sounded awfully dire and important. Spit it out then.”

Harry winced. “It’s about Hermione.”

“What’s she done now?”

*Gone and made me fall for her, for one. And you?* “Remember fourth year, when you and
Hermione had a bit of an argument after the Yule Ball? You were angry at her for fraternizing with
the enemy and going with Viktor…”

“And she thought I was jealous that he’d asked her before we did and said if I didn’t like it
that next time there was a ball I should ask her first and NOT as a last resort. Yeah. She totally
missed the point about Krum being from *Durmstrang,* official headquarters of
Death-Eaters-in-Training. ‘Bit of an argument’s a bit of an understatement as I remember it.”

“So you weren’t actually mad that she went with someone else, just that Krum was a potential
Voldemort fan?”

Ron turned to look at him. “What’s this all about, then? Is Hermione… Oh, dear Lord, tell me
nothing went on between Malfoy and Hermione in that cave, Harry. Even Hermione couldn’t go that far
in the name of school unity… could she?”

*Okay, if this was hard, how bad was it going to be having the whole Malfoy-loves-your-sister
conversation? That was so not going to be HIS job. Once was enough.* “No! No, Ron, not Malfoy.
Nothing to do with Malfoy. Ron… do you, no, *are you*… are you, unh, in, umm, are you
possibly… Oh hell, Ron do you love Hermione?”

Ron’s pale blue eyes rounded and his mouth dropped open. “Merlin, Harry, what are you on
about?”

“Just answer the question,” Harry pleaded, rubbing the bridge of his nose under his glasses.
*Splitting headache in the works already and he couldn’t blame Voldemort for this one.
Perfect!*

“You mean love like snogging-in-love, don’t you? Hermione? I mean, she’s like a sister or
something. I think I thought I was in love with her in third year until I started to realize that
actually being afraid of her as well would seriously affect my erm…follow through. I couldn’t even,
umm, *think* about her that way, if you get me. Tried it once and it put me right off. No, I
love to tease her. I love to cut through all that brainy stuff and just get her riled. I love it
when she tries to get back at me, unless she pulls out her wand. I love her like I don’t want her
looked at wrong by scum like Malfoy or Krum. Same as Ginny, really. Wow. Unclean thoughts,
mate.”

*Ouch.* “What if she was with… well, me?”

“What, you and… Ginny? *Eww*, Harry, that’s like….”

“*Hermione!* Me and Hermione, Ron! What if Hermione and I… if I…. What if I was to love
Hermione? Snogging-in-love and everything else? Could you… I mean would that be okay with you?”

It was out. Harry felt an enormous weight lift off his chest. He took a deep breath and realized
that no matter what Ron said now, nothing could really change. He wanted his friends’ approval, or
at very least his acceptance, but if he wasn’t dealing some kind of devastating blow to Ron’s heart
the rest of it didn’t really matter. There was nothing Ron could say that would rock Harry’s
growing certainty that he was supposed to be finding Hermione this way.

“Do you?” Ron asked incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“You *sure?*”

“Think so.”

“Like how sure? Like how far have…”

“See, this is where the whole thing gets just a little strange for me. You’re my best friend.
She’s your… extra sister? Are you really sure you want me to answer that question?”

“Well, yeah. Do I need to kick your arse or what?”

“No. No, you don’t. Well, depends on your comfort level, I guess. But don’t get me wrong, Ron,
this is not going to be some kind of vicarious three-way or anything.”

“*That* was just uncalled for.”

“No it wasn’t. It just means I, um, deliberately didn’t want go anywhere I shouldn’t until we
had this conversation. Well, I *wanted* to, but I didn’t. You’re my best friend, Ron. If you
told me you loved her… I don’t know what the hell I’d do, because I don’t know how I could close my
eyes to this now that I finally feel like I’m figuring it all out, but trust me, it would be
different somehow. I’m just not sure what else needs to be out there now, though. It’s not like
talking about kissing Cho or anything. This is Hermione. She’s still going to be your friend, I’m
still going to be your friend, but I think the whole two of us thing needs some time before I can
talk about it with you. At least not without some kind of psychological damage to one or both of
us. Not to mention hell to pay with her.”

“See your point.”

“Okay, then?”

“Okay. I guess. Wow. So here’s a question. What’d *she* say when you told her?”

“The first time I kind of passed out so I’m not really sure how she took it. Must have broken
her in to the idea, though, because the second time she only cried a little. Way less then Cho, so
I figured I was finally getting something right. Actually, she made a joke about pulling a Cho and
spoiling our first real kiss. I took that as an ‘okay’.”

“That was in the cave? With Malfoy?”

“The first time. Total mood killer. The second time was in the infirmary. Cut right off at the
knees when Pomfrey and Dumbledore arrived. Finally getting somewhere at Hagrid’s and Malfoy’s Dad
shows up… I thought maybe it was a sign I was supposed to talk to you first.”

Ron laughed, “What, you think I’ve got an *interuptus* charm on you guys or something?”

“Ron, my life is so messed up I have to do *something* right. I really, really don’t want
to screw this up. I’ve been trying to write off how I felt about her for a good while now because I
didn’t want anyone to be a target, someone Voldemort could use to get to me. I feel like I have to
make everything up as I go along, like I’m playing a game where everyone but me has seen the rules
and already knows how to play.“

Ron said nothing, but Harry could tell he sort of understood. “I just wanted to be able to tell
her that it’s okay with you. That nothing would change the way the three of us are.”

“Go on, then. Tell her.” Ron said.

Harry lifted his eyes from the safety of the stone in his hands and smiled at his best friend.
He clambered to his feet and offered his functioning left hand to Ron. Ron grinned back and took
it, noting vaguely that there was some serious muscle behind the heft up considering it was Harry’s
off side. Had to be a way to make something out of that on the Quidditch pitch…

“She’s got you whipped already, hasn’t she,” he said.

“I told you I wasn’t sharing that kind of stuff with you. Keep your kinky fantasies to
yourself.”

“Just don’t let it mess up your game, or I *will* separate you ‘til after the Quidditch
finals. We’re winning this year.”

They set off for Hagrid’s companionably side by side.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>



9. Chapter 9
------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 9


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

They saw Hermione again for the first time since Transfiguration on their way back from the
Quidditch pitch after practice that evening. She was waiting half way up the hill, watching for
them, her robes and hair streaming in the wind. Harry thought she didn’t look happy. A distinct
shame, because otherwise in her present windblown state she was enticing as a siren to his aching
eyes. He was thoroughly impatient to tell her the results of his conversation with Ron.

“Liver for dinner tonight?” Ron asked her as they drew abreast and she fell into step between
them.

She sighed. “You’ll wish it was that. No, it’s our detentions. They’ve just added you in with
Malfoy and Harry and me, Ron.”

“Oh, so you guys break a million school rules, spend the night in the Forbidden Forest getting
shot at by Centaurs and fighting off Voldemort and I get the same punishment just for calling Cho a
cow at breakfast? How does that work?” he asked plaintively.

“It gets better. Our detention tonight… is with *Dumbledore*.”

Harry and Ron exchanged looks of trepidation. “No one ever has detention with *Dumbledore*.
Oh man, even Fred and George never had detention with Dumbledore. This is not good.” Ron
groaned.

“We have to be in the Headmaster’s office in twenty minutes,” she continued as they passed
through the entrance. “You ran a long practice, Ron. We’ve only just got time for dinner.”

“I’ll see you there, then” Harry told them, edging toward the stairs. Hermione stopped him with
a look.

“Harry, don’t. It’ll just make it worse and you really need to eat something. Ginny said neither
of you made lunch.”

“It’s hard to work up an appetite when the whole Hall is glaring at you, waiting for you to
start channeling Voldemort,” he informed her.

“You’ve got to stop caring what they think. What difference does it make what they believe?”

“A lot!” Harry said, fuming and trying desperately not to. “It makes a *huge* difference,
actually. What if they were all to follow Cho and try and get me expelled? I don’t exactly have a
loving, supportive family to go home to, remember? I’ve got a bunch of anti-magical bigots who want
to pretend Voldemort doesn’t exist. I *need* to be here, I need to learn everything I can from
Dumbledore and McGonagall and Flitwick and Lupin and anyone else who might have the slightest clue
what in the name of Merlin I’m going to do when he comes looking for me that last time, because I’m
not exactly feeling prepared. If they take me away… and where do you think they’ll take me,
Hermione, with a direct link to the Dark Lord etched on my head? I’m looking at Azkaban now if I
piss off the wrong parents. I’m not sulking or withdrawing or any of that psycho stuff, I’m not
trying for anyone’s pity. I’m scared. It just seems like a good survival move right now to shut up
and keep my head down.”

“I hate to say it,” Ron said slowly. “But that actually makes a scary kind of sense.”

Hermione’s indignation on his part seemed to deflate like a pricked balloon and he saw this new
worry take over her features. He was sure the idea could not be one that hadn’t occurred to her
before. She always considered problems from every possible angle. It was more likely wonder and
fear that the stirrings of a self-survival plan had actually occurred to *Harry*.

“Go on then,” she told him. “We’ll meet you at the top of the stairs to Dumbledore’s corridor.
After detention is over though, be prepared to go tickle the pear. There’s a certain house elf down
there who wouldn’t want to see you go hungry, either.”

“Excellent idea, Hermione,’ Ron chimed in, envisioning an entire second dinner with Harry.

“See you,” Harry said, and watched his best friends head off into the Great Hall before trudging
up the stairs to the tower alone.


<><><><><><><><<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Malfoy had just reached the door to Dumbledore’s office when they arrived. Harry could sense his
almost reflexive resentment rise the moment he saw the faint gleam of white blond hair. The feeling
was mostly unabated by the fact that he knew that without Malfoy’s help in the cave he might well
be dead. Knowing that he was alive because Malfoy wished it so left him feeling somehow outdone and
used; that thought coupled with the knowledge that he now owed the Slytherin a wizard’s debt was
almost more than Harry could bear.

“Thanks for keeping it shut, Malfoy. I always knew you could be trusted,” he said in
greeting.

Draco raised one long dark eyebrow. Clearly he’d learned *that* move from Malfoy Senior
rather well. “They have a right to know, don’t you think? And Cho wasn’t too far off the mark. You
are something of a menace, although you really don’t need the Dark Lord’s help for that.”

Harry could feel a feral growl building in his throat, articulate response at the moment quite
beyond him.

Luckily Ron wasn’t experiencing anything of the kind. “Listen, arseho…”

“Caramel Bull’s Eye!” Hermione almost shouted, wishing they hadn’t outgrown her by such an
unfair margin in the last few years. She pushed Harry and Ron past Malfoy toward the slowly
rotating spiral staircase. Draco followed her inside and they rose to the level of Dumbledore’s
office to find him already seated behind his desk, writing intently on a quite long piece of
parchment with an extraordinarily large, fluffy quill. He looked up and smiled upon their arrival,
waving his hand toward the front of his desk. Four straight-backed wooden chairs appeared. “Won’t
be a moment,” he told them.

They sat. Fawkes fluttered over to Harry and settled on his knee, cocking his head and nipping
at the sleeve of his robes for attention. Hermione watched as Harry began to absently stroke the
magnificent flame-colored bird, his mind clearly elsewhere. She reflected how much better it felt
this time round with him there as well. Ron sat beside Harry and played with the ragged, unraveling
cuff of his robes, slowly worrying the black thread into a ball. Malfoy was on her other side,
radiating unconcern.

Dumbledore finished his thought with a flourish, capped his ink bottle and allowed the parchment
to re-roll. His eyes lifted from the desk and she felt them probe their way down the row of the
four before him.

“I have,” he said at last, “something of a quest for you four.”

“One of the enduring mysteries of Hogwarts,” Dumbledore began, “Is how alive this castle is. It
has been full of so much magic for so many centuries that a great deal was bound to slough off, but
I myself prefer to think that it was the will of those who created it to begin with. How it was
intended to be, in fact. It responds to us daily, to the staff and students alike. I believe each
of you has probably experienced this differently but that you recognize my meaning none the less.
It has been your home and refuge for five years now and still there is much about it you do not
know. Indeed, despite my many years here, there are secrets yet it keeps from me. One in particular
I am starting to feel it may be urgent to resolve.”

Dumbledore rose and made his way to an old wooden stool in one corner of the office on which the
sorting hat spent its days when not fulfilling its duty of sorting Hogwarts first years into their
houses. He lifted the stool and brought it further out into the room, setting it closer to the four
students.

“*Acclaro* *Abditum.’*

The hat seemed to startle awake and cleared its throat froggily.

*“Seek me when the one who lives*

*Has passed the Centaur’s test;*

*Four again must walk these halls*

*And wake me from my rest.*

*A pageless story I unfold,*

*Yet through me is the tale foretold,*

*Of what will happen,*

*What has been,*

*Fate’s wheel within my circle spins.*

*When times are dark and evil grows,*

*Then truth must hide within the rose*

*That never dies.*

*Obscured from those who seek in wrath,*

*But waiting on the righteous path.*

*So seek me through these castle walls,*

*Search where the light of morning falls*

*At break of day.*

*Seek me in faith and you shall find*

*Answers hidden long from time*

The hat fell silent.

Dumbledore turned to the four students. “That particular bit of verse was not only entrusted to
the hat, but also inscribed upon a stone incorporated into the hallway beneath the Divination
classroom. Alas, it was inadvertently erased along with some rather pointed commentary about the
predictions of one of Madam Trelawney’s predecessors many years ago. The inscription had apparently
been there since the days of the four founders. It was most curious how it disappeared.”

“Professor, you don’t think… I mean, it’s not talking about Harry, is it?” Hermione asked.

“That is part of what I wish you to ascertain, Miss Granger. I myself quite think it might be,
and given the fact that Harry seems to have survived his recent brush with the Centaur’s love of
archery and lack of fondness for wizards, the time could well have come to do as we are bid and
seek the answer to the riddle. It is with this that I am charging the four of you as punishment for
your rather flagrant disregard of school rules for sixth year students. Instead of serving
detention per se, you four are on probation. All of your privileges, including Hogsmeade visits and
Holiday leave are hereby revoked until the answer to the mystery is revealed.”

“Want that again?” the hat asked. “I can do it a little slower if you like.”

“Yes, please!” Hermione said. She grubbed about in her bag for a quill and spare parchment.

“All privileges…surely not Quidditch!” Ron said, aghast.

“No Mr. Weasley. You may continue as Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, as long as your partners
agree that progress is being made. Likewise Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy may continue as seekers for
Gryffindor and Slytherin, unless it seems Miss Granger is having to, shall we say, ‘carry the
Quaffle’ for you three.”

“Why should the rest of us have to lose Hogsmeade privileges and Holidays to try and figure out
some ridiculous riddle about *Potter*?” Malfoy complained.

“I’m afraid it’s simply a matter of bad timing, Mr. Malfoy. The riddle specifically names four
walking the halls, and you happen to have chosen the wrong time to…”

“To do what? Save your potty little hero? Without me he’d be the Boy Who Choked on His Own Vomit
right now.” Malfoy cut in angrily.

“To walk away from what you started, perhaps?” Dumbledore completed.

Malfoy’s jaw clicked shut so hard Harry and Ron winced.

“If you are sincere in your aims, Mr. Malfoy,” Dumbledore told him with a faint smile, “It is
time, as I believe they say, to put up or shut up. Figuring out this ridiculous riddle might very
well save your own life and the lives of many others if it proves of use in understanding Mr.
Potters’ predicament. And now may I suggest you adjourn yourselves to discuss how you propose to
solve this mystery? I find ‘Hogwarts, A History’ to be an excellent starting place for many a
question. I believe it to be one of your favorites as well, Miss Granger.”


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

They left Dumbledore’s office and headed disbelievingly toward the library.

Ron groaned. “This is the single most heinous detention plot in the entire *history* of
detention!”

“Fascinating, though…” Hermione mused. “Although how we’re going to manage it…”

“Far be it from me to agree with Weasley, but this is ludicrous,” Malfoy snarled. “I’m not doing
it.”

“And how are you going to manage that?” Harry asked with a small surge of pleasure. Malfoy’s
misery somehow made the sheer barmyness of what Dumbledore was asking almost tolerable.

“Yeah, Malfoy. Somehow I don’t think Daddy’s going to be coming to your rescue anytime soon. He
should be slithering into Azkaban right about now, shouldn’t he?” Ron taunted.

“All they got him on was the unregistered animagus thing. Hardly much of a crime to be caught
slithering into Hagrid’s. Merlin knows how you could even spot him with the rest of the wildlife in
there. It’ll be a simple slap on the wrist if there’s enough gold in the palm. Don’t think you’re
shut of him yet. You’re right though – if he sees me before I see him, helping won’t describe what
takes place.”

Ron stopped dead and Hermione suddenly found herself bouncing off him. Only Harry’s steadying
hand kept her from careening back into Malfoy. “You can’t honestly mean he’s getting off? Ron
exclaimed. “He was trying to *kill* me!”

“Says who?” Malfoy sneered.

“Says himself! He told Harry!”

“‘So the snake says to the parselmouth…’ That’s a pub joke, Weasley, not testimony.”

“Unbelievable!”

“Believe it. Your Ministry of Magic at work. Who’s afraid of Voldemort with Fudge around? Is
evil really so much worse than total incompetence?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “It is. Fairly large difference, actually.”

“How very Gryffindor of you, Potter.”

“I don’t know about you,” Harry told him, suddenly weary, “but I reckon this thing isn’t going
to get done by arguing about it.”

“Harry’s right,” Hermione said. “Let’s go to the library and at least draw up a plan of attack.
We can split up the research and the foot work between us and then each of us can fit it in around
our own schedules when we have time. We’ll arrange a time to meet and compare what we’ve found
out.”

“Do that,” Malfoy said, moving off in the direction of the dungeons. “Fascinating though I’m
sure it will be, I have a somewhat pressing previous engagement.” He stared at Ron rather pointedly
and Harry felt suddenly ill, wondering if it was to do with Ginny. He had been studiously avoiding
thinking about *that* particular complication, at a complete and utter loss how to begin to
deal with it.

“Dumbledore said we should do it together,’ Hermione pointed out stubbornly.

“Then do it together,” Draco told her. “Since when has your ‘together’ ever included Slytherin?
I’m sure as brave and brainless Gryffindors you’ll manage well enough on your own. Let me guess;
Granger will do the boring poring through forgotten tomes in the library while Potter and Weasley
sneak around the castle at night looking for previously unnoticed circular objects and trying to
evade Filch and Mrs. Norris. Call me when you get to the part you actually need wits for.”

He stalked off.

Three fingers spontaneously raised in formation behind his retreating back.

“Bloody git,” Ron grumbled, turning toward the library.

“Selfish prick’s more like it,” Harry followed him.

“If we weren’t already in more trouble than I *ever* thought possible,” Hermione groused,
joining them, “I’d hex his little wizard right off.”

Ron and Harry each felt small, protective shudders within their own anatomies. When they reached
the library Harry carefully held the doors open for her and Ron allowed her to enter first.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Harry was dozing over his Charms essay, head propped on his hand and quill stalled halfway
across the page when Colin Creevey suddenly appeared at their table.

“Hi, Harry! How are you? How’s sixth year? I can’t wait ‘til the Quidditch match, you guys are
going to sink Ravenclaw! I took some pictures of you practicing today and I bet they’re going to
come out super! Oh, and you need to go to the Potions classroom straight away. Snape wants
you.”

Had he *ever* had that much energy? The kid was at least third year by now, shouldn’t he be
mellowing out a bit? “Thanks, Colin.”

“What do you think Snape wants? I know he really has it in for you, everybody knows how many
points he gets off you. Detention’s over but he had a cauldron of something really foul going, I
hope you don’t have to scrub cauldrons after that! Well, good luck, Harry!”

Ron watched Colin’s departing back. “That’s not good. What does Snape want with you at this
hour? With a foul potion on the fire no less. Want some company, Harry?”

Harry shook his head. “Thanks. I knew one of them was going to send for me, I was just hoping it
wasn’t going to be Snape. They’re not going to just let me go sleep in the dorm even though what
happened last night wasn’t my fault. I’m probably going to regret begging Madam Pomfrey not to tie
me up in the Hospital wing; it’s got to be better than whatever Snape is brewing if it’s for me. If
they let me I’ll see you back here later.”

He gathered his books into his satchel and circled the table to crouch down beside Hermione’s
chair so that their eyes were level. “I was hoping to get some time to ourselves to tell you,” he
said softly, “but Ron and I talked while we were dodging lunch today. He’s okay with everything.
Well, he said he’d kick my arse if I wasn’t good to you, but I don’t think there’s any need to
worry about that. I wanted you to know so you didn’t feel like we’d left it hanging or anything.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Well, that, and because I *think* it means I get to kiss you before I
go face Snape.”

“I guess we’d better,” Hermione agreed with a grin of her own, “because if you’ll be ingesting
any of this foul potion, don’t expect me to be sharing the taste when you get back.”

Ron made gagging and sicking-up noises and eventually started throwing parchment spitballs at
them, but Harry found his farewell entirely satisfactory.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Harry made his way toward the dungeons, encountering only Peeves and Hufflepuff prefect Ernie
Macmillan in a pitched battle involving a Hufflepuff first year. The girl seemed to have missed her
curfew because she was afraid to leave the lavatory Peeves had chased her into. It struck Harry how
very young she seemed, marveling that Hermione had been just that age when the she had encountered
the troll in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. He smiled encouragingly at her as he passed while Macmillan
attempted to scourgify the stinksap Peeves had hit her with and lure her out. Unfortunately she
took one look at Harry, wailed in terror and retreated back into the depths of the girls’ loo.
Peeves snickered.

“Thanks, Potter.” Ernie snarled in frustration. “Nothing better to do tonight than frighten the
first years?”

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, and continued quickly down towards Snape’s classroom, thoroughly
depressed.

Whatever Snape was brewing, it smelt, as Colin reported, foul. Harry followed the scent hoping
against hope it was something Snape made up as a favor to Filch for cleaning up dungbomb
incidents.

“Ah, Potter.” Snape said happily, crushing *that* illusion.

“You wanted me?” Harry replied cautiously.

“Hardly,” Snape told him, beckoning him forward none the less. “The Headmaster instructed me to
make up this potion so you wouldn’t have to spend the night out with the werewolves, not that
you’ve minded *that* before. I’m simply doing as I was told. You might try it sometime.”

“What is it?”

“I believe the correct response to my prior statement to be *‘Thank you, Professor
Snape.’*

Harry thought back to his discovery at the Burrow, focused his thoughts and hurled them at Snape
with all his might and without a word. *‘You must be joking, you sniveling, shrivel-hearted git.
I’d as soon take tea with Voldemort as drink a drop of anything from you.’*

He saw Snape’s eyes round.

“Excuse me, Professor,” he said meekly aloud. “Why thank you.” *Why, indeed.*

He felt Snape’s mind reach out, saw the wand twitching in his fingers half hidden by the fold of
his robes. Harry concentrated hard and thrust back with everything he had. Snape fell back a step,
expression disbelieving now.

“Why the open door policy for the Dark Lord, then, Potter?” he sneered, but shakily. “You can’t
tell me that you can achieve *that* sort of effect and still be overtaken by someone not even
in your physical presence? You’re inviting him in, aren’t you. Thinking you can handle it all
yourself…”

“No!” Harry shouted, suddenly furious. Exactly, he was quite sure, as Snape intended.
“*No.* I hate it. I hate him *ever* being inside of me. You have no idea what you’re
talking about. You think you know everything, but you *don’t*. It’s this bloody scar; nothing
I *ever* learn is enough to stop it.”

“Draco told me that you told Granger that you imagined the Dark Lord that night, that you used
his altered physical nature to slow your own heart to try to reduce the spread of the Centaur’s
poison,” Snape hissed. “Not such a bad idea in concept, except for the fact of exactly *who*
you were attempting to use, you Gryffindor half wit! What were you expecting?”

“Not *that*!” Harry hissed back. “Hermione was there. I would never have endangered… I
didn’t know!”

“You didn’t *think*!” Snape snapped. “You never do! You’re just like…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m just like my Dad. Well, maybe I’m *not* exactly like him. I didn’t
like what I saw in that pensieve. I wasn’t proud of what he did, I even asked Remus and Sir… Sirius
about it. They pointed out that he was just a boy. Just a fifteen year old boy. It doesn’t make it
right, but can’t you ever get past it? Sirius said he was trying to impress my mother, for Merlin’s
sake. Haven’t you ever loved anyone, ever done something stupid because of it? It was a moment in
time, not what any of you really were. It’s only stuck that way because Voldemort killed them and
killed any chance to change any of it with them! How do you really know that he might not have
brought me to school himself or seen you at a Quidditch match one day and said ‘Severus, good to
see you, listen, I’m sorry I was such a total prat to you sixth year?’ *How*?” Harry asked,
anguished.

Snape did not answer, but ladled some of the potion into a glass tumbler and set it down on the
table before him, then picked up a second tumbler and filled it as well.

“This potions’ ingredients should yield an effect never documented before, quite probably
because no would normally wish for such a result. You will sleep only with the permission of one
other, dream only with their permission, wake only with their permission. If anyone attempts to
enter or take over your dreaming mind you will be forced into a stupefied state from which you can
only be freed by the dream keeper. The Dark Lord could possibly possess you, but you would be
immobilized, unable to be of any use to him.”

“There’s a vision of hell right there. And I would agree to that because… you think I’m a
complete idiot?”

“No. Because you want to remain at Hogwarts and this potion is quite probably the only way you
may be allowed to do that. This potion, and a great deal of convincing of the Ministry by
Dumbledore. Yes, Potter, the Dark Lord could indeed run rampant in you while you are immobilized
but you would be beyond moving and injuring anyone *else*. You claim to have been able to cast
him off when you are awake, and if your little display before was any measure it is certainly quite
possible. Your dream keeper would have only to wake you up and then release you from the body bind
when you signal it to be safe.”

“I’d have to drink that every night?”

Snape sighed. “You really have *no* sense of potions, do you? No, this is a variant of an
enchantment potion. You drink it the first time and name your dream keeper. The first dose is
followed with a second in which your dream keeper has added some essence. Have Weasley spit in it.
From that moment until the enchanting effect is neutralized your keeper controls your sleeping and
waking states with a simple spell.”

Harry hated the very idea of it. He didn’t want to be controlled by or dependent on anyone. He
trusted Ron, would entrust him with his life, but still…

“There has to be another way,” he said.

“Far better minds then yours have been working on this issue ever since you brought it on
yourself, Potter. For now, it’s this or face expulsion from Hogwarts until the Dark Lord is
vanquished. Your choice.”

“Professor Dumbledore okayed this?”

Snape sighed. “Potter, why else would I waste my time with it?”

*Because you never answered my question?* *Because you’d enjoy the sight of me writhing
to death with the world’s foulest smelling potion foaming out of my mouth? Because you’re
a…*

“A what?” snarled Snape.

*Oops*. He’d really have to learn to keep track of some of the new stuff he was learning
this year.

“I can’t just *do* this. I have to ask Ron’s permission first. What if he doesn’t want the
responsibility? I couldn’t trust just anyone with this. Can I at least ask him first?”

Snape produced a tray and set the two tumblers on it along with a small piece of parchment.
“This note has the exact spells for your dream keeper to use, whomever you should chose. I will be
chatting with the fat lady from exactly midnight until approximately three minutes after the hour.
Return the tray to me with both glasses empty or I shall have to rouse Professor McGonagall and
make other arrangements for you tonight. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said dully, and took the tray.

This was starting to feel like the longest damn day of his life.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>



10. Chapter 10
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 10


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Harry managed to get the tray through the portrait hole without spilling any of the noxious
potion but the smell had so sickened him along the way that he was seriously doubting his ability
to ingest it at all. The common room was mostly empty; a few sixth and seventh years in scattered
in clusters of two or three, talking or studying. Ron and Hermione had left the table and were
ensconced on chairs near the fire; Crookshanks curled like an orange cushion next to his mistress.
He set the tray down on the table and dropped to the floor near Hermione’s feet.

“What did Snape say?” Ron asked.

“I need a keeper.”

“He needs some new material, then. Malfoy’s been saying that since first year.”

Harry sighed. “I mean, I need someone to be my dream keeper. He’s made this variant potion
that’s supposed to stupefy me if Voldemort invades my dreams to possess me. I need someone to
direct the spell. He says whoever it is will control when I sleep or wake up, and decide whether or
not to release me if I get stupefied.”

“Harry, are you barking? You’re not going to trust Snape enough to drink that stuff? Even if
it’s not poisonous, how do you know he’d ever wake you back up? You can’t…”

“I have to take it, by midnight, or he’s going to make sure I’m locked up somewhere. He’s coming
for the glasses himself to see I’ve taken it. He said I could play with the werewolves for all he
cares, but my bet is he’d chain me up and give Slytherin the keys if he could. He told me
Dumbledore agreed to the potion, so if I have to, I’ll take it. The problem is who’s going to want
to have to be my keeper if I do? I hate it every time Voldemort comes slithering into my head and
there’s nothing I can do about it, how can I ask…”

“I’ll do it,” Hermione cut in. She saw the relief in Harry’s eyes… and Ron’s as well. “What do I
need to do?”

“First off, umm, Snape said to spit in the second potion over there.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose as she approached the glasses and gave Harry a *‘the things I do
for you…’* look. She crossed her eyes a moment and then spit into the second potion in the most
delicate and lady-like manner she could manage. Ron and Harry quickly doused their grins as she
turned back around.

“He wrote the spells on that piece of parchment on the tray,” Harry told her.

She picked it up and he watched as she read through it. He’d been hoping against hope that she
would agree to do it, had instinctively known that Ron would be uncomfortable both with being
responsible for him and the possibility of actually seeing Voldemort in his eyes.

Harry believed that Ron was far braver at heart than he knew, but there were layers of fear laid
down by growing up wizard that Harry and Hermione had taken on only later, when fear was subject to
conviction as much as instinct. A rather convoluted trail of events over the last five years had
brought Harry to the realization that Ron’s fear of Voldemort had roots that sunk even deeper than
their friendship. Ron always came through at the end, but Harry didn’t feel like he could lie
trapped in his dreams with Voldemort running rampant through his head while Ron agonized over
whether to wake him or not. He didn’t blame Ron, but to be completely honest he felt infinitely
safer knowing Hermione was to be the one to watch over him. He believed without doubt that she
would not allow her own fear to influence her if she could help it; he worried more about her fears
for him.

If Hermione had the faith to wake him to deal with Voldemort, however, Ron certainly had the
strength to hex the crap out of him if the stupefying effect wasn’t working properly. All in all it
was a much better balance this way ‘round.

“What about the safe word to let me know it’s okay to lift the stupefying effect? What do you
want to use?” she asked.

“It has to be something simple that he wouldn’t recognize as a safe word, something ordinary.
I’m trying to keep him away from so much I don’t know how to hide anything else. Snape may think my
head is empty but it’s awfully crowded when you’re wrestling Voldemort in it.”

“What about Hedwig? He can’t be very interested in your owl, can he?” Hermione offered.

“What about Crookshanks? Hedwig can be used for messages but that cat’s just bloody useless,
there’s nothing Voldemort could possibly find interesting about him,” Ron suggested.

“What about Ron? As in Ronald Bilius Weasley, unredeemed prat.” Hermione countered.

“I was thinking more along the lines of sugar quill or Honeydukes,” Harry said. “But you’ve
given me another idea. How about the names of *both* of my best friends? The ones who never
bleeding stop arguing over…”

“Chocolate Frog, then,” said Hermione decisively. “Drink the first one Harry, it’s almost
midnight.”

Harry forced himself to pick up the first potion, his stomach churning. He closed his eyes and
drank, swallowing as fast and hard as he could. His throat was still somewhat raw from the effects
of the Centaur’s poison and the potion felt as if it was burning its way through him. Polyjuice
would seem like pumpkin juice after this nastiness. He finished, sickened and gasping.

Hermione gave him the parchment. “You say the first bit.”

Harry gagged out the words indicating he was the willing caster of the spell and naming Hermione
as the one who would watch over his dreams.

“Now you need to drink the second one.” Hermione told him.

“Don’t know if I *can*,” he groaned.

“Fast is the way,” Ron advised. “Down in one.”

Harry lifted the glass to his lips, closed his eyes and drank as Hermione began her half of the
incantation. It… wasn’t half bad? In fact, it tasted kind of sweet, almost vanilla-ish. And there
was something else, cinnamon, he thought. Pleasant enough, delicious, even. He finished the whole
thing almost without noticing, stared wonderingly at the dregs in the bottom of the tumbler. He’d
seen Snape draw them from the same cauldron, the only difference between the two was… *Hermione’s
essence.* *Her* spit*, to be exact.* *Who knew Hermione had such excellent tasting
spit? Well, actually, come to think of it, he should have, but … Wow.*

“Harry, it’s midnight. Didn’t you have to give those back to Snape?” Hermione asked, rousing him
from his thoughts. He hurriedly set the second glass on the tray and took it to the portrait hole.
When he stepped outside Snape was already turning away.

“Professor,” Harry called after him, and Snape turned back. Harry thought he looked
disappointed. He took the tray from Harry’s hands, eyeing him intently.

“Mind you have someone to wake Weasley as well,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t want you to be
late for class tomorrow.”

“I… we… unh. We’ll be there on time,” Harry managed. Snape headed down the stairs in a flourish
of robes.

*‘Why didn’t I tell him?’* Harry wondered. ‘*I probably shouldn’t have, but I was going
to say that it was Hermione, and I… couldn’t. Why?’*

He turned back toward the Common room.

“Password?” the fat lady asked waspishly, clearly annoyed at this disturbance of her sleep. Her
hair was in curlers and some sort of chalky white substance was spread thickly beneath her
eyes.

“Oh for god’s sake, I haven’t been three feet away since I came out!” Harry muttered.

*“*I’ve heard all about you, Mister. One minute you’re Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, and the
next you’re He Who Must Not Be Named! I’m taking no chances with you. Password, or no
entrance.”

“Hurling Hinkypunks. Happy?”

“Delirious,” she pronounced sarcastically, and opened to admit him.

He returned to Ron and Hermione, still before the fire. He dropped back down to the floor,
rubbing his eyes tiredly. “So what do we do now?” he asked. After a moment when he realized that
neither had answered he left off and hurriedly opened his eyes again, finding his two friends
silently glaring.

What *now?*

“Ron and I are just having a little discussion about the best way to handle the logistics of the
spell.”

“Okay?” Harry said, still unsure of the problem.

“We didn’t really think this through when I said I’d direct the spell, Harry, but you and I
actually sleep in different dorms, remember? And while I think that Neville and Seamus and Dean
could be convinced to cooperate for the sake of peace and safety, Ron here isn’t happy about me
staying in your room to check on you. What he THOUGHT was going to happen, I don’t know. I think he
was just so happy that he wasn’t going to have to deal with it that he stopped thinking
altogether.”

That would of course make two of them, because Harry hadn’t actually considered how Hermione was
going to put him to sleep or wake him up from the girls’ dorm either. *‘Brilliant, Potter! Wait,
did she just say she thought Neville and Seamus and Dean would… ‘*

He looked at Ron.

“All right, it’s one thing having the two of you feel the need kiss like dementors if you’re
going to be out of sight for five minutes, I can deal with that if I have too, I guess, but I
didn’t know I was going to be signing on for having her as a room mate as well. It’s a boys’ room,
Hermione, where we can do boy stuff without having to explain everything. You’re going to start
telling us to clean up and make sure our socks get in the laundry and stop talking and go to sleep.
And talking? How can we talk about guy stuff with you there? Not just Quidditch, mind you, which
you hate, but about… “

“The enemy? Girls? The invaders? Don’t tell me you actually talk about us in between Quidditch
matches and insulting each other? Afraid I’m going to squeal all your deepest, darkest secrets to
the other girls? Like I care, Ron. Grow up.”

Ron looked like his head was going to explode.

Harry thought his might have already done, from the feel of it. “Ron, I’m sorry. I didn’t
exactly think it through, either. Look, I’ll go and get my stuff and sleep down here on the sofa,
okay? Let’s just get through tonight and deal with the rest of it tomorrow. Please?”

Ron rose without a word and collected his book satchel. Harry caught Hermione’s eye. “Meet you
back here in five?” he mouthed, holding up five fingers questioningly. Her lips were pressed in one
grim line, but she nodded and headed off toward the girls stairs. Harry followed Ron up the stairs
to their room.

“Look, Ron, I really am sorry about this…”

Ron whirled on him as soon as they’d cleared the door. “Didn’t really think this through? DIDN’T
REALLY THINK THIS THROUGH? When in Merlin’s name has SHE ever not thought something through? She
knew exactly what she was doing, Harry.”

“You mean agreeing to cope with me when I happen to wake up as a creepy homicidal maniac? I hope
so… At least she’s dealt with it before.”

“No, I mean worming her way in here! She knew exactly what it meant. It’s just a perfect excuse
to sleep with you every night.”

“Whoa,” said Seamus. “Who’s sleeping with Harry, now?”

“It’s not what it…’ Harry started.

“Hermione!” Ron turned to Seamus and Dean. Seamus had just returned from a shower and was
rummaging through his trunk for pajamas and Dean was sitting on the end of his bed threading a new
shoe lace through the holes of his trainers. “She’s fixed it so that the only way to keep Voldemort
from possessing Harry is her sleeping in here with him!”

Dean looked at Seamus, who grinned back. “She’s good, that one. She’s finally turned that mind
of hers to something worthwhile and come up aces.”

Harry gave up and began peeling off his own clothes.

“It’s not funny!” Ron insisted. “Think about it! She’ll be after you clean up that volcanic pile
of crap in the corner, Thomas, and as for you, Finnigan, you’ve got activities of your own that
will need to be left off before she shares with the rest of the school whose name you’re gasping
out over there.”

“On the other hand,” Seamus pointed out with a laugh, “if she’s to be here, and I’m just
guessing this may not be a school-sanctioned activity, what’s to stop the rest of us entertaining
occasionally?”

“Erm… human decency?” Harry offered pulling a clean t shirt on over his head. “Not to burst your
bubble, or anything, but it’s not like Ron’s making it sound. I’ve got to use a sleep controlling
potion that Snape made up, and Hermione has to be the one to make sure that I wake up without
Voldemort in tow, so she has to be there when I fall asleep and wake up. If any of you want to
trade places I’m all for it, but since I can’t control a single bleeding thing in my life anymore
it’s not that likely.”

“So here’s a thought,” he said. He slammed the top of his school trunk down and faced them, his
expression fierce. “You three might consider thanking her for taking on a job no one else would
want and welcome her in here with big smiles and shut mouths if you know what’s good for you.
Especially you, Seamus, your mum didn’t want you to come back last year, if she hears about all
this I expect you’re right out. The first one of you that says anything out of line to Hermione, or
says a word about what she’s doing to anyone outside of the four of us or Neville, they’ll have to
deal with me. And I’ve learned some hexes in “remedial DADA” that you might want to think long and
hard about taking on. Any questions?”

“Harry? I won’t say a word. Really. It’s fine with me,” Neville’s voice quavered from behind his
bed hangings.

“Sorry Neville. Didn’t know you were there. I’ll be off, then.” Harry went to brush his teeth,
leaving stunned silence behind him.


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Hermione was waiting downstairs when he got there. Her hair had been tamed into a night-time
braid and she had books and parchment piled and scattered across the floor.

“So it will look like we fell asleep studying if anyone finds us,” she explained seriously.

He flopped onto the sofa beside her, exhausted. He couldn’t imagine having the *energy*
left to dream tonight. “I think I’ve fixed it with the rest of them for tomorrow night,” he told
her.

“You were afraid to tell Ron about us because you thought he was in love with me,” she said
softly. “The jealousy you forgot was how much he loves *you*.”

“Hermione, I may be dense about a lot of things, but Ron is definitely not… that way.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and crawled closer across the sofa. “Not that kind of love, Harry. I
mean, you didn’t count on how important your friendship is to him. Not just as a part of the three
of us, but you and him. I think he’s afraid that I’m going to try to take up all your time and
attention, to take you away from him.”

“You won’t, though,” Harry said softly. He stopped there, but *“will you?”* seemed to
reverberate between them. They both knew that she probably could.

“I don’t want to change you, Harry. Why would I? I love you *this* way. I didn’t look
across a crowded room and think, ‘hmm, that one’s nice.’ Not that I wouldn’t think that, mind you,
but your loyalty to your friends is one of the reasons I came to love you in the first place. Why
would I try to wreck it for you and Ron?”

It began to occur to Harry then how lucky he really was, He remembered the feeling he’d had
kissing her in the infirmary, the sense of how loving her simplified so many things. One of them
was explaining things; he’d never have to take time to explain his friendship with Ron, how torn
he’d feel if he had to choose between them. It would happen sooner or later, he did know that, but
far later than it would with anyone else and for that he was grateful. He didn’t know how long he
had left before… He only knew he didn’t want to regret, to have wasted it.

He let his head roll toward her against the back of the sofa and met her eyes. “Thank you.” His
brain enumerated all the things he felt grateful for; agreeing to act as his dream keeper,
understanding about Ron, saving his family jewels from Malfoy’s wand in the cave, stunning him when
he needed to be stunned. For loving him at all, despite his inescapable destiny as Voldemort’s
plaything. *No, his executioner.* He had to start believing that, accepting that, if he was
promising to love her. Tentatively he gathered all his scattered feelings and cast a mental
*legilimens**.* Once connected he was most careful not to intrude, but to pause at the
door of her consciousness, as it were, and deposit his feelings of love and gratitude on the mat,
knock once, and retreat.

Watching her eyes widen and grow almost opaque with inwardly turned curiosity as she undid his
little mental bundle and examined the contents was intense. He reminded himself to breathe, waiting
for her to react.

“Harry?” she whispered. “What was that? What did you just do?”

“I don’t know, exactly. If it has a name I don’t know what it is, no one taught me how to do it.
I used *legilimens* - but not to see what you’re thinking or anything, just to sort of open
your mind. Then I left you some of my thoughts where you could find them.”

She closed the distance between them, settling against his side and kissing him softly just
where his jawbone began beneath his ear.

“They were very nice thoughts, Harry. Thank you.”

“It’s not particularly useful,” he admitted. “It takes a fair amount of concentration and it’s
very limited. I would never try to … I wouldn’t ever do what Snape can do, just pushing your way
into someone else’s mind… your mind. I wouldn’t, ever. Just so you know.”

“I trust you,” Hermione said simply.

Harry felt himself pushed gently sideways onto the arm of the sofa and Hermione crawled up
beside him. She touched her wand to his forehead and murmured the incantation to activate the
potion’s charm for sleep.

“It won’t make you fall asleep,” she explained. “It just gives you permission that it’s safe to
sleep now. You still have to get sleepy by yourself.”

“Not a problem.” Harry yawned. He drew his legs up on to the cushions. Hermione settled down
beside him and he reached for her, drawing her close. There was a moment’s awkwardness as they
jostled about to find comfortable places for extra limbs; one of her legs slipped between his and
he shifted his hip so that it wasn’t jutting her, their hands slid about seeking resting places on
territory neither had really had the chance to fully explore. If he wasn’t so very tired, Harry
reflected, it would have been frustrating as hell.

It was the last thing he thought that night.


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11. Chapter 11
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 11


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The spells were coming at him fast and furious, from every side. He was trying to keep up, but
he couldn’t; he managed to shield himself, to dodge and duck, but he could do nothing to attack
back. His brain seemed to be moving too slow, always a moment or two after the action. He thought
of the appropriate counter-curse only after the curse itself had passed or ricocheted off whatever
he could find to hide behind. He was a mouse to the Death Eaters’ cats, scurrying and hiding. He’d
never get anywhere this way; he had to fight back, to take control. *‘Wait,’* his tired brain
shouted. *‘Hang on! Time Out!’*

*‘This isn’t Quidditch, baby Potter,’* Bellatrix hissed, appearing suddenly around the
pillar he was hiding behind. *‘No Time Outs for you. Crucio!’*

And *she* meant it. She must have been saving up a whole backlog of hatred and resentment
just for the occasion. Harry felt it hit him like a thousand knives piercing him at every nerve
point. He tried to scream but the sound was trapped in his throat, gagging him. He fell back,
driven by the blades of pain. He fell, and kept falling and falling, never reaching the floor. He
was weightless, floating. He wanted to go down, away from Bellatrix and the pain but knew somehow
the way out was up, safety was above him. He fought back through the knives, kicking and flailing
as if towards the surface of water, bursting through, sucking air into his pierced, empty
lungs.

Awake. He hit the floor with a solid thud that knocked the hard-won air right out of him.

Hermione’s wand was pointed at him and her eyes were frightened. He realized he was moving and
she was prepared to stun him, convinced the potion hadn’t worked.

“Chocolate Frog,” he croaked. “Hermione, it’s only me.”

Her relief was instant and apparent; she lowered her wand, hand shaking. “What happened? Why
weren’t you… I don’t think it’s working, Harry.”

“Just a dream,” he told her betweens great gasps of air. “Not him.”

“That was a dream? *Just a dream?* Is that really how you dream when he’s not making you?”
she asked. She looked stricken and he felt suddenly shamed, the odd boy out again.

“I was losing the battle. I couldn’t remember the right spells; I was just running and hiding
like a little kid. I thought if they would just stop for a minute, just one minute, I could get my
head together, do *something*. The scary part was how stupid and useless I was. And yes,
that’s how I dream when he’s not controlling me,” he said, pushing himself slowly up from the
floor.

“Oh, Harry, I… That’s…” she started.

“Don’t,” he told her fiercely from his hands and knees, afraid to look at her face. “Please. I
don’t need your pity. I *hate* that.”

“I don’t pity you, Harry. I love you. There’s a difference, you know,” she said. She reached out
and took his hand as he rose, gently pulling him toward the sofa. “You’re in trouble now. You may
get to snog me, but I get to feel bad for you. That’s the way it works.”

She scooted on to her knees, threaded her arms around his neck and kissed him once, softly and
chastely, catching the corner of his mouth. “That’s because I’m sorry,” she said simply. And then
she kissed him again. It didn’t take him long to notice the difference; this time was full speed
ahead, lips against his, fingers splayed through his hair, wait-I-have-to-breathe-oh!- never-mind
*nice*. Her tongue slipped smoothly over his and he felt his jaw relax of its own accord. He
brought his own arms around her and felt her hands slide round to rest against his chest. They felt
lovely and warm through his t shirt, but so small somehow. He covered one with his own, larger,
longer fingered and rougher. When exactly had that happened? When exactly had she grown so lovely,
so soft, so… different? This was Hermione, he’d spent almost every day with her for a good
three-quarters of the year since they were eleven. How could he have missed this? He wanted a time
turner, to go back already knowing what he was learning now and to watch it happen. Her other hand
began to slide down from his chest, setting off a sort of portkey sensation in his stomach and a
distinct straining in his groin. He shifted his hips toward her helpfully, renewed the intensity of
the kiss with his own tongue and…

“See what I mean? I knew that this whole thing was just a giant snog plot.” Ron’s voice came
from behind them over the sofa. “You’d better get a move on unless you want to scare the
firsties.”

Hermione surfaced abruptly, eyes flying open. “Oh my gosh, we’ve got Potions!” She scrambled off
him and flew up the stairs towards the girls rooms, leaving Harry feeling cold wherever her warmth
had been. He let his head fall back against the arm of the sofa, trying to catch his breath.

“Hop it, mate. Breakfast is calling,” his red-headed room mate told him, refusing to meet his
eyes.

Harry found that he was actually feeling quite hungry for a change.


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Breakfast was okay. No one accused Harry of anything untoward and none of the first years cried
when he walked past. Hermione was quietly happy, humming tunelessly as she perused the Daily
Prophet and Ron warmed up considerably when Harry pointed out that one of Ravenclaw’s new beaters
seemed to have had a close encounter with a bludger. “Brilliant!” he enthused, eying the third
year’s multi-colored bruising. “That will slow them up a bit. He’ll be cringing every time anyone
swings!”

Hermione mumbled something about good sportsmanship and three year olds into her paper, but only
Harry heard her.

Potions was never okay, and Snape was not feeling particularly well disposed toward Harry after
the previous evenings’ exchange.

“Today we will be working on determining antidotes. Quite often when dealing with cases of
magical poisoning speed is of the essence. Time in which to aid the victim may sometimes be
extended by concocting a bridging antidote that halts or slows the worst of the symptoms until the
full or proper antidotes may be administered. Bridging antidotes may be made of some very common
ingredients under hurried circumstances. An excellent example could be made of the potion Mr.
Malfoy concocted when Mr. Potter made the first years’ mistake of tangling with a loaded
Centaur.”

Harry heard a small whistling sound, like a tea kettle beginning to boil. It seemed to be coming
from somewhere inside his head.

“Tell us, Mr. Malfoy, how did you determine which ingredients you would use?”

Malfoy smiled silkily. “I remembered you teaching us some of the properties of the poison the
Centaurs’ favor. I knew that the effect was to kill the half wit, er, victim through muscle
convulsions leading to strangulation. The peculiarity to the poison was that any modulating potion
or antidote has to be given through the wound to follow the poison’s path into the blood stream.
You can’t use anything that would coagulate the blood or cause the wound to heal over, or the
antidote ingredients would then become useless. Clever on the Centaur’s part, because the wizard
who uses a healing charm on himself signs his own death warrant. My personal opinion is we should
just eradicate the beasts. Anyway, given the probable symptoms and the ingredients readily
available in the pouring rain in Centaur infested woods in the dark, the choice was easy.”

“Twenty points to Slytherin. Mr. Longbottom, what common ingredient in the Forbidden Forest
would act as a binder without causing an undue degree of blood coagulation?”

Neville blushed and stammered out, “St. John’s Wort root would work, but using the leaves or
stems in quantity would cause the victim to bleed to death.”

Snape sneered. “A pedestrian choice as always, Longbottom. Mr. Malfoy used willow as an
anticoagulant agent and wild valerian for its anticonvulsive properties …

“But it was a mistake to risk using valerian on Harry! The delivery through the wound increases
the risk of paralysis or weakened heart rhythm. Why would you when you’d have Arisaema rhizome all
over the place? Jack in the Pulpit. If the root is cooked it’s analgesic, only mildly sedative and
a powerful anticonvulsive. Unless of course you *wanted* your victim in pain and as helpless
as possible to leave him a sitting duck for You Know Who.”

There was a full moments’ stunned silence. Even Neville seemed shocked.

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?” he squeaked.

Snape’s black eyes glittered. “Are you insinuating, Mr. Longbottom, that Mr. Malfoy tried
to…”

“Hurt Harry to make it easier for You Know Who to get at him? Sounds like a Malfoy move to me.”
Dean Thomas volunteered, eyeing the Slytherin darkly.

Harry’s eyes met Hermione’s. He shook his head. She nudged him with her foot. He closed his eyes
and let his forehead slump to the desk.

“I shall start with twenty points from Gryffindor for Mr. Longbottoms’ technically correct but
libelous suggestion that …”

Nudge!

*Son of a…*

“He was, unh, genuinely doing his best to keep me alive, Neville. Dean. Really.” Harry
sighed.

“Keep out of it, scarhead!” Draco sneered. “What do you know? You couldn’t have brewed that
potion if it came in a bottle.”

*Okay, so did the slimy bastard want Harry to defend him to the Gryffindors while condemning
him to every Voldemort supporting Slytherin in the room, or did he want him to make him out as the
evil git he usually was, pleasing the Slytherins and pissing off the Gryffindors? How the hell was
he supposed to know? Well Malfoy could just bloody well sink or swim on his own then. Jerk.*

“To be followed by another twenty points for Mr. Thomas’ pointless but equally slanderous
rejoinder,” Snape continued.

“Draco, why *did* you make that potion? Wouldn’t it have been better to just let it die in
the woods?” Pansy Parkinson asked, her dark eyes on Harry from across the room. He could feel her
total disdain; to dislike him she would have to admit he was human first.

“I had my reasons,” Malfoy said mysteriously, but Harry could have sworn he heard a tinge of
panic in his voice.

“Ohhhhh,” Pansy said with deliberate understanding.

“Which one was it, that you’re a total prat, or a total liar?” Hermione asked
conversationally.

“Twenty more points for Miss Granger’s outrageous audacity,” Snape added.

*‘Don’t you mean outrageous stating of the truth?’* Harry hurled silently and mentally at
Snape. ‘*Whose side are you on here? Whose side are you ever on? Do you even know?’*

“And a final twenty points for Mr. Potter’s insolence!” Snape snarled.

“Harry never said a word!” Pavarti broke in, outraged. “You can’t take *twenty* house
points when he never said anything! That’s unfair even from you!”

“Very well, Miss Patil,” Snape turned on her. “The twenty points can be for you… for defending
Potter. And unless anyone has anything else both relevant and intelligent to say about antidotes or
bridging potions you will SHUT your mouths for the remainder of the class period. Understood?”


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“Eighty house points! Eighty! In one class!” McGonagall said, her voice shaking with thinly
suppressed outrage. “No, I don’t want to hear your reasons, Mr. Thomas. No matter what they are,
they do not justify the kind of behavior that costs your house mates *eighty* house points.
All I can say is that had better be one impressive Quidditch game tomorrow. Goodness!” She huffed
off to the teachers table, leaving the Gryffindors to their lunches.

“Bloody Snape. And Malfoy, useless leach. I’ve never been so glad I didn’t exceed expectations
on the Potions O.W.L.” Ron groaned, “I can’t believe we have to spend three hours with him
tonight.”

“He probably won’t show. He said he wasn’t going to do it,” Hermione pointed out.

“Dumbledore seemed fairly serious about it.” Harry said gloomily. “He’ll be there. It would
hardly be a punishment without him. Admit it, Hermione, a part of your brain has been working away
at it ever since last night. Have you worked it out yet?”

“I have a few ideas,” she said airily. “This is only my second detention ever, and I fully
intend to get to the bottom of this riddle.”

“They don’t give Head Girl points for best detention, Hermione.” Harry told her with a grin.

“I’ve handed over my prefects’ badge after breaking no less than *thirteen* school rules
with you and Malfoy. You do realize my only other detention was because of you and Malfoy also?
First year, Norbert the dragon, traipsing through the Forbidden Forest? Have we learned nothing?
Remember how Filch told us he missed hanging students from chains in his office? The way we’re
going he’ll get his wish to bring that back even without Umbridge running things. I’m probably
going to break at least another twenty or thirty as your dream keeper, Harry. I’m hardly in the
running for Head Girl anymore,” she sighed.

Harry felt for her hand beneath the table’s edge and twined his fingers tentatively with
hers.

“Sorry about that,” he said softly.

She shook her head and smiled faintly. “I told you in the infirmary, Harry. It’s okay. I think
I’m ready for more important things. It just doesn’t matter so much anymore.”

“Did I just hear Hermione ‘killed – or worse, expelled!’ Granger say being Head Girl didn’t
really matter?” Ron asked, dumbfounded.

“Yes, Ron. You did. But I still think getting to class on time is important, so you and I had
best get going to DADA. We’ll see you at dinner, Harry. Be careful.” And for the first time ever,
yet with an air of nonchalance as if she’d been doing it for years, she kissed him as she left the
table. Nothing more than fingers steadying his chin and a soft brush of her lips against his, but
he realized from the surreptitious looks passed along the rest of the Gryffindor table that the cat
was irrevocably out of the bag. And it felt bloody alright. He tried to keep the silly grin from
his face as he finished his lunch but it kept coming back whenever his thoughts came back to her.
He almost didn’t notice Ginny sit down beside him. She waved a hand before his eyes.

“Oh. Hey, Gin.”

“What are you so happy about? I heard we lost eighty house points to Snape this morning, I
didn’t expect to find you quite so chipper,” she replied, setting in to her lunch.

“Useless wanker,” Harry said, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter what I do anymore, he’ll find a way to
take points for it. Reckon I could come up with a new formula for the Sorcerer’s Stone and he’d
still dock me points.”

“That’s Professor Useless Wanker to you, but you’re probably right. So,” she continued briskly,
“what’s up with you and Hermione, if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“You may. And as Ron’s little sister I’ll tell you nothing.”

“What about as one of your many admirers?”

“As my own little-sister-I-never-had I find that equally out of the question.”

“Gods, Harry, the last thing I need is another brother.”

“No,” he said. “The last thing *you* need is Draco Malfoy.”

She froze for a moment, the blink of an eye, but Harry noticed.

“What are you on about now?”

“You heard me.”

“She just couldn’t keep her mouth shut, could she,” Ginny said angrily, two spots of red
staining her fair Weasley cheeks.

“She could. Don’t go blaming Hermione. *He* couldn’t. Quite full of himself, actually. I
don’t remember it all so well, but a few things stand right out.”

“You get shot by a Centaur’s arrow, nearly die from the poison, find yourself possessed by
Voldemort and the thing you remember about the experience is that Draco Malfoy doesn’t actually
despise a Weasley? You really are a little strange Harry.”

*‘Doesn’t actually despise’? What the hell did* that *mean given what Malfoy was hinting
at? What had he done to her?*

It was the end of the lunch hour; the Great Hall had mostly emptied. Harry’s special DADA
instruction didn’t start for another half an hour. “What class do you have now?” he asked,
realizing with regret that his good mood had mostly evaporated.

“I have a free period. I do double Herbology after this. Why?”

“Let’s take this outside, okay?”

“Why?” she asked again, mulishly this time.

“Because it’s safer. Because I don’t want to talk about it in here.”

“What if I don’t want to talk to you about it at all, Harry. In here or out there. Anywhere as a
matter of fact.”

He breathed deeply and raised his eyes to the ceiling, staring for a moment at the enchanted
sky.

“Fine. It’s your line to draw, I guess. Just don’t expect me to support you or cover for you
with Ron when you won’t even talk to me. I’d just as soon forget the whole thing myself, it makes
me ill to think about, but he’s my best friend, your whole family has been so good to me. I’d never
betray them, and I think that potentially you are.”

“How *dare* you!” she hissed at him.

“See, this is why I want to do this outside. You can take a swing at me and call me names and
then maybe we can get to the bottom of it.”

“I’m starting to see what he means about you!” she said quietly, not looking at him.

He grabbed his book bag and stood up. He was seeing red, and it wasn’t her hair. “After
everything we’ve… after…” he stopped, unable to believe what he was hearing. He pushed down the
never-too-far image of her lying, dieing on the Chamber floor, and what he’d had to do to save her.
“Fine, Ginny. It’s your life. Do what you want.” He left without looking back, heading blindly for
his next class.


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Advanced level DADA at Hogwarts this year was being taught by a rotating draft of teachers.
There were many cracks about no one wanting to take the accursed position, but after the Umbridge
debacle the Ministry was only too happy to let Dumbledore do what he wanted with the job. Teaching
in shifts, Dumbledore assured the Board, would be the quickest way to make up lost ground from
Umbridges’ open book classes, allowing the students to work with a range of teaching styles. In
reality, it allowed the Headmaster to fulfill his promise to Harry of practical instruction in
advanced defense – and by default, offense – by rigorous, exhaustive dueling practice with a
variety of opponents. It also ensured that he had experience with those on the forefront of the
movement without removing them from their positions for long; members of the Order of the Phoenix
and a number of Aurors, both active and retired were signed on in shifts. Some taught regular
classes, others quietly taught only Harry in a tightly warded classroom off the hallway to
Dumbledore’s office. The general assumption all the way round was that Dumbledore wanted to keep
Harry’s progress a secret; the only debate was whether it was because he was strengthening, or
because he *wasn’t*.

Harry’s opponent this afternoon turned out to be a surprise. He was expecting Mad Eye, who often
came to work with Harry but avoided the regular DADA classes (“They all look at me like I’m about
to turn into Barty Jr. again. They lose their concentration then and it’s too easy to stun the
little buggers. Someone needs to teach them about constant vigilance, but it’s not gonna be me.”)
Harry found instead Bill Weasley waiting for him outside the door to the classroom. His long red
ponytail was singed at the bottom and an ugly red welt ran up his right forearm from wrist to
elbow.

“Hullo, Harry,” he said with a grin.

“Bill!” Harry wasn’t entirely sure whether to be happy (he admired Bill greatly and dueling with
him would be the real deal; while not an Auror, Bill had had some pretty wild experiences as a
Gringott’s Curse Breaker and was a full fledged member of the Order of the Phoenix) or disconcerted
(yet another Weasley brother to keep the Ginny problem from, and Ginny’s favorite no less...)

“I saw a bit too much action and they’ve given me a few weeks off.” Bill told him. “I just
arrived this afternoon. How’s Ron doing?”

“Erm, okay.”

“Dumbledore told me about your… well, about what happened in the Forest.”

“Pretty dumb, I know,” Harry admitted, ducking his head.

Bill opened the door to the classroom and led the way inside.

“I heard that Crabbe and Goyle told you that they’d left Hermione in the Forest.”

“They drew a picture. A kind of cartoon with her tied to a tree calling my name.”

Bill shut the door. “Well, I would have gone. Who’s gonna take that chance? What was up with the
Dark Wanker possessing you?”

Maybe it was gratitude left over from his appearance just when Harry needed him at the Dursleys’
over the summer. Maybe it was because Harry thought Bill was, for lack of a better description,
cool. Maybe it was just because Bill occupied the territory between true adults like Arthur and
Molly or Dumbledore and the painful neverland of sixteen when seventeen was the age of
independence. Whatever it was, Harry found himself spilling the whole story, not just seeking out
Voldemort’s altered state to slow his own poisoning but the realizations about Hermione as well,
the possibility that he was meant to renew the protection his mother had given him by loving
someone else.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, but she seems okay with it – so far,” Harry ended.

“Hermione’s nobody’s fool, Harry. She’s not going to like the implication that you love her
enough to die for her if you have to, but you can only do what’s up to you. She’ll do what she
thinks is right in the end. With luck the two will have something in common.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “I guess. So are we going to duel?”

Bill laughed. “Oh yeah. No holds barred and all that. No going easy on an old man, okay? What
are you working on?”

“Blasting Curses.”

“On second thought, go easy on the old man for a couple of days yet, okay? *Flabra* or
*Abiciectum*?”

*“Abiciectum*, actually.”

“On three then?”

Harry nodded.

Bill counted to three and felt himself flung against the far wall of the classroom with a blast
that would have blown apart the Death Eater who’d slashed his arm. His own spell was still
stumbling off his lips. “Alright, then,” he said, climbing stiffly to his feet. “This time I’m not
going to go so easy on you!”

Harry grinned.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>



12. Chapter 12
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 12


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They met to work on the riddle in the library, as they had planned.

There was no sign of Malfoy.

“We won’t worry about him,” Hermione decided. “Professor Dumbledore said he’d know if the three
of you were leaving all of the work to me to play Quidditch, he’ll know Draco’s ditched us. He’ll
handle it.”

Harry and Ron exchanged looks. They’d both just as soon see Dumbledore leave well enough alone.
Much as Harry’d like Malfoy to be punished, it was infinitely less annoying not having to deal with
him.

Hermione handed them each a sheet of parchment with the sorting hat’s poem written out on it,
triple spaced.

“So we can write in our thoughts about what each line means and where to look,” she
explained.

“D’nno you needed to leave quite that much room,” Ron said glumly. “I never did get poetry.”

“Let’s just try the first bit,” Hermione instructed briskly. Harry looked at his parchment.

“Seek me when the one who lives
Has passed the Centaur’s test;
Four again must walk these halls
And wake me from my rest.”

“Do you think we ought to look for records of witches or wizards who survived Centaur attacks?”
he asked. “It might well not be me.”

“I did, Harry,” Hermione told him. “Encounters with Centaurs aren’t terribly common, you know.
In 1811 they refused ‘being’ status and asked to be categorized as beasts. They don’t like wizards
any better than muggles and they normally stay well away from both. Only four wizards have been
targets of actual Centaur attacks in the last one hundred and eighty-five years. None of them
survived. I think it’s got to be you.”

Harry groaned. “Of course it is. If there’s some barmy old poem about wrath and evil that grows,
I’m in it.”

“It just says *four*, it doesn’t say anything about Malfoy.” Ron pointed out. “Maybe we
could get Dean or Neville or someone else to help us. Someone who won’t stab us in the back or send
their Dad in to bite us.”

“What’s puzzling me is that is says four *again* must walk these halls. Who were the first
four? Do you suppose it means the four founders, or someone else? And if it meant the four
founders, does it mean the four should be from each of the different houses?” Hermione thought
aloud. “Did Dumbledore really believe we were actually the right four or did we just happen to be
convenient guinea pigs because of the detention?”

“Moot point if it’s actually just the three of us,” Ron pointed out.

“’Wake me from my rest.’ Something is asleep in the castle? What sleeps for hundreds of years?”
Harry asked.

“The basilisk slept for almost that long, except when it was living off the vermin. I wonder
what keeps the rat population under control down there now since you did it in, Harry.” Ron
wondered.

“Ew, Ron.” Hermione wrinkled her nose. “We’re getting side-tracked. If you’ll just look at your
parchments you’ll see I’ve noted the key things we need to identify. First is the pageless story.
How is a story told without pages?”

“What if it was a medieval knight that lost his pages? You know, his…” Ron’s face fell at
Hermione’s steady gaze.

“A medieval knight, Ron, is not round.”

“It doesn’t say it’s round, does it? It says ‘within my circle spins.’ It could be a tower, or
the round table. How about that, Miss Smarty Pants.”

“And I suppose the ‘rose that never dies’ is in a vase on the round table, along with tea for
four? “ Hermione asked.

“Don’t need to be so superior, Hermione. What’s *your* theory?”

“I don’t exactly have one, not yet. That doesn’t mean I can’t spot a bad one, mind you. My plan
is to split up and gather more information. First, someone needs to find out about what kind of
rose never dies. If we don’t find anything in the Herbology section, one of us can ask Professor
Sprout. Or perhaps Hagrid, he might know if it’s something magical that’s been grown around the
castle. Second is the pageless story. There must be references in the library about charms to
relate stories. Think about it; the hat told us a sort of story without pages after its’ written
form was erased. And third, about that stone inscription that was wiped out from the hall under
Divination. I think we need to find out more about that. Who wrote something over it? What did it
say? Why did the person who cleaned up the message use a spell or cleaner so strong it could wipe
out etched stone?”

“Probably Filch, wishing he could use it on the kid who wrote on the wall.” Harry said. “He’s
been around for a million years, but he’s not going to tell us anything. Who else would know?”

“Maybe Professor Trelawney? She wouldn’t have been here, but it happened on her patch. She might
have heard of it from one of the other teachers.” Ron suggested.

“Who else would know who actually has a *clue* what she’s talking about?” Hermione replied
darkly. “I’m not wasting time on that old faker. Imagine what she could come up with.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry said. “I really, *really* hate to say this, but what about Hogwarts,
a History? Didn’t Dumbledore say something about starting there?”

There was a moment’s stunned silence from both Hermione and Ron.

“For the love of Merlin stop kissing her while you still can, mate.” Ron grinned. “It’s
catching.”

“My personal copy is the most recent edition, but the library one should do just fine for this,
we’re looking back hundreds of years after all. I can’t believe I got so caught up in the poem that
I forgot what Dumbledore said! I don’t remember anything exactly like what we’re looking for, but
then I wasn’t looking for it, either. ..” Hermione murmured, already lost. She moved unerringly
across the room and went to the exact place on the exact shelf where the book was kept, extracted
it and made her way back toward their table, flipping through the pages. She sat down and began
reading, but looked up after a moment. “What are you two waiting for? Get started on the Herbology
section. You need to find us a rose that never dies.”

Harry and Ron made their way into the stacks with considerably less direction and
enthusiasm.


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Madam Pince finally shooed them out of the library late in the evening and they made their way
wearily back to the Gryffindor Common room.

Hermione left them at the portrait hole to return a borrowed book to Susan Bones, turning down
offers to accompany her from both boys. “I’m quicker without you, and I want to think through the
facts of the poem again,” she told them. “I keep feeling like there’s something obvious we’re
missing.”

“Obviously whoever wrote the bloody thing was off his rocker, is what I think,” Ron yawned.
“Won’t bother saying good night. I suppose we’ll be seeing you upstairs when you get back.”

Hermione intensified her glare at him and jerked her head toward the Fat Lady. “Ha Ha, Ronald.
Very funny. Good night.”

“Erm, ‘night Hermione,” Harry said clearly.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” the Fat Lady told them, “Speed it along, will you? I want to get
back to sleep. Shouldn’t the three of you have graduated? You’ve put ten years on me, already.”

“Looks more like twenty to me,” Ron observed as he passed through. The portrait slammed
abruptly, sending him careening into Harry.

“Smooth, Ron. Don’t forget anything tomorrow, because my bet is you won’t be getting back in
without flowers and ‘you look absolutely fabulous, honestly’ as your password.” Harry advised
him.

“I vote Sir Cadogan back. He was weird, but he wasn’t moody.”

The two trailed through the nearly empty Common room to the stairs and up to their dormitory.
Neville was already in his pajamas, reading on his bed with his *mimbulus* *mimbletonia*
beside him.

“Likes a good bedtime story, does it Nev?” Ron asked.

“It’s supposed to be good to let them become accustomed to your voice,” Neville informed them
earnestly. “They can learn to differentiate stimuli. Then they won’t spray you accidentally; they
know you’re not threatening.”

Harry and Ron each took a step back. Having received a mouthful of stinksap on the Hogwarts
Express the previous year Harry was in no hurry to repeat the experience.

“It makes an excellent watch plant, though!” Neville beamed fondly at the little cactus. “Is
Hermione really going to sleep in here Harry? Because if she is, we’ll want to get Mimble used to
her as well.”

“Ahh, Neville, what’s the, er, range of that… Mimble?” Harry asked cautiously.

“Six to eight feet. Why?”

Harry eyed the distance from Neville’s bed to his own, glad that Ron was between them. He
supposed with the hangings closed they were all safe enough from a direct spray, but the
*smell…*

“She’ll only be here last thing at night and gone first thing in the morning,” Harry said. Ron
snorted into his trunk and Harry threw a trainer at him. “I bet Mimble will hardly know she’s here.
Remember, Neville, it’s a secret Hermione’s to be here at all. I’ve already gotten her the
detention from hell; I can’t get her into any more trouble.”

“I won’t say a word Harry. Honestly.”

“Thanks, Neville. And thanks for this morning, in Potions. Sorry about the points and all.”

“Well, I did wonder, when I heard what happened. It could have been a coincidence, I suppose.
The thing is Malfoy’s actually really good at potions but he doesn’t usually pay much attention in
Herbology. Valerian is best known as a sleep inducer. It’s better recognized for that then the
anti-convulsive side effect.”

“So you really *do* think Malfoy was trying to make Harry more defenseless for Voldemort,
then…” Ron said.

“Ron, when I first woke up to him, Voldemort was trying to *crucio* Malfoy. He was happy to
see him, but he wasn’t happy *with* him, if you get my drift.”

“Maybe it was all an act.”

“He was IN me Ron. In my head. I could feel him; I was fighting with him, trying to stop him. It
was a damn good act on Voldemort’s part if that’s what it was. I don’t know what Malfoy’s up to; I
doubt Malfoy knows, to be honest. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw the smarmy little
suck-up. I just don’t believe it was really a coordinated plot on his part.” Harry felt it was time
for a quick change of subject; Malfoy’s talk of Ginny was one of the few things he had to fall back
on to support his contention and he wasn’t going anywhere *near* that subject. “Better get
changed before Hermione gets here.”

Ron looked a bit panicked and shuffled through a pile of dirty clothes even the house elves had
been afraid to touch looking for pajamas. “What about Dean and Seamus? Did you warn them?”

“I think it was pretty clear last night. And she’s not here to scope you guys out, Ron. She’s
here to make sure you don’t wake up to the roommate *no one* wants. I’ll close the hangings;
you’ll forget she’s even around after a bit.”

“Not so sure that’s a good thing, either.” Ron said cautiously. “Put a silencing spell on, will
you.”

“She knows you snore. You were honking away at Hagrid’s the other night, besides she’s heard you
at the Burrow plenty of times.”

“Otherway round, Harry.”

Harry was silent a moment, puzzled, then threw the other trainer Ron’s way. “I’m hardly going to
choose a roomful of snorting, wanking prats as the right place for that, idiot.”

“Least it’s got a bed. Beats a broom closet hands down,” Seamus said, coming in. Dean followed
him. “Is she here yet?”

“No,” Harry told them, heading off to brush his teeth. “And when she gets here all talk of beds
versus broom closets in reference to her is off limits. Don’t care if you go on and on about your
own fun with the cleaning supplies, just leave her out of it, okay?”

The sound of whips followed him out the door.

He was so *not* whipped.

Yet, anyway.


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In the end, only Neville and Harry were still awake when Hermione arrived, reading by the light
of their wands. Ron had fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow and Seamus and Dean
had followed suit soon after. Harry had loaned her his invisibility cloak but he still had a
moment’s pause when the door opened and closed itself. Once she noticed Ron and the other two
asleep she pulled off the cloak with a grin.

“No matter how many times I get to use it, it’s still fun,” she whispered. Her hair was neatly
braided for the night, but this time she wore faded boys’ flannel pajama bottoms and a dark green
thermal top, both of which appeared several sizes too large for her. On closer inspection, they
both appeared to Harry to be his, as well. She noticed his assessment and grinned again.

My, but she was happy tonight.

“I nicked them from the laundry,” she admitted. “I thought in a pinch in the dark I might get
taken for just another boy.”

*Nope. Not a chance.*

“Uhh, good thinking.” Harry managed. “Neville says you need to get to know his plant so it
doesn’t mistake you for an intruder.”

“Okay. Hullo, Neville.”

Harry watched as she went over to Neville’s bed to examine the *Mimbulus*
*Mimbletonia*, watched her eyes grow intent as she listened to Neville describing the finer
points of his plant like a proud father. She really listened, then asked Neville a question Harry
couldn’t quite make out and tentatively reached out a finger to stroke the blobby plant exactly as
Neville showed her. Harry held his breath a moment but the plant remained calm, no jets of green
stinksap appeared. Even the plant realized it, he thought. Hermione was *nice*. Kind-hearted,
forgiving, loyal, fair and plain old nice. And she had said that she loved *him*, Harry. For
the first time ever something appeared to be going right in his life.

Please, *please* let him not screw it up.

He heard Hermione tell Neville good night and she appeared again at the side of Harry’s bed,
kicked off her slippers and climbed up.

Harry reached round her and pulled the hangings closed.

“Where do you leave your wand at night?” she asked curiously, picking it up from the blankets
between them.

“Under my pillow, mostly. I learned my lesson the hard way with Uncle Vernon this summer. Why,
where do you keep yours?”

She looked at Harry a bit strangely and then pointed toward the bed hangings. His blank look
made her sigh. She took her own wand and slipped it into a neat, wand-sized pocket sewn into the
vertical hem. “It’s what it’s there for, did you never notice?”

Harry shook his head, wondering what other basic Hogwarts facts he had completely missed during
the last six years. Why was it girls always knew these things?

“Shall I put yours there also, or do you feel safer with it under the pillow?”

“Yes, please. Put it with yours, it will be harder to get at if I’m… not right. Oh, hang on.” He
took it back and cast a quick silencing charm on the hangings, handing it to her sheepishly when he
was done. “I promised Ron,” he explained. “And it *will* help with the snoring.”

“They are noisy sleepers, aren’t they?” she said matter-of-factly; to Harry’s relief she seemed
completely unfazed. “Ron’s far and away the loudest though.”

“Yeah, He is. Um, I don’t know if I should say this or anything, but I made sort of a big deal
about this not being exactly the place I’d pick to, well, take you to, erm, anyway… they’re meant
to be polite to you. Just tell me if Seamus or Dean say anything funny. I trust them not to tell
anyone else, but they won’t necessarily be above teasing you.” Harry could feel his cheeks
burning.

Hermione settled back against the pillows. “I can handle them. I’m curious about something
though, Harry. Where would you take me?”

*What?* “I have absolutely no idea.” Harry said, falling back on honesty in his confusion.
“Where would you, umm, like to be taken?” *Okay, that didn’t exactly come out right,
either.*

“Have you ever imagined us together?” she asked softly.

Harry nodded, feeling an even fiercer blush and the beginnings of something else.

“Where were we?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were we on a bed? The floor? A sofa? The beach?”

“Erm…”

“Warm? Cold? Night time? Day time?”

“I don’t know.” Harry said softly, the beginnings of anguish closing in. “I don’t really take in
any of that stuff. There’s not a lot of detail, only you.”

Her eyes softened and he knew he’d finally said *something* right somehow.

“It’s not here when I imagine it either,” she told him. “But if you’re a very good wizard and
catch the snitch tomorrow, I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow night.”

“I’d like that,” Harry said slowly, trying to swallow. *A lot*. “But what if I don’t manage
to catch the snitch?”

She laughed. “You *always* catch the snitch, Harry. Don’t worry about it. Just stay mounted
on the broom all game this time, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Lie down, Harry. I won’t bite you.”

He lay down beside her. She sat up and retrieved her wand, tapping it gently against his
forehead and repeating the incantation for safe sleep. He felt his eyes begin to grow heavy even as
she replaced it in the hangings; the spell might not *cause* sleep, but it sure made it feel
like an excellent option.

“Good night, Harry.” She whispered.

“Night, Hermione. Thank you.”

She settled down under the covers beside him, kissing him gently on the forehead where her wand
had tapped. “Tonight, Harry? Remember where we are.”


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The next morning dawned clear and cool, perfect Quidditch weather. Hermione peeked out of
Harry’s bed hangings to see the sun slowly climbing the walls of the castle and just beginning to
stream through the tower window. All around the room the boys slept on.

She ducked back through the hangings and settled herself against her pillow, contentedly
allowing herself ten more minutes in the warmth and comfort of the bed before waking Harry and
sneaking back to her own room.

Harry stirred, his eyes seemed to shift quickly beneath closed lids. His breathing quickened,
his body tensed. Hermione reached up and recovered her wand, watching warily. He seemed less
agitated than intent, expectant. His mouth opened slightly and one hand pulled free of the blanket,
reaching across his body….

And snatched at the air. His face relaxed into a smile, triumphant and content.

*No need to wonder what’s going on there!* she thought with a smile of her own. She brought
her wand to his forehead to begin the waking incantation, then paused. No telling what was going on
in Harry’s dream world, but he’d just caught the snitch. Might as well let him enjoy his moment;
Merlin knew there were few enough good ones these days.


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13. Chapter 13
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 13


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A/N: Before anyone comments, I know I have taken huge liberties with the Hogwarts Quidditch
schedule and that Ravenclaw vs. Gryffindor is traditionally the last game of the season. Sorry! I
really needed to, and I apologize to any Quidditch purists offended by that. Slytherin was allowed
to change the schedule once – if Draco can do it, so can I!


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Breakfast that morning was a rowdy, noisy meal with predictions of the outcome of the match
circulating fast and furiously around the Great Hall. The fine fall day seemed to have put the
whole school in the mood for Quidditch, although Hermione had her own suspicions that more than a
few were looking forward to seeing Harry have to have a go against Cho, seeker for the Ravenclaw
team. The whole Ravenclaw table was sporting badges depicting a soaring blue eagle with a
struggling golden lion dangling from its talons. The lion wore familiar round national health
spectacles with tape wound around the bridge.

“Cheap shot mate. Hermione’s kept yours in good shape since first year,” Ron comforted Harry
when they first noticed them. Hermione rather thought Ron was just pleased the lion wasn’t wearing
a crown.

Ron always ate an especially enormous breakfast before matches, under the premise that one never
knew how long a Quidditch match would last and it could in theory be a full day or more until his
next meal. Harry had a tendency to pick, choking down only toast, and Hermione knew he would be
ravenous afterwards… assuming he managed to stay clear of the Hospital Wing, anyway. A short way
down the table Ginny wore all the signs of a girl whose secrets were overtaking her, eating and
laughing one moment but watchful and uncertain the next. A quick glance at the Slytherin table
provided one possible answer; Draco’s silvery eyes were following her every move, while Crabbe and
Goyle’s piggy ones were following his.

Katie Bell, in her final year and having put down Auror as her career choice, was rather
desperately trying to eat and work on a transfiguration paper at the same time, utterly unconcerned
by the imminent game. Vicki Frobisher, (who had narrowly lost the keeper spot to Ron the year
before by admitting that her position as the head of charms club would take precedence over
Quidditch practices) had been convinced to play chaser this year. Ron had decided rearranging a
couple of practices was quite probably worth it to have someone with half decent broom skills as
their third chaser; there was some good up and coming talent amongst the third and fourth years but
no one he felt quite safe putting out on the pitch just yet. Vicki took a distinctly practical view
toward Quidditch, it was just another item on her “to do” list for the day. Andrew Kirke and Jack
Sloper were another story altogether. Kirke was a truly sickening shade of green and Sloper had
already dropped, knocked over or spilt so many things that the seats on either side and across from
him had been vacated. Gryffindor, Hermione realized, would be fielding a somewhat rough side
today.

Ron at last decided that he was fully fueled and called for the team to head down to the pitch.
Harry seemed almost to shoot out of his chair in relief, his nerves always quieted once he was in
the air. Hermione thought he was going to forget about her altogether in his distraction, but he
stepped aside to let Ron pass him and crouched down beside her. For a moment he looked as if he was
going to ask her something, but he seemed to lose some inner struggle and simply leaned forward as
if he was whispering a last minute bit of information and kissed her warmly beneath her ear
instead. She began to move her hands toward his neck but suddenly became acutely aware of being
watched and looked over his shoulder to find Dumbledore’s eyes on her own. He did not appear in any
way angry, but she was sharply reminded of the constraints of the situation and dropped her hands
to her lap. There were school rules regarding PDA and although Hermione had never thought to
concern herself with them other than writing up infractions as a prefect, the Great Hall at
breakfast before the first Quidditch game of the season was unfortunately a no-go zone even if
you’d turned in your badge. She dropped her eyes to Harry’s and realized he had been aware all
along of Dumbledore’s observation.

“Don’t forget your promise,” he said quietly, and grinned. She couldn’t help a matching grin as
he rose to follow the others, disappearing through the door behind Ron.


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Hermione never truly enjoyed watching Quidditch matches. While she didn’t understand Ron’s rabid
enthusiasm for it, as sports went it was an interesting enough game to watch. In fact, if Harry had
been in the stands watching *with* her rather than playing one of the more exposed positions
she might have actually quite liked it now and again. Unfortunately, however, Hermione had picked
up Brutus Scrimgeour’s *The Beaters’ Bible* in Flourish and Blots second year, only to put it
down again rather hastily after noticing its first cardinal rule of advice was ‘Take out the
opposing Seeker.’ She hadn’t watched a match with the same degree of comfort since.

Now she sat beside Lavender and Parvati and Seamus, watching as the two teams appeared on the
field; Gryffindor in scarlet and Ravenclaw in bright blue. The colors stood out brilliantly against
the pewter autumn sky. Both teams gathered across from their opposing sides before Madam Hooch and
the trunk that held the Quidditch balls. The snitch and bludgers were set free. She appeared to say
something to which Ron and Roger Davies as captains both agreed; then blew her silver whistle and
tossed up the quaffle. Fifteen brooms took to the air, rising high above the stadium. For better or
worse, they were off.

Hermione brought her omnoculars to her eyes and found Harry circling high above the stadium, the
wind giving his already disordered hair a true life of its own. He was keeping a good distance
between himself and Cho but still observing warily her every move. Hermione tried desperately not
to mind (*‘It’s a game, idiot, he has to watch her. He can’t possibly have any feelings left for
her after that!’*) She redirected her gaze to Ron, who was playing much more authoritatively
this year now that he was Captain and out from Fred and George’s rather long shadows.
Unfortunately, the Ravenclaw chasers faked him out and got one through the hoop almost as soon as
she focused on him.

“That’s one for Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw takes the lead 10 to 0,” Dean Thomas announced. He had
succeeded Lee Jordon as Quidditch announcer and proved to have both the same flare and lack of
impartiality. “Ginny Weasley with the quaffle now, lovely pass to Katie Bell, that would have made
Angelina and Alicia proud you two! Katie’s in position to score and … oh nice try Katie, but that
was a super save by keeper Su Li for Ravenclaw.”

The game proved to be an exciting one, closely matched. There were remarkably few fouls and both
teams played true to form; Ravenclaw relying primarily on strategy, attempting to out-think their
opponents and Gryffindor falling back on nail-biting maneuvers, often flying in the face of logic
but managing to score in the end.

The three Gryffindor chasers in particular were playing really well considering support from
their beaters was such a mixed bag. Kirke had a tendency to duck the bludger rather than send it
back off offensively while Sloper, brave to the point of foolhardiness, bat them all but was just
as likely to send it toward his own team as the Ravenclaws. Hermione found herself wondering
whether glasses might help him as well. Ron had moments of breathtaking brilliance interspersed
with some real cringers. Harry was biding his time; Hermione couldn’t tell if he was tracking the
snitch yet but she knew that he wouldn’t bring it in even if he was until Ron gave him the okay.
She had decided the plus side of Cho seeking for Ravenclaw was that the race to the snitch was
unlikely to prove nearly as rough as it did when Harry and Malfoy both took off after the little
golden ball. If only Kirke and Sloper managed to intercept the bludgers while his eye was on the
snitch he might actually get out of this game unscathed…

About fifty minutes into the game she heard Ron suddenly shout “Go for it, Harry!” an unsubtle
but effective indication that he had seen Harry lock on the snitch. The score was 110 – 90 to
Ravenclaw’s advantage, there was no point in holding off. Harry took off like a bullet with Cho
shouting something into the wind and homing in on him at equal speed.

It was at exactly that point when Hermione’s world exploded. One moment she was watching Harry
tearing after the snitch, the next she felt as if she’d been clubbed in the face by a troll. She
heard a whistle and cries of “Foul!” and “Bumphing! Bumphing! That was a deliberate Bumph!” amidst
Lavender and Parvati’s squeals as blood from Hermione’s nose spattered them both. She slowly took
in that she had been hit by a bludger sent purposefully into the stands.

Time seemed to creep, as if she were still looking through the omnoculars and had slowed down
the action. She brought her hands up to her face and felt her rapidly swelling nose, tried to clear
the red haze from her eyes. She blinked and saw Professor McGonagall making her way through the
stand toward her, outrage written in every line of her set expression. A quick peek at the field
revealed Harry changing course and zooming toward her with an expression on his face she had never
seen there before, one that seemed to provoke an entirely new physical response within her that
actually almost offset the damage to her nose rather nicely for a minute or two.

So *that’s* what love looked like on Harry.

He appeared torn between an anxious protectiveness and seething rage on her behalf. She also
noticed Cho, however, still single-mindedly tracking the snitch. While she couldn’t catch it during
the foul period, she would have the advantage of knowing exactly where it was when play began
again. It became abundantly clear to Hermione in that moment what was going on, and much as she’d
love to explore what Harry’s protective side felt like, she wasn’t letting Cho get away with
*that*. She rose to her feet.

“I’b all wight, Habby! Don’ stwop pwaying! She’s twying to distwact you!” she yelled to him,
waving her hands wildly and causing the dribble of blood from her nose to gush in a most unhelpful
manner. Lavender thrust a handkerchief into her hand from one side while Professor McGonagall tried
to get her to sit back down in her seat on the other.

Harry drew up close to the stands, hovering before her and ready to throw himself from his
broom.

“Habby, don’t. I’b fine, I’b okay. Don’t wet them use be to gwet to you!”

Green eyes met hers, enormous and conflicted.

“Wemember owr bargain, Habby Botter!. I’b fine. GWET THABT SBITCH!”

That seemed to work. He wheeled around and headed back out over the pitch as the whistle
indicating resume of play sounded.

There were *some* advantages to a broken nose after all. Professor McGonagall didn’t bat an
eyelash at the “sbitch” and no one else was about to ask if she meant the little golden ball, or
Cho.

“That’s a bumphing foul on Ravenclaw, Katie Bell to take the shot. Go Katie… YES! Score is at
110 to 100 now with Ravenclaw still in the lead, the lousy cheaters; think they’re all so smart,”
Dean announced rather undiplomatically.

“Thomas!” McGonagall rapped out. “You are our announcer, NOT the referee!” She turned back to
Hermione. “Miss Granger, I’m afraid this means a trip to the Hospital Wing for you. I can stop the
bleeding here, but Madam Pomfrey is much better at healing noses without that tell-tale bump than
I.” She brought out her wand and leveled it at Hermione’s nose. Hermione felt the dribbling flow of
blood slow and then stop altogether. Her eyes watered with the sharply repressed need to
sneeze.

“Please, Probessor. I beed to bee the bend of the gamb.” Hermione begged, her eyes riveted to
the Ravenclaw end of the pitch where Harry and Cho were maneuvering.

“Really, Miss Granger, I think it best if…” Professor McGonagall trailed off, caught up in the
play herself.

There was a brief flicker of gold low between two of the Ravenclaw hoops. Harry and Cho both
dove after it, coming from opposite directions, Cho a bit closer at the start of the dive. The
cheering of the crowd fell off abruptly as it became clear that the two seekers were on a collision
course with each other as well as the snitch.

*He’s not going to stop!* Hermione thought in horror. *And neither is she!* There was
more then just the snitch between those two now.

At the very last moment before they would impact, Harry dropped into a quick sloth-roll, hanging
below his broom and passing just under Cho, his back scraping the ground. Harry’s robe ripped free
and fluttered past them; concealing as it did that both had a hand outstretched for the snitch and
both seemed to grasp it at the exact same moment. When it fell clear it appeared that Cho had
successfully wrested it from Harry’s grasp by angling her broom upwards just as the tip of Harry’s
broomstick jarred off the goal hoop post. The force of his collision wrenched him free of her grip
and sent Cho cartwheeling off her broom. She landed upright on her bum, facing the goal. Harry hit
the ground as well, sliding along on his back until the next pole caught his shoulder and brought
him to an abrupt halt. He lay still a moment and she held her breath until his arm rose, albeit
somewhat shakily, to reveal the snitch fluttering in his glove.

Ron’s shout of triumph led the roar from the Gryffindor stands.

Harry rolled over to his knees and climbed slowly to his feet, walking over to Cho. Hermione
watched, amazed and suddenly fiercely proud as he offered her a hand to help her to her feet as
well. Cho seemed to consider his outstretched hand for a rather long moment before she accepted it
and allowed him to help her up. Hermione could see him say something to her, his face pained, but
she turned away without appearing to answer just as the rest of the Gryffindor team dropped down to
surround him.

“Well, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall reclaimed her attention. She still seemed upset, but
considerably less so then a few moments before. “Shall we go now? I believe Madam Hooch will insist
Mr. Potter be checked out after hitting that goal post, so he’ll have no trouble finding you.”

*Remarkable power that little snitch has!* Hermione thought. *But those bludgers hurt
like hell. Stupid sport!*

She followed Professor McGonagall from the stands


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It struck Hermione as almost surreal to be the one sitting on the bed submitting to Madam
Pomfrey’s administrations while Harry and Ron hovered anxiously close by.

“You’re next, Mr. Potter,” Madam Pomfrey informed him as she cast the last straightening charm
on Hermione’s nose. “Remove your shirt and hop up on that bed,” Hermione heard a faint ‘pop’ and it
suddenly become much easier to inhale. “That’s going to be rather tender for a few days Miss
Granger, but it looks quite alright, I assure you.”

“Actually, I think she’s made it even straighter than it was before,” Ron said, assessing it
critically as he peered over Madam Pomfrey’s shoulder.

“I’ll have you know there was nothing wrong with my nose, Ronald Weasley.”

“I didn’t say there was, I just said she’d made it even better.”

Hermione turned around just in time to see Harry rather desperately drawing his finger across
his neck in the international symbol for ‘shut up while you’re ahead.’ He smiled at her
sheepishly.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” he told her while Madam Pomfrey busily *scourgified* her
hands between patients. “It looked awf, erm, there was an awful lot of blood.”

“Head wounds always bleed a great deal, the nose is no exception,” Madam Pomfrey said briskly.
“You on the other hand seem to have ground rather a lot of sand into yourself, Mr. Potter. Exactly
why is that?”

“The snitch was hiding under the Ravenclaw goal post?” Harry offered.

“Hmph,” was the best she could manage in response to such an excuse. “Well, the good news is you
don’t seem to have done any lasting damage to your shoulder, but the bad news is I’m going to have
to flush the sand out of those scrapes and there’s really no magical method any more effective than
old fashioned scrubbing and antiseptic. You may want to run along to dinner, dears,” she said to
Ron and Hermione. “There’s either going to be tears or bad language for the next bit. You can
retrieve him after if you like. Oh and bring along some clean clothes please, Mr. Weasley, these
are filthy through and through.”

“Can I stay?” Hermione asked quickly. “I’ve been considering what you said, about becoming a
healer…”

“Of course!” Madam Pomfrey said delightedly. “This will be an excellent little test to see if
you can stomach some noise without it being at all serious for the patient.”

“Dinner calls. Gotta run! Nice game mate. I’ll bring you some clean stuff after,” Ron stammered
and fled.

Harry hissed and snorted through the start of Madam Pomfrey’s administrations but he remained
resolutely quiet when Hermione took over, determined not to make her feel as if she were hurting
him. The surprise was that she didn’t – or significantly less than Madam Pomfrey, anyway. It took
her longer to finish her bit, but she had a very light touch and careful, methodical approach. His
eyes watered a little when the antiseptic potion was applied, but Hermione did something with her
wand while Madam Pomfrey emptied the sandy basin and the stinging mercifully stopped.

“What was that?” he whispered.

“Just a little localized pain-muffling charm. Madam Pomfrey doesn’t bother with them because
they don’t really last and they’re only good for shallow scrapes or burns, but I thought it might
help.”

“Hermione, I know I haven’t told you yet today, but I really do love you,” he said softly and
gratefully. “You’re amazing. I’m so sorry that they did that to you. It almost stopped my heart;
all I could see was the blood everywhere. I asked Cho if she was the one who called the play, but
she wouldn’t say.”

“Miss Chang and Mr. Corner have admitted to discussing bumphing together without Mr. Davies
knowledge prior to the start of the match,” said a voice from beyond the curtain at the end of
Harry’s bed, and Dumbledore appeared. He seemed to be quietly excited about something. “One of the
Ravenclaw chasers came forward and said he heard them discussing something earlier this morning.
According to Mr. Bradley, they were both of the mind that directing a bludger toward Miss Granger
would serve as quite a distraction to you, Harry. Perhaps enough to allow Miss Chang to secure the
snitch for Ravenclaw. Once confronted with his confession they too confessed. They claim they had
no intention of injuring you, Miss Granger, simply of scaring you. Obviously their aim was as
flawed as their intent.”

“I can’t believe she admitted it!” Hermione exclaimed. “Couldn’t that put them off the
team?”

“Indeed, it will.” Dumbledore said as he made his way to the end of the bed. “I think losing
their positions on the team seemed a small consequence compared to the alternative.”

“Professor Dumbledore? What was the alternative?” Harry asked uneasily.

“Miss Chang admitted to me that Ravenclaw though she may be, the origins of the plan were not
her own. While the idea that Hermione could be used to hurt you is hardly a novel one considering
your longstanding friendship, Harry, the timing of the attempt given recent … events, shall we say,
seemed more than coincidental. She told me that the idea originated with Mr. Malfoy.”

“Son of a b… ouch!” Harry said as Hermione prodded him in the back with her wand. “Sorry.
Sir.”

“My feelings exactly, Harry. I don’t know what game Draco is playing at, but I confess to being
rather concerned. His intentions before me have all rung true; I haven’t sensed anything off while
he is in my presence but his behavior is failing to support them when he is on his own. Confounding
indeed, but it only makes me twice as proud of you both today.”

“Proud of us?” Hermione questioned.

“Indeed. It has hardly gone unnoticed by the school that you have become somewhat *better*
friends since your sojourn in the Forbidden Forest. Today, however, the groundwork was laid to
support the notion that you are both powerful in your own right, that you will not allow
yourselves, either of you, to be used against the other. You, Hermione, did not require Harry to
forfeit the game to prove his devotion to you, and you, Harry, proved how much you trust and admire
Hermione’s judgment by acceding to her wishes that you might avenge her best through the game.
While it will be very much harder to translate those responses to a situation that could threaten
one or both of your lives, it did plant the idea that you *might* very firmly in some
important places. And for that, I am very proud of you both.”

Harry lifted his eyes to Hermione’s to find them glowing with pride. The feeling washed over him
again of how very lucky he was that she had made up that mind to love *him*.

“I can rather imagine this is an exciting and yet somewhat frustrating time for you both. It is
not easy to change the footing of any relationship with the eyes of the whole school upon you. I
can do little more than wish you both well, but if I can be of any appropriate assistance, I hope
you will come to me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said.

“Yes, thank you, Professor,” Hermione added.

Dumbledore smiled gently and rose to leave, then paused. “Tell me, how is your assignment
coming? Have you made any headway yet?”

“No, sir. Not exactly,” Harry admitted. “Hermione’s got us organized to do all the research but
we haven’t turned up anything that makes any sense yet.”

“No matter. Keep at it. Some secrets Hogwarts seems most adept at keeping just that.”

“Professor Dumbledore, Malfoy hasn’t shown up to help out, or take on any of the investigation
at all.” Hermione knew that Harry and Ron were happy not to have to put up with him but after today
she’d be damned if he didn’t do his part.

“I see. Are you meeting this evening?”

Harry could see where this was leading, and he wasn’t following. “No, sir,” he said firmly.
“Tomorrow afternoon.” Sundays were quiet in the library; there’d be no one to hear the ferret
scream.

“Very well, then. I assure you, Mr. Malfoy will be there. Ahh, Mr. Weasley. It appears Harry and
Hermione have missed their evening meal. Perhaps you would be so good as to take them both down to
the kitchens and ask the house elves if they might rectify the situation? I rather imagine you
could do with a second helping as well. Shepard’s pie, I believe, wasn’t it?”

Ron nodded happily. “Absolutely, Professor!”

Dumbledore made his way off as Ron threw a bundle of clothes into Harry’s lap.


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It was a difficult evening for Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Harry, who liked to sleep on
his back, was forced to lie on his stomach. Hermione, who loved to snuggle her face into her
pillow, had to sleep on her back. There was little left to do but comfort each other. Unfortunately
Harry’s gentlest attempt to reach Hermione’s lips never quite managed to avoid some contact with
her nose, and Hermione’s instinctive response to Harry was to draw him closer with her arms around
his back.

“Do you expect this is what Dumbledore meant by exciting and yet somewhat frustrating?” Hermione
mused finally.

“Oh, Merlin, I hope not. I’m really a little queasy with the whole Dumbledore/us in bed thing,
Hermione.”

“I think he meant it in a genuinely paternal kind of way Harry. He does care about you.”

“He’s also manipulated a lot of my life for the better good of wizardkind. I get the concept;
I’m just never sure which he’s after.”

“How does being nice and giving the two of us what amounts to his blessing of our relationship
do anything at all for wizardkind, Harry?”

He hesitated. She was the smart one, and it wasn’t bothering her. But what if…?

“What if he already knows what I think I felt that night in the cave? He’s already told me that
love is a power Voldemort has forgotten, or forsaken. What if he’s encouraging us just because he
thinks that you can help me somehow?”

“What if he is? I *want* to help you Harry.”

“And I want your help, I honestly do. Your help. Not what Dumbledore might think you need to do
to help me. Do you see the difference? I admire him, I’m grateful to him. But he scares me
sometimes, Hermione.”

She was silent a moment, thinking through what he had said. She loved that he let her think,
that he didn’t jump all over her thoughts the way Ron sometimes did. She could see his point, and
realized that his perception of Dumbledore was quite a bit different from her own. She thought of
him most as the omniscient Headmaster who always knew what to do, but he was also the most powerful
wizard in their world and the only one that Voldemort truly feared. Power did powerful things even
to those who sought to use it for good. It multiplied mistakes, divided loyalties. Harry was right
to feel the way he did. She shivered, feeling as if another layer of safety had been stripped from
her life. She felt his hand, warm and comforting, slip over her shoulder and stroke slowly down her
spine, bringing a shiver of an entirely different kind.

Rather reluctantly she retrieved her wand from the bed hangings and said the words to ensure his
safe sleeping.

“So tell me,” he said with a yawn as she settled back down against the pillows after retiring
her wand.

“Tell you what?” She was startled to realize that after only two nights as his dreamkeeper it
already struck her as wrong that he was setting off to sleep on his stomach. His head was pillowed
on one of his arms and she could barely see one green eye peeking through his fringe.

“You know, where you…?”

“Oh! *That*.”

“Yeah.”

Hermione was in a bit of a quandary. When she had imagined things it had been within the realm
of fantasy and with a remote, unobtainable Harry. She had once placed them, for example, on a
veranda overlooking a secluded beach. (The beach itself was too sandy for her taste, the idea
abrasive even with lots of blankets and towels. Sand always stuck so when you were wet. Ugh.)

Now that fate had made her a nightly visitor to Harry’s own bed, the goal posts had moved
significantly. If she told him she had always imagined their first time to be on a beach, knowing
Harry he just might wait until he could take her to one and Hermione was quite certain at this
point that she wasn’t going to make it that long without jumping him first. It was one thing to
know she at last had his undivided attention around the school, and quite another to feel his
implicit trust as he relinquished control of himself to her each evening.

She had no desire to be dishonest with him but she had every desire to do just about everything
else with him. It was growing stronger by the day – and even stronger by the night as she settled
beside his warm, hard length and wondered curiously about his *other* one. She could sense his
watchfulness; he responded eagerly to her every touch but she knew he would not initiate anything
himself no matter what his desires might be. Harry was nothing if not the consummate gentleman – an
eternal surprise considering how he was raised - but even if he were not his guilt about placing
her in this compromising position in the first place would have held him off.

Still, all things considered she wasn’t *quite* desperate enough to want Ron in the next
bed over while they made love for the first time, at least not yet. The astronomy tower was cold
and hard and a little too popular. She loved it down by the lake, but it would cut their chances
down significantly and the weather was starting to close in with the fall, making outdoors
unpredictable at best. There *was* something a bit outdoorsy about Harry, though; he struck
her as being altogether more comfortable there than in, say, silk sheets on a massive mahogany
bedstead. Outdoorsy, but comfortable. Hmmm.

“You know the classroom Firenze enchanted on the first floor for divination last year?”

“Umm hmmm.”

Rats! He was almost asleep!

“I want you to take me *there*.”

“Okay,” he mumbled. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his cheeks. She could not help
thinking that he was… beautiful. He might be uncomfortable with her choice of words, but there it
was. Her heart seemed to swell with tenderness until it had nowhere to go but a kiss; she pressed
her lips gently to his forehead. His fringe fell away to reveal the scar and she found herself
wondering for a moment that if when Voldemort was gone the scar might go with him. Power of
positive thinking, she assured herself. The vile, loathsome, evil thing that Voldemort was now
couldn’t possibly take Harry from this world now that he loved her back. It was simply Not
Possible. She would find a way to make sure it was so.

But first she had to find a way to make him stay awake long enough to hear about her plans for
the enchanted forest classroom.


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14. Chapter 14
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 14


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Draco stormed into the library Sunday afternoon and strode purposefully to the table where Ron,
Harry and Hermione were seated, each buried in a book. Hermione was actually reading hers; Ron and
Harry were both struggling to keep upright, with mixed success. Harry seemed to detect Malfoy’s
sudden presence from behind his drooping eyelids and came instantly, instinctually on guard. He
elbowed Ron, who mumbled “Piss off, Fred. Mum already said it was breakfast,” but opened one bleary
eye anyway.

“You just couldn’t let it go, could you?” Malfoy snarled. “It wasn’t enough that I saved your
pitiful life out there, scarface, you just had to drag me in to this stupid riddle business.” His
eyes slid from Harry to Hermione beside him. “Nice nose, Granger. Purple and green really bring out
the mud brown color of your eyes. Oh, and Weasel, in case your friends have failed to inform you,
I’m OW! *Sweet mother of Merlin!*”

Harry had defensively dropped Hogwarts, A History on Malfoy’s foot.

All four were promptly requested to remove themselves from the vicinity of the library
*immediately*. Malfoy limped and whined all the way to an empty classroom down the hall.

“First of all, I didn’t drag you anywhere,” Harry spat as soon as the door was closed. “You got
the same punishment as the rest of us and I fail to see how that’s *my* fault. Second, I seem
to remember you telling me that you ‘needed’ me alive to further one your own twisted little games.
You made the choice. Live with it. Third, you just made a major mistake coaching Cho and Corner.
Watch your back. All it takes is one good chance.”

“Ooooh, Potter. I’m shaking. One good chance to what?”

“Stick your wand so far up your…” Ron started, incensed.

“Keep guessing,” Harry cut in. “Aren’t surprises *really* more fun in the end?”

“Listen, I don’t know what you three imbeciles have planned for this afternoon but it better
have an intelligible point and get us a whole lot closer to solving this pathetic joke or you,
Potter, are going to be the one with a magical arsehole.”

“Speaking of arses, how are you going to manage that without Crabbe and Goyle to help you out?
Had a lover’s quarrel, have you?”

Hermione had been about to cut in and point out that they were both being really juvenile and
that the afternoon *would* have had an intelligible point until they had to leave the library
and all of the books they needed, but Draco’s flicker of discomfort at Harry’s mention of his two
cohorts made her pause.

“Crabbe and Goyle are none of your business, Potter.” Draco said flatly. Hermione itched to
pursue the matter; clearly there had been a rift, or a very good imitation of one. Were they aware
of his refusal to accept the dark mark? Was not accepting it just an act to place him in a better
position to spy for Voldemort or was he actually intent on not becoming a Death Eater? She knew
that Dumbledore was watching Malfoy carefully, but did he know what he was looking *for*?

Hermione had an idea.

“If you really aren’t taking the dark mark, Draco,” she asked innocently, “Then you’d have no
problem taking one from the other side, right?”

“What are you on about now, Granger?” He looked directly at her, but his body stiffened slightly
and she had the distinct impression he was ill at ease. “Has Dumbledore started branding his little
band of infidels then? Where’s yours, Potter? Weasel?”

“No one’s ever questioned Harry’s loyalty, or Ron’s.”

“You must be joking,” he sneered. “Where were you forth year? Thanks to scarface Voldemort’s got
a functional body again. Fifth year? Heard a rumor Dumbledore could have taken him out if he’d just
taken Potter with him. Certainly would have ended the whole problem the way I see it. And how about
a few days ago when Cho pointed out to the entire Great Hall that Potter’s closer to Voldemort than
my beloved Father in his wildest, wettest dreams?”

“Fourth year I was portkeyed against my will, *tied* to a gravestone and had my blood
*stolen*, Malfoy. I would have begged Dumbledore to kill me in the Ministry, but unfortunately
I wasn’t the one who happened to have control of my mouth at that particular moment. And you were
there in that cave. Stop acting like it had nothing to do with you. You saw what happened, you had
to know how hard I fought to get rid of him; it was *you* he was after. Or was that just a
little arrangement between the two of you?”

“You were there, too. What do you think?”

There was the rub, though Hermione in frustration. Harry genuinely seemed to believe Voldemort
had wanted to kill Malfoy. But did that really exonerate him?

“Remember Marietta Edgecombe, Malfoy?” she asked.

“Cho’s friend with the pustulent ‘SNEAK’ on her face? The one who gave your little Dumbledore’s
Army game away to Umbridge, wasn’t she?”

“She signed a list of names swearing she would keep a secret. She didn’t. The jinx just revealed
her true intent.”

“Are you saying, Granger,” he asked her, incredulity sharpening his voice, “That you want me
to….”

“Perfect!” enthused Ron, who had just grasped the idea. “I can’t wait to see TRAITOR actually
*spelled out* on your forehead, ferret boy.”

“If your intentions are good and you have nothing to hide, why not?” Hermione inquired
simply.

The gears were clearly turning a mile a minute behind Malfoy’s pale eyes; Hermione half expected
steam to escape his ears. Her own mind was fairly racing as well. She had to shape the jinx exactly
right; specific, but wide enough to cover a whole range of possibilities. It would only work if
Malfoy consciously violated one of the parameters and a Slytherin conscience was a slippery thing
to catch in the act.

He had two real options: to refuse, knowing they would reveal him to Dumbledore, or to accept
and either keep his word or find a way to counter Hermione’s jinx.

“Fine. I’ll do it. But it’s an absolute secret between the four of us. No one else knows” he
said at last.

“You’re the one who always blabs,” Ron pointed out. “Don’t worry about us.”

“How can I not? This has ‘tragic Gryffindor mistake’ written all over it. Lord, all I want to do
is be done with this bloody riddle and be able to go to Hogsmeade again. Is that really so much to
ask?”

“You might try actually doing some of the work then.” Harry said. “Maybe we should run through
what we all already know and decide who’s going to cover what, okay?”

“No,” Ron surprised them all, mulishly. “I don’t think we should go any further until Hermione
makes up that parchment for Malfoy to put his name to. I’m not passing along anything I know about
a riddle with your future tied up in it to him until he signs.”

“And I’m sure your contribution to the combined knowledge of this endeavor will prove earth
shattering, Weasel.” Malfoy sniped back. “Fine. Let me know when you’ve got it ready, Granger. And
tell Dumbledore I did my bit today. I don’t need yet another power hungry old git on my back.” He
spun around and left the classroom.

“Well,” said Harry rubbing his eyes as if to erase a painful image, “that was pleasant and
productive. Ron’s right though, Hermione. Brilliant idea to set him up for a jinx if he betrays
us.”

“If you love us at all, please have it involve his painfully shriveled bits.” Ron requested.
“Anything else is just too good for him.”

Hermione and Harry eyed each other worriedly. It had certainly seemed as if Malfoy had been
about to confess something about whatever was going on with Ginny in the library and neither of
them had any idea why or what. There was a definite sense of dancing round a ticking time bomb.

“On the bright side,” Ron said extending an arm around both their shoulders and steering them
toward the door without seeming to notice their consternation, “it is now officially time for
dinner.”


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Harry and Ron were playing wizard hangman when Hermione had her revelation. It was during
History of Magic the following morning, and Binns’s relentless droning was little more than white
noise in the back of Harry’s brain while he feebly attempted to guess where Ron was going
with
_ A _ I S _ A W _ A _ O _ S _ I . Harry’s dangling wizard needed only one more hand and another
foot to be swinging from the gallows in earnest and it was waving its single little fist at him
furiously and mouthing commentary in regard to Harry’s innate intelligence. Ron had had to put a
silencing charm on the paper.

“T” whispered Harry.

Ron drew a second foot on the hanging wizard who began kicking it at once.

“…restitution of Muggle property and extensive memory reversal charms were required to eradicate
the knowledge that the path of the battle had moved directly through the northwestern quadrant of
the city. While a few spontaneous fires could be explained away the implosion of all of the
cathedrals’ stained glass, especially the famed wheel window in the nave, would have been
impossible to disguise. Interestingly enough, while the Wizard’s Council, the direct predecessor to
the Ministry of Magic, managed to piece all the windows together they inadvertently swapped the
heads of Fate and Destiny in the wheel window. To this day no Muggle scholar has ever noticed the
mistake.”

Hermione made a small noise that sounded like “eep” and began writing furiously along the margin
of her notes.

Ron caught Harry’s eye and raised his eyebrows. Harry shrugged and turned toward Hermione on his
other side to try and read her notes. Her handwriting was cramped by the small space available and
written mostly sideways so he couldn’t make out a single word of it. She seemed to feel his
scrutiny and looked up, her eyes aglow. It struck him how the moments when Hermione’s true beauty
was most obvious were nearly always ones of discovery; clearly she was on to something now. She
leaned over her parchment another moment then turned it toward him. Large legible letters at the
top of the page read, “I think I’ve got it! Tell Ron to meet us in the Library after Muggle
Studies.”

Harry wrote. “She thinks she’s on to something about the riddle. Meet in the Library after MS,
okay?” on the top of his own parchment and tipped it toward Ron.

Ron nodded his agreement. The little stick wizard gestured rudely in Harry’s direction, the tip
of his pointed hat wiggling in indignation.

“Z” Harry whispered. That should teach the little beggar.

Ron actually filled a “Z” in the first space of the second word. _ A _ I S _ A W Z A _ O _ S _ I
. *Wait a minute…* this was Ron. Ron Weasley, the one who’d asked him how to spell
‘extinguish’ just the other night in the library with a dictionary right in front of him. This had
to be about Quidditch, then.

“Ladislaw Zamojski,” Harry guessed softly. “The Polish International Chaser.”

Ron groaned and filled in the blanks. The angry little stick wizard pried the noose off his head
with his single hand, hopped down off the gallows and disappeared round the back of Ron’s parchment
mouthing something that looked suspiciously like “took you long enough”.

Harry leaned over and filled in “ungr_teful w_nker” just in case he came back later.


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When Ron and Harry reached the library after their afternoon classes Hermione was already there
with an enormous text on the table before her and an even more enormous smile on her face.

“I think I’ve found it!” she said as they sat across from her. “A rose that never dies!”

“Good on you if you have,” Ron said. “Neville couldn’t think of anything, Professor Sprout
thought we were loony and Hagrid didn’t have a clue.”

“This fits almost perfectly,” she told them, and turned the book around. Harry and Ron saw a
picture of the dim interior of a stone building that looked a great deal like Hogwarts with a round
stained glass window set high in one wall. The dimness of the building and bright exterior light
from behind the window made its colors seem to glow with an unearthly brilliance. “Professor Binns
was talking about how the Wizard’s Council had to piece together the wheel window of a Muggle
Cathedral. Wheel windows are also known as Rose windows because the spoke framework makes the glass
inside appear like the petals of a rose. Long ago stained glass was used to keep stories alive for
people who couldn’t read or couldn’t afford books. In thirteenth and fourteenth century windows the
narratives were almost more important than the decorations, and rose windows were favored because
they allowed for events to be recorded in compartmented sequences. Sometimes there were several
rings of petals surrounding the center, each petal like a page or chapters in a book. Think about
it! The perfect pageless story!”

“Brilliant, Hermione! Err, except for one, small detail,” Harry pointed out. *Don’t hex me,
don’t hex me, please don’t hex me*… “Hogwarts doesn’t have a rose window. And the stained glass
in the Great Hall and the library is just plain colored glass, no pictures or stories.”

“We don’t know for *sure* Hogwarts doesn’t have one. We’ve just never seen one. There could
well be one here somewhere. As well as we know it, we’ve still probably only seen half of the rooms
in this castle.”

“Knowing Hogwarts,” groaned Ron, “It rolls around and you can only catch it in certain rooms
every forty years on some barmy old wizard’s birthday at dawn.”

The scary thing was he was probably not far off. And now they’d have to find it.

“I think we should tell Professor Dumbledore,” Hermione said decisively. “He might know of one
and just never have connected the idea with the riddle.”

“I’ll ask if we can see him after dinner,” Harry agreed. “What about Malfoy? We should probably
include him in the meeting. Otherwise it’ll just look like we’re trying to get him into trouble.
Have you had any time to work on the parchment for him to sign?”

“It’s all set,” Hermione smiled. “I finished my Arithmancy test early, so I used the extra time
to come up with the jinx. It was probably the most complex one I ever worked on. He’ll regret the
day he was born if he so much as *thinks* of betraying us to Voldemort.”

“If? I think the question is when,” Ron grinned.

“I’ll get us in to talk to Dumbledore,” Harry promised.


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They arrived outside the Headmaster’s office early in order to be ahead of Malfoy. Hermione had
the parchment and a quill waiting. The wording was quite simple (I, Draco Malfoy, do solemnly swear
that I will not use any information discovered or revealed to me during the course of my assigned
detention to in any way harm, injure, discredit or betray Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron
Weasley, Albus Dumbledore or the staff or students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.)
The underlying jinx was far more complex and covered as wide a range of possibilities as Hermione
could envision. If Malfoy was going to untangle himself from it, he would at least have to expend
an awful lot of time and energy to do so.

When Draco arrived he seemed impatient somehow, uncharacteristically distracted and rushed.

“Fine,” he snapped when Hermione showed him the parchment, “whatever. Just show me where to
sign.”

She pointed and he signed with a flourish. His own name, correctly spelled, using her quill. She
had him. This just *had* to work…

They gave the password and mounted the moving staircase.


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“Fascinating. An absolutely intriguing idea, Miss Granger. It certainly fits the riddle, doesn’t
it? Even historically, for as you point out such windows were used during the darkest of Muggle
ages when learning or the lack of it was used to control others by those seeking power. I for one
do not know of such a window at Hogwarts, but that certainly does not preclude there being one
somewhere about. I will question the portraits when they awake in the morning to see if any of the
earlier headmasters had experience of one. I would caution you not to accept this as the only
possibility to the extent you close yourselves off to others, but it does seem most hopeful,”
Dumbledore told them. “You have my permission to be about the castle ‘at break of day’ as necessary
for your search, but please do be careful. Dawn may be the beginning of the day, but it is still
the ebb of night as well. How goes the dream keeper potion, Harry? I trust it has proved
successful.”

“I don’t honestly know,” Harry said. “I don’t think he’s tried. Maybe he can’t when I’m in the
castle itself, or maybe he just hasn’t been interested. I haven’t had any real sense that he’s been
particularly happy or angry the last few days either, though, and we know he can do that wherever I
am.”

“Things have indeed been quiet from that direction,” Dumbledore said gravely. “But alas, I do
not believe we can expect it to remain so. As Alistor is so fond of telling us, we must not let
slip our constant vigilance no matter how safe we believe ourselves to be.”

That was the first time Hermione had a vague, uneasy feeling that there was something she had
forgotten.


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Harry was actually quite enjoying his “remedial” DADA with Bill Weasely. Bill worked him harder
than any of his other “guest” instructors, but Harry felt stretched at the end instead of beaten
down. The whole mood of the lessons were different, they seemed to be the one time that Harry could
truly duel or practice tactics without a constant, suffocating sense of doom. He attempted to
convey this to Bill along with his gratitude as the second week of Bill’s two week recuperation at
Hogwarts drew to a close. They were both sitting on the floor at the time, backs to the wall,
trying to regain their breath.

“Thanks, Harry. It’s been a good break for me as well, to be honest. You’re a right handful now,
you know; you’ve sharpened me up no end. I’ve told Dumbledore I’d be happy to fit into the rota
anytime the Order can spare me. I’ll ask him to throw Tonks in soon, shall I? She’s tricky to duel
and she’ll always give you a laugh in the bargain. You could use it, I’m sure.”

“Thanks. I could,” Harry admitted. “Do you know who’s coming next?”

“I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’ve got two weeks of your least favorite greasy-haired
git. Once Dumbledore saw for himself how good you are with the more physical stuff we’ve been
working on he decided it was time for you to go on to the mental side of it. He told me you’ve
gotten well along with your occlumency and Snape would be the best we have to show you how the dark
side thinks. It’s not easy to wrap your mind around that stuff, Harry. I know I’d just as soon
leave well enough alone, but you don’t have that option. Just be careful and tread easy around him.
He’ll be making it his personal mission to shake you up as much as he’s able.”

Fan-bloody-tastic. With the permutations of his schedule that made for Snape *every* day.
Harry groaned.

“On a slightly happier note, I hope,” Bill asked with a grin, “How’re things going with you and
Hermione?”

Harry felt an answering grin infiltrate his Snape-induced gloom. “Alright,” he admitted,
re-tying a lace on the trainers he favored for working with Bill. “Okay, amazing, actually. I keep
waiting for the hex to hit or for me to completely screw it up, but so far so good.”

“Ron said she’s been spending rather a lot of time in your dorm room. Most of it night
time.”

Harry felt Bill’s eyes on him right through the top of his head and lifted his own from his
feet. Uh oh. He’d had to have learned that look from his mum…

“Ron’s got a rather large mouth for the size of his brain sometimes, doesn’t he?” Bill continued
with an even wider grin, and Harry felt certain bits of his anatomy stop trying to crawl into
hiding.

“It’s not what it sounds, really,” he tried.

“Maybe not yet, but it will be.” Bill said. “Nothing wrong with it, you know. Just don’t let it
get all twisted up with the rest of this, though. She deserves better than that – you both do. Ask
yourself what you’d do if Voldemort wasn’t after you. And never forget your contraceptive charms,
regardless of what you think she’s doing. They don’t cancel each other out, you know, and the last
thing you need now is to complicate life any more.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, finding that despite his embarrassment he was actually grateful for Bill’s
advice.

“No problem. You’re an honorary Weasley brother, you know. If you’ve got any questions you only
need to ask. I’m sure I’ll be telling Ron the same once he decides girls really don’t have cooties.
Oh, and Harry?” Bill rose to his feet and extended a hand.

“Yeah?” Harry took it and felt himself hauled to his feet.

“It’s meant to be fun. Designed that way, actually Don’t forget to enjoy yourselves.”


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Harry wondered later how Dumbledore knew. Or was it Harry’s fault, had he somehow laid down a
challenge, wondering if Voldemort couldn’t reach him in Hogwarts? It was different than in the
cave, perhaps the result of Snape’s potion. It started as the usual dream, the sort Voldemort used
to demoralize him. He was ensnared, tied up, not back at the graveyard but somewhere else, he
wasn’t sure where. He couldn’t move… he had to move; he ached with the struggle to try and free
himself. Nagini slithered up his leg, around his waist, steadily on towards his neck. She was
preparing to bite him, but she was like a fly, a distraction from his real peril. Voldemort was
shooting bolts of orange light from his wand; each time one struck him the affected limb glowed and
went numb, useless. Harry jerked helplessly away from a blast directed at his right arm and Nagini
struck, sinking her fangs deep into his neck. He could feel her poison seeping through his veins,
moving inexorably deeper inside him with each beat of his heart. Voldemort approached him, raised
his hand, red eyes glowing.

*Slap.*

He awoke from the dream within his nightmare. He was aware of being in his own bed, arms
stretched over his head in the same position as the dream. He was paralyzed, utterly unable to move
a muscle. He was not alone. His scar seared, his head felt too full, there just wasn’t room for
both of them in there.

*Hello, Potter.*

Harry closed his eyes again, every muscle in his body strained to expel the horror within him.
*Get out! Get OUT of me.*

He felt his eyes struggle open against his will, felt them sweep the room. He could feel
Voldemort sizing him up, trying on his body for size. He seemed to swim through his veins, to force
himself into every limb. Harry could feel himself shuddering against the intrusion.

*What’s the matter, Potter? Why don’t you move?*

He constructed a barrier around the knowledge of Snape’s potion, felt Voldemort immediately
slink to it and begin testing its strength.

*Move Potter. Sit up. NOW!*

The pain of Voldemort trying to force his stupefied body to move made his eyes water. His
breathing began to change to gasps and harsh pants as the battle raged.

*Call out for help, Potter. Cat got your tongue?*

His own tongue began to try to force its way down his throat. He choked, fought back with what
little control he had. He could hear the horrible gagging and retching of it and realized too late
that the noise would wake…

“Harry?”

He could feel Voldemort cease his torments and listen to her voice.

“*Lumos*. Harry? Are you alright?” Her eyes were almost more than he could stand, so
familiar, so comforting, so safe. He wanted to lose himself in her, but he was one with this
horrible sickening thing.

Voldemort didn’t like *that* thought.

*“Mudblood!* *Filthy Mudblood in your bed! We can’t have that, Potter. Kill her. Put your
hands around that scrawny neck and squeeze. Throttle her! DO IT! I COMMAND YOU!*

His arms were quivering with Voldemort’s desire to move them. He braced himself against the
effects of the potion. Sweat was pouring off him now. He felt something in his forearm snap and
howled somewhere deep within himself. Hermione heard the sound and recoiled in horror. He could see
the realization dawn on her that this wasn’t a dream.

Against every instinct she had to run, Hermione stretched out her hand and touched Harry’s. He
could see her realize that the potion was working. He could also feel Voldemort flee from contact
with her; it was as if he withdrew from Harry’s hand somehow.

Her hand slid gently up his arm toward his elbow as if testing the strength of the paralysis.
Voldemort withdrew to his shoulder on that side, but redoubled his efforts to reach for her throat
with Harry’s other hand. Harry was torn between the fear that he would break his other arm and the
fear that if he didn’t resist he wouldn’t and Voldemort just might be strong enough to break
through the effect of the potion. *Please don’t make me choose…*

Hermione took his other hand. She was murmuring something now, her eyes intent on him.

*Filthy slut.* *Undeserving. Destroying everything. Mugglestained whore. Kill her,*
echoed through his head.

*Shut up!* Harry cried within his own mind. *Shut up. You are the filth, you are the
corruption. You poison everything you touch. Just shut up!*

Her other hand slid to his other elbow, then his shoulder. She was trying to get his attention,
to comfort him, but she was also unconsciously gaining territory over Voldemort and Harry found
himself desperate for her to continue. He thought fleetingly of the night she had told him how he
had underestimated his friendship with Ron, how he had communicated with her then. Was it safe? He
wouldn’t enter her mind, just leave her the idea… And expose her to this? If there was even a
chance he couldn’t. Ever.

*Lower,* he begged with his eyes, *More**, everywhere, touch me, you’re driving him
out…*

Her eyes met his, she was trying to understand, he knew. He could have wept with frustration.
Voldemort was trying to spit at her; Harry was swallowing desperately.

She kissed him. After a moment pressed against his lips he felt the sweet tip of her tongue slip
between them. The Dark Lord fled so fast Harry thought for a moment he’d taken the back of his head
off with him. The withdrawal was almost as painful as the initial invasion; he let himself drown
instead in the lovely, lifesaving sensation that was Hermione.

So lovely, so lifesaving that if he couldn’t move soon, he was really going to die. He had to
touch her.

“Chocolate Frog,” he gasped.

She drew her head back and gazed at him uncertainly. “Harry?”

“It’s me. Please let me go.”

“Are you sure it’s okay?”

“Did it feel like you were kissing Voldemort? It’s me, Hermione. Please.”

“What form does your patronus take?”

“That’s useless. Everyone’s heard about mine by now. Yours is an otter.”

She touched her wand to his forehead and gave the incantation that released him. As his muscles
relaxed from the paralysis the pain of the broken forearm hit him and he gasped.

“I think I heard it crack,” she said. “Can you make it to the Hospital wing or do you want me to
wake up Ron to get Madam Pomfrey?”

“I’ll go in the morning. It’s okay now; it was just the spell wearing off.”

“I can’t heal it, but I can make it hurt less,” she told him. She helped him position it
comfortably with a pillow and murmured a charm. “Just keep it still, okay?”

“Not a problem. Honest.”

Her eyes leveled on his, full of questions but full of compassion as well, and the touch of her
fingers in his sweat-soaked hair was almost unbelievably good. After years of indifference, that
someone cared so about his condition was heady stuff.

“I’m not going to ask you about it now,” she said softly. “I can tell it was bad, even without
whatever happened to your arm. I’m going to put you back under the sleep charm now, but I want to
hear *every single detail* in the morning, Harry James Potter. Do we understand each
other?”

He nodded gratefully, and hoped morning was a long time coming. When she had returned her wand
to the pocket in the curtains and settled back down beside him beneath the blankets, warm and solid
and safe, careful not to jostle his arm but not too hesitant to slip her own around him, he
reflected that it might not be a bad thing if morning never came at all. He’d happily stay just
like this forever.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>



15. Chapter 15
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 15


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Hermione slept no more that night.

She kept watch, her eyes following his every breath, every movement. He had fallen asleep almost
as soon as she had made it safe for him and while she knew he was exhausted she… *missed* him.
Wished they were talking to one another. Was it possible to lay right next to someone and miss them
still? Of course it was – her own tiredness was making her fanciful when what she needed to be was
rational.

Calm, rational and above all *smart.*

She knew she couldn’t begin to match Voldemort’s strength. Hermione, being a girl (*well,
woman really, wasn’t she, or as good as… a mere technicality she intended to rectify on her own
time table, thank you*) wasn’t truly shaken by *that* fact. She knew that Harry’s fears
were more about being strong enough, fast enough, powerful enough to meet his predestined fate. For
herself she still intuitively believed in the power of knowledge to change that destiny. What she
was only now coming to understand, however, was the need for wiles to be able to use her knowledge
to its fullest extent. Book learning alone was clearly not going to suffice; she needed something
more to be able to wield it as the weapon she required.

Fate might have inextricably linked Harry to Voldemort, but Hermione had faith she could at
least be a variable destiny might not have counted on. She just needed to figure out exactly
*how*.

She was glad now that she had turned in her prefects’ badge. Hermione knew that her nightly
presence in Harry’s bed was a complete violation of school rules. She also believed that those same
rules were a blind violation of Harry’s safety, compromising his ability to do what they were all
counting on him to do. Nothing was absolute anymore.

She was immensely relieved that she had become his nightly guardian instead of Ron. He had
clearly been struggling with Voldemort beside her for some time before she awoke. What would have
happened if Ron, sleeping comfortably behind his own hangings in the next bed over, had never heard
him? Why did Snape think that paralyzing Harry with Voldemort inside his head was any kind of
answer? It might keep the other students safe, but when the Dark Lord found out about the prophecy
and realized that Harry was much more than just an early failure it would be nothing less than
tying on a bow and making a gift of him. Which raised another question in Hermione’s mind: did
Snape know about the prophecy? Exactly who did? Hermione did not believe in secrets; secrets were
like entropy, they kept struggling to fill the vacuum. Voldemort *would* find out, sooner or
later. There had to be a better solution.

Harry had successfully managed to throw him off again tonight. The questions that remained were
how, and could he keep on? Was it possible that he could manage to do it so decisively that
Voldemort would find no profit in continuing to try to use him that way? Surely that would affect
the outcome of their final confrontation; one less weapon at Voldemort’s disposal was one less
thing for Harry to have to counter. Hermione was afraid that their current balance of power was
particularly detrimental for Harry. Voldemort had so far only been able to make use of the
connection to demoralize him, but Hermione knew that if he had managed to use Harry to kill Draco
in the Forbidden Forest he would never have been able to forgive himself. And that was
*Malfoy*. What if it were to be Ron, or Dumbledore? Harry already ached with guilt over his
dreams of Cedric and Sirius; what he would do if his own hands were the weapons Voldemort chose to
make use of Hermione could not bear to imagine.

She slowly pulled back from her musing to become aware again of Harry’s sleeping form beside
her. She gently repositioned the pillow that cushioned his injured arm between them. He flinched
but didn’t wake, shifting slightly. His head drooped toward her and she noticed how even asleep his
face retained its seriousness, the constant shadow of worry. She wondered what he would look like
if the burden he had lived with all his life so far was ever lifted. How would it change him?

She rifled her memory for its happiest Harry and tried to add five years, then ten to his image.
There wasn’t much to go on; the few truly relaxed and happy moments were mostly back a few years
now. She remembered his hopefulness when they had first rescued Sirius, how the idea of living with
his Godfather had seemed to give him some glimpse of a future finally better than the past. She
realized then how increasingly serious he had become even before Sirius’ death. Cedric’s murder and
the events ending the Tri-Wizard tournament had taken their toll. She could see the small pale
slice in the crook of his injured arm where Wormtail had taken Harry’s own blood to revive his
enemy.

It suddenly came to her how much he’d grown since that fateful night, how tied his physical
maturity had become to the increasing threat. Ron, Seamus, Dean, even Neville had all become taller
and more muscular gradually over the last six years, their voices had deepened, their humor had
slowly changed, metamorphosing from boys to young men. Harry had always been noticeably out of sync
with the others, diminished by his repeated trips to the hospital wing at the close of each school
year and summers of near starvation at Privet Drive. He came back to Hogwarts each fall thinner,
smaller and less self-assured then the rest only to rebound with a growth spurt made all the more
obvious because of what preceded it and how much it took out of him. The first months of school and
the return to decent food, human companionship and Quidditch practice usually yielded a healthier,
happier Harry until the annual intrusion of Voldemort tormented him again.

This year, it seemed, was somehow different. Even asleep he looked older than the others, as if
he had only recently been thrust past them along the road to adulthood by some implacable force.
The bones of his face stood out sharper against his skin, their configuration clearer, asserting
themselves. He’d almost died in that cave, she reminded herself, but thought there was more to it
than that. His neck and shoulders seemed stronger as well, more defined, as if trying to meet the
weight descending upon them. There had been other, more subtle signs as well, bits of wandless
magic almost unnoticed, the night that he had so tentatively shown her that he could reach her
mind. Hermione was sure that Dumbledore had pulled him from the advanced DADA class to hide what he
was learning. What if he had also chosen to shield Harry because of a significant change not just
in the *way* he was wielding his magic now, but the very magic within him? Voldemort had
certainly seemed pleased with what he had found in Harry in the cave that night. She remembered,
“Ahh… Potter’s growing even stronger than I knew!” coming from Harry’s own mouth, those horrible
black eyes alight in his face.

It was as if this year something was consuming him from within as well, energy drawn from an
already diminished supply. How could Dumbledore be clever enough to guard Harry’s growing magic but
not perceptive enough to notice that all that magic was contained within a young human frame that
bore watching as well?

Or was that what she was for? He hadn’t fought her when she’d dropped the prefect badge on his
desk. Then, in the Infirmary, when Madam Pomfrey had been so incensed to find her kissing the
patient… *“I’m certain Miss Granger meant Mr. Potter no harm. Quite the opposite, I should
think.”* He’d known. All along. He’d admitted as much after the Quidditch match. *“I can
rather imagine this is an exciting and yet somewhat frustrating time for you both. It is not easy
to change the footing of any relationship with the eyes of the whole school upon you.”*

It made sense of Harry’s worry.

*“What if he already knows what I think I felt that night in the cave? He’s already told me
that love is a power Voldemort has forgotten, or forsaken. What if he’s encouraging us just because
he thinks that you can help me somehow?”*

*“What if he is? I want to help you Harry.”*

*“And I want your help, I honestly do. Your help. Not what Dumbledore might think you need to
do to help me. Do you see the difference? I admire him, I’m grateful to him. But he scares me
sometimes, Hermione.”*

That put Dumbledore’s glowing words in something of a new light for her.

*“I can do little more than wish you both well, but if I can be of any appropriate assistance,
I hope you will come to me.”*

Maybe it was time for a little… *heart to heart* with the Headmaster. And perhaps a new
training regimen for the Boy Who Needed To Live.

Hermione Granger began to plan.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

“What kind of kinky stuff are you up to, then?” Ron asked doubtfully when Hermione crept to his
bed and woke him to ask him to take Harry to the Infirmary in the morning. “You’re not supposed to
break him, Hermione.”

“Now you tell me!” was all she said, and scurried off to the girls dorms.

Harry was sitting on the edge of his bed trying to ease his arm through the sleeve of his
robes.

“Never mind,” Ron told him on his way through to the loo. “I’ll carry them. Find your tie and
get your books. We can still make breakfast if Pomfrey gets right to you.”

This Hospital Wing thing was *really* getting old, Harry decided.

“So what happened?” Ron asked as they made their way across the Common room and out through the
portrait hole. Harry waited until they were well out of earshot of the Fat Lady this time.

“Well, the good news is that the potion works,” he said tiredly.

“Bloody Hell! No way! Are you telling me that… last night… you, I mean he…”

“Yeah.”

“But I didn’t hear a thing… did I? What did he do? What did you… Holy crap, Harry, what did he
do when he found out Hermione was there?”

“He wanted me to kill her,” Harry had to force the words from his mouth. “He was furious, just
disgusted. Went from playing cat and mouse games with me to spouting the usual twisted rubbish.
*‘Filthy Mudblood in your bed!. Kill her. Throttle her! DO IT! I COMMAND YOU!*’ You know, that
kind stuff.”

Ron squeaked.

“I actually felt a little… erm, *like* for Snape for a couple of minutes there,” Harry
admitted. “The one and only time I’ve ever been happy I couldn’t move. He kept on trying, though.
Something just snapped in my arm while we were fighting about who it really belonged to. Hermione
heard it, and I could tell she was grossed out. She started checking me over, as if to make sure
the potion was really working and you know what? He was either really and truly disgusted by her or
actually afraid, because wherever she touched me, he moved away.”

“Hate to say it, but I’d be afraid of her about then as well. How did you manage to get rid of
him? You did get rid of him, didn’t you?”

“*No, I’ve always wanted a Weasley for breakfast!*” Harry hissed.

Ron started violently. “NOT funny, Harry. You have one sick sense of humor, mate.”

“Sorry. I’ve got *no* sense of humor anymore, really.”

They were almost to the door of the infirmary. Ron stopped. “Harry? How *did* you get rid
of him?”

“I didn’t. Hermione did. I’m really glad you weren’t interested in the whole dream keeper thing,
Ron, because you know what she did? She kissed me. Full frontal snog, and he almost took the back
of my head off trying to get away.”

Ron’s look of stupefaction almost restored Harry’s lost sense of humor.

“What are you going to tell Pomfrey? Better still, exactly how *much* are you going to tell
Dumbledore?*”*

“First things first. We’ve got to quick think up something plausible for Madam Pomfrey. I’ll
cope with Dumbledore later. What do you reckon? Arm wrestling Millicent Bulstrode? Tripped over my
own broomstick? Fell out of bed?”

“Any way we can implicate Malfoy? It was his hero, after all.”

“Um, Ron, if we’re trying to be the good guys we aren’t actually supposed to *lie* about
him, right? Did you know Bill calls Voldemort the Dark Wanker by the way?”

“Bill always did have a bit of a death wish. Bet he wouldn’t call him that if *he* were
sleeping in the next bed to you. And for your information, if you don’t own up to Pomfrey that it
was Voldemort trying to choke Hermione in your bed last night that broke your arm, you’re still
technically lying anyway. Just a thought.”

“Thanks. I prefer to think of it as relatively harmless, self-preservation-minded bending of the
truth myself. How about falling down the stairs?”

“No thanks.”

“*Ron*?”

“You’re not exactly graceful, mate, but anyone who can catch the snitch like you do isn’t likely
to be unable to manage stairs. By sixth year I think they stop believing you about the missing
steps as well. That broom won’t fly.”

“Ron, whether or not we make breakfast this morning is resting on a good excuse to get Madam
Pomfrey to fix this *now*.”

“Okay. Leave it to me. Just follow my lead.”

Ron stepped ahead of Harry into the infirmary.

“Madam Pomfrey! Quick! Harry was in the shower and we heard the strangest screaming. I think
he’s actually broken it! “

“Prepare to die a truly humiliating death, Ronald Bilius Weasley.” Harry told him softly as
three fifth year Hufflepuff girls awaiting relief from skin-clearing charms gone wrong (they’d
seemed to have removed their noses altogether along with their spots) forgot their woes, burst into
hysterical giggles and gave him a rather avid once-over. “Just remember, the smartest witch of our
age is on my team now.”

Madam Pomfrey rushed from her office looking just a *tad* flushed. Harry quickly pointed to
his arm. She visibly relaxed and gestured down the aisle to the next bed but one. “You’ll just have
to wait your turn, Mr. Potter. Quite the morning this has turned out to be already!”

“Sweet Merlin let that not be Potter and the Weasel,” groaned a voice from the second bed as
they passed, “Is there no place safe from you two?”

Draco Malfoy sat holding a rather pungent poultice to the beginnings of a brilliant black
eye.

“What happened to *you*?” Ron laughed. “Mobbed by your fan club?”

“Sort of,” Malfoy sneered. “Your little sister’s got a hell of a right hook.”

*Nope. Today wasn’t looking to be Harry’s day either.*

“Ron, why don’t you go ahead and get yourself something to eat? Looks like it’s going to be a
while,” Harry tried, sitting on the end of the bed.

“Why’d Ginny punch *you*?” Ron asked. “She usually goes straight to the old bat bogey hex.
You must have really ticked her off.”

“I made the mistake of assuming she had more class. Being a true Weasley she went straight for
the Muggle method.”

“Ron, really, get yourself some breakfast. I’m fine. I’ll see you in class.” Harry told him.

“You’re such an annoying git I’m surprised she didn’t hex you on top of it. Here’s a hint, she
doesn’t take kindly to red head jokes,” Ron laughed.

“I rather like red hair actually. It’s the temper that goes along with it. So unpredictable. One
minute they love you, the next you’re wearing murtlap and alloburry poultice.”

“Ron, could you GO TO BREAKFAST and ask Hermione to meet us in the library after Arithmancy?
Please?”

“Well, at least you’ll never have to worry about the first bit.” Ron said, a small, puzzled
frown starting to form between his eyes.

Harry needed a distraction. Was it worth hinting to Draco that he’d spent some quality time with
Voldemort again last night? No, he’d only go and tell the whole school again… unless he already
knew. But then he’d know about Hermione being in his bed also. *Bugger*.

Draco was grinning behind his poultice, although that could mean almost anything, really. What
the hell was Ginny thinking? More importantly, what was Ginny up to, punching him out?

“Well, Mr. Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey said, finally finished with the Hufflepuffs and bustling round
his bed. “What happened to you?”

“Potter punched me. Completely unprovoked. Just hauled off and punched me, babbling something
about Cho Chang and Granger.”

Harry felt as if someone had punched *him*, in the stomach.

“Bloody he… He never did! You lying Slytherin sack of…” Ron gasped.

Harry saw Malfoy’s eyes glitter purposefully into his own. ‘*Admit it or I’ll tell him,’*
they said, clearly as if he’d spoken the words. Harry ached to send a few wordless words Malfoy’s
way, but knew that Dumbledore would have his stones for it; he was meant to be learning control,
not giving the game away. There was nothing for it but to go along and take whatever came his way
this time, but he’d well and truly had it with Malfoy’s habitual blackmailing. Ginny Weasley was
going to do some talking whether she felt like it or not. Today.

“I was upset about what happened to Hermione at the Quidditch match,” Harry cut Ron off
miserably. “I know it was wrong, I just … I *said* I was sorry.”

Ron turned on Harry, his mouth opening and closing silently.

Madam Pomfrey tutted and pulled the poultice away from Malfoy’s face, flicking her wand
diagnostically back and forth before his eye.

“That must have been quite a blow. Fortunately you missed his eye and mostly contacted the cheek
area. I see no damage to the eye itself, Mr. Malfoy. The poultice will probably do as much good as
any healing charm. A masking charm could cover the bruising if you wish, but a black eye always
shows some shadowing. A matter of choice rather than healing, really. Of course your Heads of House
will have to be informed. You both must be quite familiar with the punishment for fighting by
now.”

“I’ll leave it, thank you.” Malfoy told her. “Does Professor Snape really *have* to be
involved?” He grinned at Harry maliciously behind her back as Madam Pomfrey turned to Harry’s bed
and took hold of his arm. Harry tried to remain quiet but she was twisting and turning it,
stretching his fingers and looking for the source of the problem near his wrist.

“S’up a bit, really,” he hissed, pushing the unbuttoned cuff of his school shirt up over his
elbow. She caught sight of the bruising on his forearm and ran a well practiced hand along it
before following up with a wave of her wand.

“Broken, Mr. Potter. Really…” She murmured a series of charms, nudging the bones into alignment
with flicks of her wand and then pouring him a dose of the potion that would begin knitting the
mend together. Harry fought the fierce itching sensation he always felt when a bone was magically
healed. “Odd place to break while inflicting a black eye,” she said thoughtfully with the final
movement of her wand over his arm. “Usually one sees damage to the opponents’ fingers or
wrist.”

“I, erm…” He lifted his eyes to Malfoy. *It’s your lie, slug bait*, he thought. *Got any
good ideas?*

“Oh, punching my eye didn’t hurt him,” Malfoy said smoothly. “I used a reductor curse on his
second swing. Self-defense of course. Pureblood wizards don’t fight with their fists, after all. I
could have stopped the whole thing without bloodshed if he hadn’t attacked me from behind. Result
of growing up muggle, I guess.”

*Oh yeah. I punched you in the eye from behind. Always were backarseward you…*

“Harry? What are you *doing?* Are you going to let him get away with that?” Ron hissed
furiously.

Madam Pomfrey glared at him. “Mr. Potter is in quite enough trouble as it is, Mr. Weasley. I
suggest you stay right out of it. I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear your little cover story about
the… about how he hurt himself. Now off you go, the three of you. Professor McGonagall and
Professor Snape will take it from here.”

“It’ll save Ginny a detention or worse, won’t it? What did you want me to do? Turn her in?”
Harry whispered back as they left the Hospital Wing behind Malfoy. He was in a sling once more.

“Guess I’ll still have to watch my back, shall I?” Draco sneered. “Hard to find some stupid
window when I’m always having to look behind me.”

“How will you know the difference, you *snake*. You’ve always had your head stuck up your
arse anyway.” Harry told him, unleashing the anger he’d worked so hard to contain before Madam
Pomfrey. “Just try that again, Malfoy. I’m through with that particular game of yours. Done. I’m
going to have a little talk with your… friend. Tell whoever you want.”

“Weaselbee doesn’t seem quite ready for that, does he? Clueless as usual. Guess you’ll have to
sic your little bed buddy on me then, won’t you, Potter.”

Harry froze, and Ron careened off him. Draco smiled. “Oh yes, Potter. *I know*.”

There was only one way he could, wasn’t there? He didn’t believe Dean or Seamus or Neville would
do that to him; or to Hermione when it came down to it. Still, no one *else* knew… Only
Voldemort. But Hermione’s jinx… wouldn’t that have set it off? Something was very wrong here.
Nothing Draco had said since the night in the cave had ever added up the way it should. Harry’s
mind was racing and he knew that Draco was watching him closely. Time for a quote straight from the
old man, then.

“Why don’t you *prove it*, then,” Harry said, channeling his memory of Lucius threatening
him with Tom Riddle’s diary second year. He pushed past a suddenly disconcerted Draco and headed
down the hall. “Come on, Ron. We’re going to be late for Transfiguration.”


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Harry caught up with Ginny Weasley on her way back from Care of Magical Creatures. She was
walking up the hill in a group of Gryffindors and Slytherins. How perfect that Ginny’s year shared
Hagrids’ class with the Slytherins as well; perhaps word of his preemptive strike would wend its
way directly back to Malfoy.

He waded through the fifth years and stopped directly in front of Ginny, forcing her to stop as
well.

“You and I need to have a little talk,” he said.

“I’m busy just now Harry. Maybe after Quidditch tonight,” she replied, avoiding his eyes.

“No, Ginny. Now. No more excuses, no more games. It’s gone too far. Right now.”

Harry didn’t often get really angry. He was really angry now, and it showed.

“Bullying pig,” she accused him, but it was so half-hearted, so un-Ginny-like that he didn’t
know whether to laugh or scream out of sheer frustration.

“Shut up and come,” he insisted, diverting her in the direction of the lake.

He could hear the silence of the fifth years behind them, knew that it would only last until
they were out of earshot.

They walked toward the lake. Harry reached over and took her book bag for her with his good arm
and she laughed; a single dry bark that sounded more bitter than amused.

“Prince bloody Valiant, aren’t you. God forbid I carry the heavy burden of my own books while
the great and noble Harry Potter accuses me of betrayal and wanton behavior.”

“Sounds like guilt talking to me.”

“You *wish*.”

“Oh yeah, Ginny, that’s what I really want.” He rounded on her. “Don’t pull this crap on me.
Everything else aside, I risked my life for you once and now you’re… doing Merlin-knows-what with
someone who *hates* me and whose sole goal in life is to make mine even worse. Someone who
hates Ron, too, and disparages your entire family at every opportunity. Why? Could you just tell me
that one thing? *Why?*”

“Why don’t you ask Hermione?”

“Why don’t you just quit playing games and tell me yourself? It’s not about me, or Hermione.
It’s about you and Draco Malfoy.”

“Oh, but it *is* about you. And Hermione knows all about it too.”

“Ginny. You. Malfoy. You and Malfoy. Why. *Now.*”

Finally backed against a conversational wall her face twisted alarmingly, tears welling in her
eyes. Harry just knew he wasn’t going to like what was coming. At that moment he would have gladly
faced a hundred Hungarian Horntails to have been somewhere, anywhere, else.

“Because I *loved* you,” she wailed. “It wasn’t funny, it *wasn’t* just a school
girl’s crush. It was real, and I wanted you so much I thought I would die from it and I couldn’t
let on to *anyone.* My whole family embraced you, took you right in. There was no escaping the
fact you didn’t love me back because there was no escaping *you*. My seventh brother.

You saved my life alright, but because it was the right thing to do and God forbid Harry Potter
not do the right thing and save his best friend’s little sister. I came back from the brink of
death at the hands of Tom Riddle and there you were, bleeding and trying to hide that *you*
were dying from *me*. I loved you so much at that moment, Harry, and it wouldn’t have made the
slightest difference to you if I had been Pansy sodding Parkington. And that *hurt*. And it
didn’t get better, and it went on not getting better right through seeing Michael Corner and then
with Dean. There was no comparison. They were just… boys.

Everyone calls you the Boy Who Lived but you’ve never been a damned *boy* in your whole
life. God only knows what you are, what the muggles and Dumbledore and Voldemort have made you, but
you left a… a *hole* inside me, an emptiness that no one else could fill. Until I got to know
Draco. Until I got past the Slytherin on the surface and *really* got to know him. I thought I
could make him happy. I thought I could make him turn away from Voldemort. I thought I could make a
difference, make something good happen for once. Make you see me.”

Harry was dumbfounded. What had he ever done to deserve *this* particular nightmare? He’d
never once done anything he’d been aware of to make Ginny love him, knew that she didn’t really,
she *couldn’t*. The fierceness of his newfound feelings for Hermione at least gave him a sense
of what she was talking about, but he was still lost somehow. How did she make the jump from
thinking she loved him to *Malfoy*?

“I’m sorry. I’m so very, very sorry if I did anything at all to hurt you. I never meant to,
honestly. But if this is to get back at me or something Gin, hit me, hex me, do whatever you have
to do, just don’t do *this*.”

“This has nothing to do with getting back at you. It’s not to spite you, it’s *despite*
you. How do you think it makes me feel that the one person I want now is someone you and Ron and
Hermione all hate. “

“I would think it would make you feel awful. And confused, unsure, probably angry. I’m no genius
when it comes to feelings but even I know *those* don’t add up to love. So *why*?”

“Why do you love Hermione?”

“Please don’t. Don’t even *try* to compare them. That’s so unfair the thought just makes me
sick.” Harry said.

She just looked at him.

“Ginny, he’s… *damaged*. Worse than me, if that’s possible. He’s evil. He uses people, he
cheats, he lies, and he truly thinks he has a birthright that excuses all of it. Tell me, show me,
what is there to love? “

“He *was* those things. I won’t deny that. He was born and raised and bullied into those
things. You’ve seen his father, you can guess the way Draco was brought up. He’s changed now, but
no one will let him, no one will see. He wants to be different. I can help him. He needs me.”

Harry’s blood ran cold.

“Ginny, no. Nothing’s changed. He’s…”

“He’s what? Using me? How can you say that? He saved *your* life, Harry. He said you’d
never admit it, and he was right.”

“I’ll admit it. I’d stand up and shout it to the whole school if it would change your mind.
Draco Malfoy saved my life! Of course he told me it was for you, if it weren’t for the fact it
would please *you* he would have enjoyed watching me die. Is that how you think you can help
him? Trying to remind him not to enjoy pain, not to kill just for the sake of killing? He’s not a
little boy anymore, Ginny. It’s not about teasing the weaker kids and making them cry, or getting
someone into detention. Even if he does bolt from his father and Voldemort, the stakes for all of
us have changed. He’ll end up in the middle of things whether he wants to or not and I don’t see
him having to rehearse the unforgivables to work up his nerve to use one. It’s second nature to
him. Is that *really* what you want for yourself?”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. He doesn’t want any part of Dumbledore’s war with Voldemort.
You’re the one who’s going to be the killer, Harry.”

It was said without malicious intent, almost as if she were pointing out something patently
obvious that she thought he’d failed to grasp. That small thought was important to him; it
suggested that she wasn’t quoting the prophecy somehow but simply making an observation. *She
didn’t know, Draco didn’t know, Voldemort didn’t know.* That point acknowledged and filed away,
he felt time resume and her words tear through him with a pain that pushed him right over an edge
he’d been close to for far too long.

He turned from her and walked away, up the path toward the castle. His legs were shaking, he
badly needed to pee. A loud roaring sound accompanied him; at first he thought it was the sound of
his own blood rushing, echoing in his ears. But then his fringe flew in his eyes, his robes swirled
round him as if racing him back to the doorway. His hands ached, as if his bones had grown too big
for his skin to hold. For a moment he feared that Voldemort was back but in another moment’s time
he knew true fear; this time of himself.

This was *him*. Something in his heart was clawing its way out and he couldn’t stop it. He
picked up his pace, stumbling forward, toward what he could not tell. There was something he needed
to tell before… someone needed to know… What? It was so important, everything depended on it, but
he was keeping too many secrets, they were all running together and he forgot who it was safe to
tell what. Dumble… No!

*Hermione! He had to find Hermione.*

His hands grasped the latch to the door and pulled.


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16. Chapter 16
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 16


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Hermione was in Arithmancy when the little second year Gryffindor girl made her way breathlessly
to Professor Vector’s desk bearing a note from Professor McGonagall.

“Miss Granger, Professor McGonagall requires your presence immediately in the entry hall,”
Vector informed her.

She gathered up her books and began returning them neatly into her bag when she had a faint
sense of foreboding, as if an ill wind had blown swiftly by her. She looked up at the messenger
leaning against the door to wait for her, catching her breath. She thrust the remainder in
helter-skelter and made for the hallway.

“I’m not a prefect any longer,” she told the girl as they hurried along. “Are you sure Professor
McGonagall wanted me in particular?”

“It’s Harry Potter,” the girl told her, eyes enormous. Hermione noticed a thin layer of dust or
fine grit coated the child’s robes and hair. “He’s made a great big bit of the wall come down in
the entry hall.”

Hermione couldn’t believe the sight that met her eyes as they descended the stairs. A cloud of
stone mortar particles hung in the air like a descending fog. Everything in sight was covered with
a layer of gritty pulverized stone. Chunks of rock from fist size to small boulders were strewn
about. In the middle of it all was Harry, crouched down on the balls of his feet with his head
buried in his arms, gently rocking. Dumbledore and McGonagall stood at the foot of the stairs,
neither making any obvious attempt to approach him.

“Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall greeted her. “You may go,” she told the second year.
“Please remind Mr. Filch that no one is to come this way until Professor Dumbledore sends
word.”

“What… what happened?” Hermione asked. “Is Harry alright?”

“We can not at the moment safely ascertain that, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore told her. “We were
rather hoping you might help us toward that end. He does not seem to want either Professor
McGonagall or myself near, and I would not wish to … upset him, unless there was no other
option.”

She looked wonderingly from Harry’s hunched form to where the two professors stood. He seemed
oblivious of their presence, what could they mean he wouldn’t… She moved past them to the end of
the staircase but as soon as she set her foot on the floor of the entry hall she could feel it. The
Muggle part of her mind likened it to a live electrical wire fallen into a puddle after a violent
storm; a current of magical energy unlike anything she had even experienced crackled threateningly
across the floor. It seemed to be coming from Harry.

Was it Harry? Or was it Voldemort?

She took another step further onto the floor and felt the magic lick and flare around her like
flames. She stood still and let it flow around her, hoping against hope that it was Harry, that he
would recognize her, know that she wanted to reach him. She took another step, and then another.
The energy pulsed and then seemed almost to caress her, sweeping softly from her feet to her head
and back down again.

“Harry?”

He stopped rocking and she heard Professor McGonagall’s breath catch; when she looked back
toward the staircase she saw Dumbledore’s wand was raised. She realized with a shock that it was a
sight she had never seen before; Dumbledore never openly carried a wand in the school and seemed
not to need it for the mostly trick-magic he did before the students. She frowned and shook her
head, but his stance and expression remained unchanged.

“*Hermione?*” she heard, but when she turned back to him his head was still buried in his
arms.

“Harry, are you okay? You’re scaring us, can we help? What’s the safe word? Please say it, show
me it’s just you.”

She heard a gasping that sounded like strangled tears.

“Look at me Harry. Please.” she pleaded.

*“I can’t. Hermione, there’s something wrong with me. It’s not Voldemort, it’s me. Can’t you
feel it? I can’t take anymore. I can’t stand one more thing.”*

She glanced over at Dumbledore and McGonagall to get their take on his words and realized with a
start that she was hearing him inside herself. The hall was silent.

“Please look at me, Harry. I need to see you. Whatever it is I’ll help you, we’ll figure it out.
Please trust me.”

*“I do trust you. Can you still trust in me?”*

He raised his head and met her gaze at last.

She was so relieved that it took her a moment to realize something was different. The face she
loved, lined with worry but undeniably Harry’s, the wild black hair, the jagged scar. All were the
same, except…

His eyes had changed. They were the pale silvery gray color she knew so well from a face she
utterly loathed.


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“Say it, Harry,” she said, backing away from him, voice shaking. She looked down at the floor,
back at Dumbledore and McGonagall, anywhere but at the perversion of Malfoy eyes in Harry’s face.
Professor McGonagall appeared shocked; never a good sign. It wasn’t easy to ruffle the
transfiguration teachers’ fur, she’d had years of practice masking her own rather strong emotions
from her students. Heading Gryffindor House was a volatile occupation after all. Dumbledore’s eyes
were narrowed and distinctly un-twinkley.

“What?” his voice was anguished and it shook her. She knew her backing away might frighten or
hurt him, but the real Harry would understand, would want her to be cautious. She sure hoped so,
anyway.

“The safe word. What is it?”

“Chocolate Frog.” She turned back to him, but had to drop her eyes again. As she did so she saw
him pass a shaking hand over his face as if feeling for what she couldn’t bear to see. *He
doesn’t know!* She thought. *But then what was he talking about, asking if she could trust
him? What in the world was going on? Was it really Harry?*

“Tell me something only you would know,” she said softly. She still couldn’t look at his face.
She realized how the line of unspoken communication she had developed with him over the years
relied heavily on his eyes as a window to his thoughts.

“Why? Hermione, why won’t you look at me?”

“Just do it. Tell me. Anything. Something *Malfoy* wouldn’t know,” she added pointedly.

The name certainly brought a reaction, she was almost certain she had heard him growl. “You
smile in your sleep. You always braid the left side of your hair first. You keep your wand in the
bed hangings…”

“*Harry*,” she cut him off. “Harry, what’s wrong with your eyes?”

She heard footsteps, found McGonagall and Dumbledore beside her. Harry climbed slowly to his
feet.

“My *eyes?* Hermione, I just lost *complete* control of my magic and *blew a hole in
the wall*. The hall was full of little kids and I couldn’t stop it. I was terrified I’d killed
someone. Why are you on about my eyes?”

McGonagall transfigured the pendant around her neck into a mirror and held it up before him.
Harry peered into it and a look of horror joined the strangers’ eyes on his face. His fingers rose,
shaking, then began almost convulsively to claw at them.

It was Dumbledore who swiftly caught his hands and held them away. “Harry, *don’t*. I think
that I have a good idea of what may have happened. You’ll only hurt yourself. Professor McGonagall,
may we use your office? It is considerably closer than my own and I think we all need to sit
down.”


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When they reached Professor McGonagall’s office Dumbledore motioned for Harry to sit in the
chair before her desk and conjured another for Hermione.

“Harry, close your eyes. Empty your mind, as if we were about to embark on one of your
Occlumency lessons. Take your time, please. I’m sure there’s quite a bit to shut the door on.”

Once his eyes closed Hermione found she could look on his face quite comfortably again. It would
seem to relax then suddenly tense with the flicker of an eyebrow or quiver of a lip as his thoughts
struggled back. The ticking of McGonagall’s clock was the only sound in the room as they sat
silently, waiting. When he had been quite still for several minutes she saw Dumbledore stare at him
intently for a moment and guessed that he was probing to see if Harry had managed what he
requested. It both fascinated and repulsed her; she found that she did not morally believe in
Legilimency but still could not stop herself from thinking of more then a few ways it would come in
handy.

“Picture your own eyes, as you have always seen them. Color, shape and size. Picture them in
your own countenance, as if you were looking not into a mirror, but out of one.”

She saw his eyes move under pale lids, swiftly back and forth, the way they had the morning he
had dreamed of the snitch.

“Open them now, Harry.”

They were green again. She noticed other slight differences that she had missed when she
couldn’t make herself look. Their shape was quite different; Harry’s pupils were larger than
Malfoys and his eyes now bore the slightly-out-of-focus look that meant he was wondering what he’d
done with his glasses. She realized he’d not had them on in the hall.

“Albus, do you really think it could be....” Professor McGonagall asked, her own eyes
thoughtfully examining Harry’s.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I think there were quite a few forces at work here, and only time will
truly tell. I *would* say that it is most likely an excellent time for Harry to begin his
animagus work with you, however.”

“What,” Harry asked pointedly, “was that all about?”

“Before I answer your question, Harry, I must ask you one of my own. Where were you before you
entered the castle? What were you doing, and who, if anyone, was with you?”

“That’s three questions, actually, Professor,” Hermione said before she could stop herself. She
blushed.

“Too right, Hermione. I’m afraid I must still ask, however.”

“I was talking to Ginny Weasley on the path to the lake,” Harry told them. Hermione saw his
fingers begin to worry at the wood of the chair between his knees.

Dumbledore looked almost disappointed, as if a promising theory had been disproved.

“What were you talking about?”

“I’d, erm, rather not say.” Harry said without looking up.

“Perhaps if Miss Granger and I were to…” started Professor McGonagall.

That brought his head up with a snap. “It’s not like that at all. It’s got nothing to do with… I
want Hermione to stay. There’s nothing I couldn’t tell you in front of her.”

Hermione felt a small, fierce tug at her heart and she smiled at him. He seemed to see that she
had and she could see him try to return it, a half-hearted effort at best. It dawned on her
suddenly what he must have been talking to Ginny about. Equally suddenly a suspicion bloomed in her
gut about where Dumbledore had been going.

“You thought he had been fighting with Malfoy!” she said to Dumbledore. “Why? How would that
affect what happened?”

“It appears I was wrong in my deductions, Hermione.”

“Maybe not. What if he were talking *about* Draco with someone else, or thinking about
something to do with him? Would that still have worked in your hypothesis? What do you think
happened?”

“Really, Miss Granger, you have no business questioning Professor Dumbledore, let alone in that
tone,” Professor McGonagall cautioned her.

“Never mind, Minerva. I think perhaps Hermione is on to the heart of the matter, and I am sure
it is not her intention to be rude. She is simply trying to assist Harry. My hypothesis, as you
call it, is nothing more than this: Harry experienced a power surge of sorts. Nothing new, we know
that he has had them before, primarily before he came to Hogwarts and found an outlet for his
magic. I believe there was an incident with your cousin and a boa constrictor just before you
arrived if I’m not mistaken, Harry, a little parseltongue and a disappearing window, wasn’t it? And
third year I do believe you blew up your Aunt.”

Harry nodded numbly, his eyes on Hermione. “This was worse though. By far.”

“This is proving to be another rather *intense* period of time for you, Harry, is it not?
You have survived a serious poisoning, been physically possessed by your greatest enemy and forced
to bear the fear of your fellow students. I’m quite sure it is no secret to Hermione that your
defense training has taken on a rather different aspect this year; I suspect that she would be
quite impressed if she knew the half of what you have mastered these last few weeks. And then there
is Hermione herself. Delightful though the emotions of one’s first love may be they are none the
less powerful or complex for being so pleasing. Combine those facts with your age in general and
your natural predisposition to do nothing by halves and you have the perfect recipe for a
magical…eruption.”

Dumbledore eyed Professor McGonagall’s ginger newt tin longingly and she took the hint, opening
the lid and passing it to him. He extracted one, munched thoughtfully a moment and continued. “You
have quite a bit of unusual magical energy in you, Harry. You told me once about your failed
haircuts as a boy. Your father taught himself to become an animagus when he was just your age,
wasn’t it? And you’ve met Nymphadora Tonks, I know. She was a true rarity displaying Metamorphmagus
abilities as young as she did. These things happen occasionally, and perhaps the best we can expect
from you for awhile is the unexpected.”

“So you think that Harry basically tripped a magical circuit after talking with Ginny and when
the energy got away from him part of him unknowingly acted like a metamorphmagus and took on a
characteristic of the person he was upset about.”

“That sums it up rather concisely, although I must confess my… *curiosity* as to the
connection between Miss Weasley and Mr. Malfoy in Harry’s subconscious. Yes, Hermione, that is my
suspicion. Once he provided you with the safe word – and may I also say that I was *quite*
relieved you were familiar with it, I was certain we were going to have to send for Mr. Weasely –
it seemed clear that it was a physical change in Harry rather than an incomplete change in someone
else.”

Harry squirmed in his seat and exhaled softly. “Professor Dumbledore, there’s something I…
something Hermione and I need to tell you.” He stole a look at Hermione and she nodded
encouragingly. If Dumbledore already suspected there was nothing to be gained from attempting to
deceive him, and everything to lose.

“Hermione knew the safe word because she’s been my dream keeper, Sir. We all talked about it and
she wanted to, and Ron was nervous about it, and I just feel… safer that it’s her.”

“It was very dangerous not to inform Professor Dumbledore or myself that you three had made such
a change. What if something had happened when Ron wasn’t there and no one knew to send for Miss
Granger to release you? A foolhardy risk indeed!” Professor McGonagall remonstrated.

“Unlikely, Minerva,” Dumbledore said mildly. “Once the potion is ingested the enchantment
requires the dream keeper to allow sleep and then wake the sleeper. My guess is that Miss Granger
has been spending rather a lot of time in the sixth year boy’s dormitory of late.”

McGonagall’s mouth fluttered open and closed again, aghast. She looked a bit like Ron, and Harry
had to look away quickly to keep that thought to himself, stifling a smile.

Hermione was finding nothing the *least* bit funny. “As a matter of fact, I have. And it’s
a good thing, too, because Ron slept like a baby last night while Voldemort tried to kill Harry! If
I *hadn’t* been there he would have laid there paralyzed while that evil *thing* did
whatever he wanted to him. He broke Harry’s arm. It could just as easily have been his neck!” She
had built up a sense of righteous indignation as she went along and by the time she reached the
part about his neck she was well and truly crying, tears streaming unnoticed down her cheeks. Harry
wished desperately for some means to comfort her but felt pinned to his chair by Dumbledore and
McGonagall’s dismayed expressions.

McGonagall turned on him. “Madam Pomfrey reported that she had you in for a broken arm this
morning, but she said you started a fight with Malfoy. I’ve had Professor Snape after me all day to
settle punishment for you.”

“Malfoy lied,” Harry admitted. “I went along with him because… because he was being a Malfoy.
He’s playing one of his nasty mind games on someone I don’t want hurt, and probably on the rest of
us as well. He knows things he shouldn’t, I don’t know how, but I just want it to stop. He said he
knew that Hermione was sleeping… well, that she was in my room. It’s bad enough dealing with
Voldemort right now, but I’m starting to think that Malfoy held off on the dark mark just to make
himself more useful as a spy as well. I don’t want him to have any more ammunition against Hermione
or Ron.”

“But Voldemort actually *physically* possessed you last night, here in Hogwarts itself?”
Dumbledore asked dispiritedly.

Harry nodded, avoiding his Headmaster’s gaze. He *hated* it when Dumbledore seemed
diminished and merely human, hated it more when he himself was the cause. It frightened him, made
him realize anew how much of the responsibility for Voldemort’s ultimate end was passing on to
him.

“Did he make any specific threats? Did he manage to get to the Prophecy?”

Harry shook his head. “No. I’m certain. I’m much stronger with the Occlumency now, and he was
distracted fairly quickly.”

“By what, may I enquire?” Dumbledore asked.

“Erm… Hermione. He was very upset to find her there.”

“What exactly did he say, Harry. Do you remember?”

Harry almost wished Voldemort would possess him now and get him the hell out of McGonagall’s
office before he got himself in any deeper. He had *so* wanted to explain all this to Hermione
without the Headmaster and their Head of House joining in… “He, unh, said…” Harry sighed. “He said
‘*Mudblood! Filthy Mudblood in your bed!. We can’t have that, Potter. Kill her. Put your hands
around that scrawny neck and squeeze. Throttle her! DO IT! I COMMAND YOU!* ‘ And that’s how I
broke my arm, fighting him off.”

Shocked didn’t begin to describe the three around him. Appalled, aghast, sickened, revolted,
dismayed; a whole thesaurus of emotion lapped the room like an angry tide.

“You never said…” Hermione whispered, still streaming. He pressed his hands beneath his knees;
they ached to wipe her tears away.

“I couldn’t, could I? I should have before you put me back to sleep but I was so tired and then
I chickened out and lost my chance. You always have to run out in the mornings or I would have told
you then. I meant to, I did, Hermione. I would have.”

But Hermione seemed positively approachable compared to Dumbledore. He was so livid Harry
wondered for a moment what would happen if Dumbledore lost control of *his* magic. It appeared
that perhaps Dumbledore were considering the same thing.

“I will not have that in this castle. I will NOT have that evil amongst these children. I WILL
NOT have *those* words spoken here,” he intoned in a voice Harry had heard only once before,
when he had seen him square off against Voldemort in the Ministry of Magic last year. “Voldemort
should not be able to enter this school in any form.”

“Albus!” warned McGonagall shakily, and he seemed to come back to himself.

“Harry, Hermione, forgive me, please.” He sighed deeply and seemed to be lost in thought for a
brief moment.

“It seems I have made a grievous error in underestimating you both. My prideful protection has
been less than useless to you; indeed it has exposed you to things I would willing have laid down
my own life to keep from you, and for that I am truly sorry. There is something I must take care of
now; it will clearly wait no longer. I will have to keep odd hours in and out of the castle for a
day or two. Fawkes will always be able to reach me; I am going to ask you to keep him with you each
night, Harry. Do not hesitate to enlist his aid.

Hermione, you have my express permission to be out of your own room as necessary during the
night. The appropriate authorities will be informed as to your location. Notice I say you; and I
mean *you*. Harry himself is to be tucked up tight in the sixth year boys by the usual curfew
hour. I will leave the rest in Professor McGonagall’s capable hands.

Minerva, I regret to have to do this, but please do not challenge Professor Snape in regard to
Harry and Draco’s supposed altercation. I do not wish Mr. Malfoy to have any more idea of what is
going on than he may already have. If you believe the punishment to be dangerous or unreasonable
send Fawkes for me. And lastly, Harry, I am going to ask you to keep on with your special defense
lessons, but I will send Tonks to you tomorrow as well. You are most likely *not* a
metamorphmagus as she is, but she has had to learn to control a tremendously strong magical force
from a very young age and I’m sure she can give you some insight with your difficulties in that
regard.”

Just when Harry thought mercy had finally found him and the whole strange incident was drawing
to a close there came a sharp knock on Professor McGonagall’s door. She opened it to reveal Filch,
Mrs. Norris tucked under his arm and his usual glare intact but somewhat subverted by another
emotion Harry couldn’t place. The way things were going, however, it was hardly likely to mean good
news for him.

“Started to clean up the mess Potter made of the hall before the little beasts will be coming
through it for their dinner. Had that seventh year Hufflepuff to help me, the one I caught…”

“Yes, Mr. Filch, I know just who you mean. Was there a problem?”

“Had him putting the wall back together while I started on the dust. Potter should be down there
on his hands and knees if you ask me, I could give him a good switching while he cleaned up his own
sodding mess.”

“The *problem*, Argus?” McGonagall asked sharply.

“Wouldn’t go back together, would it. Nothing doing. No Merlin, that Hufflepuff boy, but he
must’ve tried twenty spells if he tried one and the stones just weren’t going back. Then the last
one he tried, *bang*. The rest dropped out and, well, see for yourself why don’t you?”

Exchanging looks of concern McGonagall and Dumbledore filed out after Filch. Dumbledore turned
briefly in the doorway and indicated Harry and Hermione should follow. Harry felt for Hermione’s
hand as they passed through the door and was hugely relieved when it slid willingly into his grasp;
he moved close beside her so that their joining was engulfed by their robes. He could still clearly
see the tracks of her tears although they seemed to have ceased.

Filch led them to the top of the staircase down to the entry hall and stopped. There, high in
the wall where Harry’s errant magic had blasted quite a number of stones loose of their mortar was
a larger, circular hole. The castle walls were quite thick but in the dark shadows of the hole a
darker form was revealed spanning out like… spokes on a wheel. Harry felt Hermione tighten her own
grasp on his fingers. *Good Lord* but she was strong when she was excited.

“Mr. Filch, please go outside and make certain that there are no students in the courtyard. Come
back inside and tell me when you are quite sure all is clear.” Dumbledore requested. Filch grumbled
his way down the stairs as the Headmaster turned to Harry and Hermione. Harry saw that he appeared
quite hopeful now, some of the gloom of the confessions in McGonagall’s office lifted.

“It appears that Hermione may indeed have been correct in her guess about the ‘rose that never
dies,’’ he said. It struck Harry how alike Dumbledore and Hermione were at that moment, joined by
their mutual excitement of an abstract possibility proved true. Harry himself really felt like a
nap, he was dropping, and he felt no excitement whatsoever about uncovering any part of the barmy
old riddle after all that had occurred. A flare of pessimism reminded him that like everything else
it was unlikely to end up positive for *him*, it probably revealed him being blasted into
smithereens by a laughing Voldemort. A least Ron would be happy about the return of their Hogsmeade
privileges.

Filch reappeared in the doorway and gave the all-clear sign. Dumbledore motioned him to the
other end of the hall toward the entrance to the dungeons.

“Let no one through,” he boomed, then raised his wand. A complicated series of movements and
muttered spells ensued, and slowly, with a great crashing and smashing from outside the castle, the
hole began to grow lighter and brighter. Several grating rumblings later a weak beam of light shone
through. Dumbledore renewed his efforts; McGonagall wordlessly lifted her wand and began assisting
him. The light broke through at an increased pace, bringing a rainbow of colors with it. It took
almost a quarter hour of ceaseless effort between the two to uncover the whole thing, but when they
had finished an enormous round window with delicate stone and lead tracery forming a center and two
rows of outwardly spiraling petal forms was revealed. The colors were glorious; brilliant cobalt,
deep ambers, lush greens, royal purples and blood reds lit with an unearthly light. It was
breathtaking, a truly beautiful thing.

There were, however, no recognizable pictures at all within its design. The leaded shapes of
glass were as random as the brilliant bits of a kaleidoscope.

As disappointment flooded the faces around him Harry felt an odd surge of relief.


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They received permission to skip the evening meal from Dumbledore. They found Ron and went to
the kitchens to scrounge food from Dobby, then took the enormous basket the little house elf gave
them to the Room of Requirement, pacing back and forth three times before the door. They didn’t
talk about what they thought they needed; Harry himself envisioned a refuge. He simply wanted, no
*craved*, a safe haven to sit alone with his friends for an hour or two. Or two
*hundred*, if it were up to him… He had no real desire to wrestle any meaning from the days
events, if given the chance he would ask for a time to ignore them, let them fade a bit first. He
accepted, however, that Hermione would find the very idea an anathema and that what remained of his
life was going to hold a certain amount of sucking it up.

Worth it, after all.

The room when it admitted them bore some resemblance to its DA configuration; shelves of books
for Hermione, a thick pile of cushions on the floor probably supplied by Ron, who immediately
flopped down on them. Harry could see no immediate evidence of his own wishes, then realized as
Hermione shut the door and he set Dobbys’ basket down beside the cushions that all he needed was
already there. Hermione and Ron.

They ate first. Even Hermione seemed famished. Their conversation over the food was desultory,
secondary to their hunger. Harry realized that he had eaten neither breakfast nor lunch, which
explained a lot, really. Ron’s happy babbling covered up quite a bit for Harry’s silence and he was
grateful just to listen to him bicker mildly with Hermione about a Transfiguration assignment he’d
forgotten and would have to finish by nights’ end. Harry realized thankfully he’d done the
assignment with Hermione the other night after Quidditch practice when Ron had fallen asleep. He’d
never felt less like having to deal with school work.

Finally satiated, they settled back against the cushions. The basket contentedly repacked itself
and popped back to the kitchen, happy to report its depleted condition to the house elves. Harry
was wondering idly the best method of sussing out Hermione’s mood when she crawled across the
cushions and settled herself beside him, her hand rising to the back of his neck. Her fingers
kneaded gently at the taught muscles and his head drooped forward as he shut his eyes,
relinquishing himself. The room was quiet behind his closed eyelids; he figured Ron must be happily
digesting if he wasn’t making retching noises or suggestive comments about Hermione’s blessed
administrations.

“What happened in the infirmary this morning?” she asked. There was an almost dreamy quality to
her voice. Soothing him seemed to be working for her as well. Harry waited, hoping Ron would answer
her.

“Effing Malfoy!” Ron exclaimed, his own post-meal somnolence shattered by the memory. “We were
waiting for Madam Pomfrey and he admitted that Ginny had popped him one, but as soon as Pomfrey
came over to check him out he had a story all ready about how Harry punched him in the eye and he’d
broken Harry’s arm with a curse because REAL wizards don’t use their hands. He’s so full of crap
it’s mind boggling.”

“Anything *else?*” she pursued.

Ron seemed puzzled. “What do you mean? What else?”

Harry fervently hoped the fingers currently working magic on his neck didn’t change their minds
and start to strangle him.

“I told him I wasn’t going to play his little game anymore,” he told her. “So he started in on
you. He called you my bed buddy and as good as said he knew what you were doing there. Only, there
was no way he could know that unless Dean or Seamus ratted us, which I don’t believe, or he was in
contact somehow with Voldemort. I can’t figure where he’s going with any of this. Wouldn’t the jinx
you put on the paper he signed be activated if it was Voldemort?”

“I’ve been worried about that,” she admitted slowly. “I don’t think I was evil enough
considering the possibilities, Harry. The jinx was all about Draco feeding information about what
any of *us* was doing to Voldemort; it wasn’t designed to activate if *Voldemort* was the
one providing Draco with ammunition. I didn’t realize how far it could go. Draco could seriously
undermine you with the other students if he wanted to. So far it’s just been his usual
poking-your-wound type of thing, but if he takes Cho’s Great Hall approach and comes up with
something really damning about Voldemort’s ability to possess you, if they worked in tandem somehow
and proved what he can do to you, the parents really would be after the Ministry to have you carted
off to Azkaban. For your own good, of course.”

“You know, I kind of don’t mind that you couldn’t get your mind down into to Malfoy’s sewer,
Hermione,” Harry told her quietly. “Hardly a failure when you consider it. Ginny said…” he stopped
and gazed at Ron.

“You haven’t seen her, have you?”

“Ginny? Not since yesterday dinner, no. Sounds as if she’s been busy, popping Malfoy and winding
you up. Is someone *finally* going to tell me what’s going on?”

Harry straightened up reluctantly. Hermione’s fingers had stilled against his neck and he knew
he needed a good view of Ron’s face to broach the subject safely.

“Ron, I didn’t know how to tell you before. I didn’t want to see you hurt and I thought it was a
family thing, really, none of my business. I mean, I’ve never had a family *or* a sister. But
if I did, I do know I wouldn’t want her messing around with Malfoy.”

“Fairly safe intuition. Who would?”

“Erm, Ron, I’m trying to tell you that your sister *is* messing round with Malfoy.”

Ron’s eyes grew wary. “Harry, exactly what are you on about?”

“Do the math, Ron. Remember when Malfoy told you he quite liked red hair, that it was the
temperament that got him, one moment they loved you and the next they socked you in the face? Sound
familiar? Like someone you know? He was speaking from experience there.”

“Shut up! “ Ron stormed, but his face gave him away. He was indeed doing the math and not liking
the outcome of the equation at all. “Why? How could she? You must have it wrong, Harry.”

“She thinks she’s in love, Ron,” Hermione said from beside Harry. He could feel her shoulder
against him well below his own, solid and comforting. “She honestly believes she loves him, she
*thinks* he loves her. She thinks she can save him, change him. She believes every word that
he says. She’s every bit as possessed by him as she was by Tom Riddle, just in a different way.
Don’t be mad at Harry, he’s only just found out. I’ve known for awhile, she told me herself. I
couldn’t figure whether to tell you at all at first, then how to tell you once I hadn’t. I still
don’t know what’s right. Maybe she *does* love him, maybe she *can* change him. Maybe
she’s meant to save the world *from* him. How do we know, and who are we to judge?”

“I’m her BROTHER Hermione. I’m her *older* brother. It’s supposed to be a part of what I am
to not let this happen!”

“Isn’t that just a *bit* of a stereotype, Ron?” Harry said slowly. “Does Ginny really need
you to come rushing in to save her? She’s not stupid, she’s not helpless and she’s got a heck of
hex when she wants to.”

“He must have used a potion or a charm on her if she actually thinks she’s… she’s…”

“If we can find out that he has, I’ll be the first to try and help you break it,” Hermione told
him. “But if you talk to her you’ll find she has a fairly well thought out defense of her feelings.
Because they’re just that, Ron. Feelings. Hers, not yours or Fred or George or Bill or Charlie’s.
The heart isn’t always rational. The human race couldn’t go on if it was.”

“What the hell defense could you have for having any sort of feelings for *Malfoy?*” Ron
asked, agonized.

Hermione glanced sideways at Harry and he knew that Ginny had told her some version of what she
had finally confessed to him.

“Ron,” she said gently, “Ginny told me she had really strong feelings for someone who didn’t
feel the same for her. She was desperately unhappy and she tried to hide it by not telling anyone
and trying to forget about it with other boys, like Michael and Dean. It didn’t work for her. I
never heard the exact story about how or when she started to get to know Draco better, but she
isn’t blind to him. I do think he manipulates her feelings to his advantage, probably lies to her,
but there *is* something between them. Can you imagine even for a second what it would feel
like to love someone with all your heart who doesn’t love you, and then when you finally get over
them find that it’s with someone no one wants you to be with?”

“No,” said Ron, positively.

Harry tried. What if Ron had told him to keep his hands off Hermione or risk losing their
friendship? What if Hermione were Pansy Parkinson’s best friend in Slytherin? Feeling what he felt
now, he reckoned he’d go through anything for her. But he felt what he did in great part because of
all they had been through together, he felt as if he’d come to love her bit by bit, drawn deeper
and deeper as his knowledge of the sort of person she was had grown. It was like something she had
said; he hadn’t looked across a crowded room and somehow chosen her; she’d taken up residence in
his heart before he’d even known she was there. None of that could have started; it wouldn’t have
grown if they’d had to change themselves too much to fit along the way. There was no way Ginny
could feel the same for Malfoy. Or could she? He was hardly expert in the area of human
affections.

But even if she didn’t, was it really up to him to judge her? He wished desperately that she too
had a safe word, that she could just tell them all to go chocolate frog themselves and fight her
own battles. If she chose to go down clinging to Malfoy, it was her life after all.

*Except it was his fault, because he didn’t love her.*

“Harry, stop trying to pull your hair out. It’s *not* your fault.” Hermione said softly.
“Not everything is.”

He turned to her and clung to her blindly, finding her lips with his and kissing her like he
never had before, not in comfort but in an overwhelming need to affirm his connection to her, to
imprint himself on her in some permanent way that would settle the matter for all time.

“Fucking hormones! That’s all any of this is, all of you,” Ron raged. “Get a room. Better yet,
have this one.” He rose to his feet and stomped out, slamming the door.

Harry knew that it was a hopelessly insensitive thing to do to his best friend, especially when
his best friend had just found out that his sister was in love with *Malfoy*. But if it wasn’t
his fault, if not everything was, then for perhaps the first time in his life Harry was going to
come first.

Well, actually, he knew that he was supposed to at least try and make sure that Hermione
did*,* but he wasn’t going to fight about it either way. He was done talking, done arguing,
done fighting, done feeling guilty for awhile. He slid down onto his back and drew Hermione on to
him with a small, helpless surge of glee. She seemed equally happy to be there and smiled down at
him. She lifted her wand and murmured *Colloportus* at the door.

“Close your eyes, Hermione.”

“Why? I want to see *everything*. I have no intention of going into this with my eyes
closed.”

“Just for a minute. Have you noticed where you are? I know you like to umm… keep things under
control. Just let me do one thing for you and then I’m yours to do whatever you want, okay?”

“Okay.” She obediently closed her eyes. He didn’t seem to move, other than the hand that had
been gently running up and down her spine as they spoke. She didn’t hear anything at first other
than the sound of their breathing, both faster than usual. There was a faint chirp first, and then
a soft flutter of wings.

“Keep them closed, just another moment.”

Now she could hear more and more sounds, growing slowly more distinct. Running water, the soft
sigh of tree branches. The repetitive chirrup of some sort of insect. She felt a breeze against her
skin and shivered, not from cold. She knew what he’d done.

“You can open them now.”

The room was transformed, unrecognizable as the Room of Requirement from before but a perfect
duplication of Firenze’s enchanted woodland.

“You *were* listening to me.”

“I’ll always listen to you. I promise. I learned my lesson fifth year. I may not like that my
conscience sounds like you, but I know what it means.”

She kissed the tip of his nose, ran her fingers freely through his hair, and laughed.

“What?”

“There really *is* something going on with you, Harry. When you were pulling on your hair
with all your troubles, it *grew*.” She took his hand and showed him.

“Should I try and make it go back?” he asked, faintly nervous.

“Oh, no. I like it. More to hold on to. I just thought you should know.”

The room chirped and gurgled around them as they kissed again, reveling in the sheer friendly
aloneness of finally being together.

Hermione found that Harry had meant what he said; he seemed perfectly agreeable to let her take
the initiative and explore. Research was good. Knowledge *was* power, and it didn’t take her
long to figure out what pleased him. He appeared to thoroughly enjoy soft kisses to his closed
eyelids, his ears were ticklish, and exploring the little hollows beneath his jaw with her tongue
earned her her first lovely little groan of appreciation. She found she liked that *quite* a
bit, the sound produced a portkeyish flutter inside her and she loved that she seemed to have been
able to coax it out of him quite despite himself. Repeated experimentation produced a similar
result. Her confidence surged exponentially.

She ran her hands up under his shirt and felt the scurrying thump of his excited heart. It
occurred to her that clothes were supposed to come off. It seemed at once a really good idea. She
sat up, straddling his hips and pulled her robes over her head. As they came off she saw for the
first time the inky black sky above them, the brilliant pinpricks of the stars.

“Harry, it’s just beautiful.”

He sat up as well; drawing her onto his lap and helping her free her hair from the neck of her
robe. They began to undo each other’s ties, eyes level.

“That’s all credit to Firenze. I just tried for a duplicate. You know how Centaurs watch the
stars for everything.”

She was faster than he was with buttons; she’d finished his while he was only halfway done hers.
She stilled his hands, pulling the shirt down over his shoulders and off. She finished the rest of
her own buttons herself, and pulled the shirt off. She unhooked her bra, feeling the first shyness
start. Uncharted territory. She shrugged her shoulders and let it slip down her arms.

There was a moments’ silence and then his eyes met hers, equally shy but shining.

“Brilliant,” was all he managed, but Hermione had never felt as beautiful in all her life.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she whispered back, and they slid together to the enchanted forest
floor. She could feel his warmth everywhere through her own skin, infinitely different than
touching with hands. And yet the feel of his hands was delicious too, she loved the brush of his
broomstick calloused fingers against her, the way they explored slowly, tracking across her ribs
and down beneath the itchy waistband of her skirt. And there. Right there. She really loved the way
they felt *right there.*

She let her own hands travel as well, tracing the contours of her best friend’s chest and
marveling that she could possibly have missed – or resisted - this all that time. It was amazing,
but it was more amazing still that it was Harry beneath her fingers, Harry whom she knew so well
and with whom she yet had so much still to learn. She fumbled with the button of his trousers and
then the zip. They were touching each other, eyes fixed on each others’ expressions, searching.

He was lovely there; there was no other word in Hermione’s mind. She knew if she were to say it
aloud she should probably come up with some more reassuringly masculine expression for it, but what
she felt *was* lovely, she had a distinct and instinctive fondness for the feel of this part
of himself she had never shared before.

It seemed to like her, too.

“Hi there,” she said, unable to hide her grin.

“Hi back,” he said, and did something with his fingers that made her eyes roll back in her
head.

She surprised herself with her own responses; how in the world had she suddenly ended up on her
back with her legs hooked round his waist? His pants had to go, and the boxers as well. Her skirt
had rucked up around her but it was still in the way.

“Time out,” she requested breathlessly, tugging at his trousers.

“I will if you will,” he gasped back. “On the count of three.”

Their remaining clothes were shoved heedlessly aside.

Much better. Except now the look in his eyes had grown more serious somehow. A good serious,
intent and unquestionably interested, but she missed the delight in the little-boy grin.

“You are beyond beautiful. Beyond *words,*” he told her, and suddenly serious proved to be
better. When they kissed again she let her tongue run against the delicate ridges along the roof of
his mouth and she got to *taste* that delicious little moan, sweet against her lips. His
breath was definitely coming faster now, the movement of his hips against hers more insistent.
Words were running through her head and she suddenly realized they were all about getting him
inside her. It was time, past time, right now was definitely the right time. *Right* now.

“Harry?” she said softly, and knew it was all she needed to say. Loved that it was all she
needed, that this was Harry and nobody else, and he knew her. She felt him reach over her shoulder,
fumbling amongst their clothes for a moment until he came up with his wand.

*Duh, Hermione.* “And they say I’m the smart one. Thank you,” she told him gratefully.

“Thank Bill Weasley,” he replied somewhat cryptically, and muttered the charm. She heard the
wand roll away again across the floor.

“Help me,” he asked softly, still shy but growing surer. “Show me what you want; I don’t ever
want to hurt you. I do love you, Hermione.”

She took hold of him, unfamiliar and enticing in her hand, and helped him find the way. The
discovery in Harry’s familiar green eyes far out weighed the discomfort of their joining; the
sweetness and gratitude in his first kiss while inside her brought tears she fought desperately,
not wanting him to think for a moment that he had hurt her when what she felt was exactly what she
had wanted; *him.* There. Absolutely perfectly right, as if something long lost was returned
to her.

She was glad at first of his stillness as she adjusted to him…but if he didn’t move soon she’d
surely *die* of wanting him to. Never mind, then. She drew her arms closer around him and
arched up against him, startling him from his reverie. He quickly got the idea, picking up the
rhythm of her need and filling her with it. At some point he grabbed her hand, threading his
fingers through hers and she wondered how they could be doing *this* and yet that familiar
touch of a hand she’d known since she was eleven could still seem so important. He was her lover
now. They were holding hands while he loved her. She felt her muscles contract at the thought like
an involuntary shiver and heard his swift intake of breath. *He likes that.* She experimented,
tightening, squeezed and held. He let out a strangled gasp that sounded like *‘again’* and
went from serious to rapt, focused entirely on her. She sensed his perception drift from the simple
wonder of her body to the knowledge that she too could influence and control his pleasure. He
shifted his weight, changing their joining just enough that his next movement brought Hermione to a
sweet rush of stars behind her heavy lidded eyes. She wondered what the Centaurs would make of
these… she predicted that if he could make her see them on any sort of a regular basis she’d never
in her lifetime get enough of Harry. The thought made her hold tightly to him, more determined than
ever that he would survive, if nothing else than by the sheer force of her love and will. The
onslaught of him left her boneless, unable to do more than hold on until he buried his head into
the crook of her neck with a single sharp cry of her name. She felt him shudder into her.

And he was hers. Intellectually, little was different. Intellect simply meant little at that
moment to Hermione. Her heart told her that she had sealed a promise and received one in return,
and she meant to keep it for the rest of their lives together. Whatever that might bring.


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17. Chapter 17
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 17


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Hermione’s internal alarm clock still worked; that or Fawkes awoke her. The Phoenix uttered one
warbling note and cocked its head, blinking amber eyes. It was a quarter hour until curfew and
Dumbledore had been quite clear that he wanted Harry in the sixth year boys’ dormitory each night.
She wondered how it could change anything that he was there; it obviously couldn’t stop Voldemort
from dropping by for one of his nightly visitations. How were Neville, Seamus, Dean or Ron any
better equipped to fight him off if anything happened? He probably just wanted to keep track of
Harry.

That, or he was trying to make what had just come to be less likely, allowing her to stay with
him but surrounding them both by a bunch of Gryffindor boys. She stretched, cherishing the faint
soreness that bore evidence of the failure of *that* particular scheme. It had been so much
better even than she’d ever managed in her own imagination. He was asleep beside her, one arm flung
protectively across her still. As she watched him her heart surged; his lips were curved into the
faintest of smiles. His face was every bit as tired as the night before, the bones just as sharp,
but some portion of the weight seemed lifted and she was fairly certain *she* had done that.
She’d been uncertain about letting him fall asleep after without invoking the dream keeper charm,
but he’d really seemed to need it and she felt some small part of her was almost ready to dare
Voldemort to try and take him back after *that*.

“Harry,” she whispered, sitting up and shaking his arm gently. “Harry, wake up.”

His eyes struggled open and blinked, attempting to focus. She found his glasses and put them
into his hands. “We need to get back to the tower. It’s almost curfew.”

He sighed and sat up as well, attempting to stretch the stiffness from his shoulders. Hermione
felt a familiar interior shiver of pleasure watching him now, knowing how *else* he could
move. How much she wanted to see him move that way again... She wouldn’t have changed a thing, but
the forest clearing was certainly less forgiving than cushions or a mattress. Next time.

“Okay?” he asked with more than a little trepidation, sorting through their scattered clothing.
She’d *seemed* pleased, he’d thought it was fantastic, but he so often got things wrong…

“Lovely, Harry. Really. Thank you. I’ve never been so happy,” she said softly, and flashed him a
gentle smile as she buttoned her shirt.

He certainly liked it better when her fingers worked those buttons the other way round, but he
managed to smile back. “Me, too.”

She finished her buttons and crawled into his lap for a kiss. The meeting of their lips was far
more confident and accomplished now, a clear reflection of their deeper knowledge of each other.
Harry knew that with the way the rest of the school seemed to watch him these days, as if waiting
for him to transform into the Dark Lord at any moment and rampage through the halls, any difference
in their behavior would be immediately noticed and probably speculated upon. He hoped Hermione
didn’t mind. It might have bothered him once, before, but he found it didn’t now.

“We really owe Ron, Harry. That was a bit over the top, timing-wise.”

“Sorry. I honestly don’t know… no, I do actually. It was you, saying not everything was my
fault. So it’s *your* fault, really.”

“Nice try. Takes two; and I believe you rather enjoyed your half of things. You started it,
snog-wise, so it actually *is* your fault this time. We could talk to him together, but I
think it would seem less overwhelming coming from you first.”

“He’ll ask about us, if he gets over being mad about Ginny.”

“So what else is new? He’s been acting as if we have since the moment you told him we wanted to
be together. He’s got to get over the little-boy fixation on sex. We need to find him a
girlfriend.”

“I have news for you, Hermione. It’s not a little boy fixation, it’s an every sort of boy
fixation. That’s what we want girlfriends *for*. Er.. that’s what most, erm *other,* not
me… Anyway, isn’t it a bit presumptive of us to assume that’s what would make him happy just
because it’s what we wanted?”

She stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Fawkes warbled again anxiously, clearly wanting
them to be on their way. Harry scrambled to his feet and helped her up only to find himself
engulfed in a old-fashioned, wild-haired, bone-crushing Hermione hug.

“Harry James Potter that was actually *perceptive*. And absolutely right. You really
*should* be the one to talk to him.”

“Hey!”

Fawkes fluttered on to Harry’s shoulder. Harry stroked his feathers gently. “Next time you’re
ready to go up in flames let me know first, okay? Ron’ll be more than happy to help me join you,
I’m sure.”

Hermione held open the door with a smile.


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In retrospect, perhaps brushing their teeth in the boy’s lavatory the next morning wasn’t the
best time to have chosen to speak to Ron. Harry was so much better at hindsight he sometimes
wondered if his brain had somehow been shaken back to front by Vernon Dursley over the years. If it
hadn’t, Ron was doing his best to try and rectify the situation now.

“Oi, Weasley, get off him you idiot!” Seamus came through the door and thankfully interceded.
The gaggle of younger boys who had backed themselves against any available solid surface to avoid
the two of them lurching around the room began to slink gratefully towards the door.

Ron threw Seamus off and resumed pounding Harry. “Get Thomas!” Seamus growled at one of the
young ones, and resumed his efforts.

“You could help, you know, Potter,” he grunted as Ron swatted him off like a bug again. “You’re
not bloody enjoying this or anything like that are you? ‘Cause just so you know, you look a right
mess.”

Harry had about reached his limit as punching bag by that point, but found that he wasn’t quite
ready to hit Ron back. It was a near thing, but the level of anger and frustration in his friend’s
eyes literally hurt more than his fists did. He was definitely feeling like he deserved most of
what was coming his way, or *someone* did, and it was the least he could do at this point to
help Ron get it out of his system.

Unfortunately, Ron sensed this too.

“Awfully bloody cooperative when you’ve finally gotten your stones off, aren’t you, you sodding
great heap of … of….” Ron’s imagination failed him and he slumped, exhausted, to his knees just as
Dean crashed through the door.

“What in Merlin’s name is wrong with the two of you? You’ve already got detention every bleeding
night of the week; you’ve lost your Hogsmeade privileges. What’s next? Get thrown off of Quiditch
and I’ll kill you both myself, it’s the only way you’ll get us back any of the house points you’ve
lost us,” he told them indignantly. He threw a towel at Harry. “Your nose is bleeding.
Incidentally, it is still a nose is it? No wands involved, right?”

Harry shook his head and shoved the towel under his nose. “I’b bine,” he said. *Except for the
fact I sound just like Hermione after the bludger hit her…*

“Oh shut *up*. Just quit trying to be noble or whatever and shut up for once, will you?’
Ron snarled.

“I thoughbt you bere bissed off at be for nobt tellbing you stubff,” Harry snarled back. “Bake
up your sobding bind alreaby.”

“Out!” Seamus howled. “You’re worse than the *girls*. I was going to clear out the room for
you, but you can just take yourselves down to the effing lake to sort it because I *swear* if
either one of you manages to get more points docked for this, Dean and Neville and I’ll be down to
drown you ourselves!”

Harry and Ron stared at one another steadily for a moment. Neither blinked.

“We’ll need the cloak,” Ron said at last.

“I’ll gebt it,” Harry told him. Seamus and Dean each gingerly took an arm and hauled him to his
feet, jumping back as his nose gushed again. “Doebn’t *anybody* hab their wabd?” he asked
pitifully. “Bad Eye Boody woulb habe your arses.” He lurched toward their dorm room for the
invisibility cloak.

“Don’t generally need it to brush your teeth, unless you’re Harry bloody Potter.” Dean said,
following him. “Did Ron mistake you for Voldemort again or did you actually get him that mad
yourself? You are *Harry*, aren’t you? That was a pretty wussy defense for the Boy Who Lives
In Remedial DADA.”

“Biss off alreaby. You thinbk you ban do better… Arghhh!” Harry had found his wand and attempted
to fix his nose. *Merlin’s stones but that stung!* Hermione’d made it look way easier than
that. At least it had stopped bleeding. “You think you can do so much better, you take Voldemort
on. Job’s always up for grabs, help yourselves.” He located the cloak in his trunk and slunk back
to the loo.


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It’s not easy managing to stay quite so angry with someone when you’re both huddled under a
cloak made for one. Harry and Ron had both grown since their early wanderings, in Ron’s case quite
a lot. There wasn’t much left over for Harry anymore and Ron was forced to sort of hunch over his
shoulder as they made their way through the entry hall, now brilliantly lit by a rainbow of color
from the newly uncovered rose window, and out the door. The minute they cleared the sightline of
the castle they threw it off and mutually withdrew a good bit, bristling like dogs. Both of their
shirts were liberally spattered with blood from Harry’s nose and they drew their robes tightly
around them to hide evidence of the fight. Thankfully the rest of the school was still caught up in
the process of beginning to think of breakfast. There was no sign of life save for the smoke from
Hagrids’ chimney.

They set off wordlessly down the path to the edge of the lake, breath streaming in the chill
early morning air.

“Ron, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to sit for a bit,” Harry finally gasped and dropped on to a rock
near the water’s edge. He’d taken a few good solid hits in the solar plexus after his nose got
slippery and the soreness was catching him up.

Ron frowned but stopped as well and began kicking at stones along the waters’ edge.

“No one ever *meant* to hurt you, you know,” Harry started reluctantly. “We knew what was
going on with Ginny would get to you, but we just didn’t know how to say it, or whether to say it
at all. I kind of hoped it would just go away. And telling you that way… Ron, we never meant for it
to happen like that, honestly.”

“We, we, we. I’m *so* sorry to interrupt your little snog party with Hermione over a tiny
insignificant issue like GINNY HAVING A THING WITH MALFOY!”

Harry sighed. “Ron, help me out here. Are you angrier with me for not telling you Ginny was
seeing Malfoy, or for having a relationship with the girl I ASKED YOU FIRST IF IT WAS OKAY TO BE
WITH? Do you remember ever saying anything like, oh, I don’t know *‘You mean love like
snogging-in-love, don’t you? Hermione? I mean, she’s like my sister or something. I think I thought
I was in love with her in third year until I started to realize that actually being afraid of her
as well would seriously affect my follow through. I couldn’t even, umm, think about her that way,
if you get me...’* Well, I THOUGHT I got you, okay? So tell me, exactly what the hell is so
wrong then if I *do* think about her that way? No follow through complaints at all. I
*told* you I loved her, what did you expect would happen? Which is it, really?”

“Both! It’s *both*, okay! Do *you* happen to remember saying, *‘I’ve never had a
family or a sister. But if I did, I do know I wouldn’t want her messing around with Malfoy.’*
You’ve no idea what it’s like to be responsible for anyone but yourself. You have no idea what it’s
like to be part of a family, you walk around whinging how it’s all been taken from you but it’s not
so damn easy on the other side of it, either. You’ve no idea what it’s like not to be the first or
the best at anything, *ever*, and to still screw up the one thing you think you *can* do,
even when it’s as simple as keeping your own little sister safe. She’s MY sister, how the hell is
it that she told you and Hermione everything and not a word of it to ME?”

“Perhaps it was because she thought we might not GO COMPLETELY SPARE AND YELL THE WAY YOU ARE!
Just a thought.”

Ron glared at him, but lacked a ready comeback.

“You want to know what she said to *me*?” Harry told him furiously. “Okay, then. *I*
was the one she loved, Ron. The one who broke her heart. Go ahead and hit me again, because
apparently I’m the reason she’s with Malfoy now. How was I supposed to *know*? You and Fred
and George joked about her having a crush on me when we were eleven and then after the whole
Chamber ordeal was over she started talking to me instead of goggling at me and it seemed like
everything was alright again. I had no idea anything was going on until that night in the Forbidden
Forest when Malfoy started saying things. I thought he was having me on. According to her Malfoy
and I have ‘more in common than I know.’ Try *that* on for size without gagging. I blew a hole
in the entry hall, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Ron turned on him and Harry abruptly regretted the invitation to take another swing, because it
looked for all the world like Ron was about to take him up on it and he really wasn’t sure he could
absorb one more.

“How were you supposed to know? Try how could you be so bleeding *thick*? Do you really not
get the way people see you, Harry?”

“Which ones, the ones that want to kill me themselves, or the ones that just want me dead?”

“The ones like Ginny, who see someone special. All *I* see at the moment is a wizard too
dumb to know how powerful he really is, an idiot brave enough to *choose* Gryffindor, not just
be sorted there. A muggle-raised starved little runt who gets chosen seeker the first time he sits
on a bloody broom. Plonker who has a Gringott’s vault full of gold and no clue what to do with it.
The one who even after all that, every witch in school would jump if he so much as lifted a finger
in their direction.”

“Jump with their wands set to stun, maybe. Walking around with a great ugly scar connecting you
to Voldemort night and day doesn’t seem to be so much of a turn-on as you’d think. The one girl who
*ever* jumped my way half drowned me crying over the last bloke I’d managed to bring home
dead.”

Harry stopped short, suddenly realizing this was no longer true. Well, the bit about Voldemort
and his scar still was, but now Hermione… even though it probably qualified as a mutual jumping at,
or on, or whatever. The point was, he was more confident then he’d ever been before that none of
the things Ron was talking about had had the least effect at all on the one girl he wanted.

“Even if it was true, Ron, it’s still not what we’re really arguing about. I’m *sorry*
Ginny felt that way, truly I am. I just didn’t, I *couldn’t*, and now I know why. And it’s not
like it would have made you much happier, would it? What should I have done?”

Ron’s face worked and he turned away from Harry toward the lake. It took Harry a moment to grasp
that his best friend was either crying or trying rather desperately not to. Perhaps girls got
something of a bad rap; it wasn’t any easier watching Ron break down and he had even less idea of
what to do. Suddenly the simplicity of being able to hold Hermione seemed infinitely easier than
finding the right words for Ron. Life just refused to let up on him.

“I can’t bear it. I can’t *bear* that she even *thinks* she wants to be with that...
Merlin, Harry, what if she really means it? Think of what he could get her into. Percy was bad
enough turning into a mindless ministry prat, this would just kill Mum. Her only daughter involved
with a *Malfoy*.”

Harry struggled stiffly to his feet and moved beside Ron, tentatively lifting a hand to his
twitching shoulder.

“I know what you mean, Ron, honestly. I wish that I knew what to tell you. And if we both think
it’s so bad and we both can’t think of what to do, maybe it’s time to go to Dumbledore. I don’t
know what he’ll do, but it can’t be any worse.”

“Thought you said Dumbledore was gone.”

“For a day or two, he said. He’s left Fawkes if things get really bad. On the bright side, I’ve
never actually seen the two of them together anywhere; whatever they get up to can’t be too bad. A
day or two shouldn’t make it any worse.”

Ron turned toward him again and Harry’s hand fell off his shoulder as he moved. “Yeah? Tell that
to Hermione. From the grin on her face this morning I’d guess it took you less than thirty minutes
to do a fair bit of damage there last night.”

Harry felt impatience and anger both scissor through him. “What is it you want me to say to
that? I’m sorry? Well I’m *not*, not a bit of it. And you can bloody well apologize any time
in the next sixty seconds before I start taking the snot right out of *you* for a change.”
Harry’s voice shook and every muscle in his body tensed painfully.

“So you’re not going to deny it?”

“Merlin! No, okay, Ron – Hermione and I made love last night. Did you need it spelled out for
you? It was…” *it was brilliant… amazing… better than anything in my miserable life so far… and
too new to share yet, even with you*… “between the two of us. It wasn’t about you; we didn’t do
it to hurt you. You didn’t actually come in to it at all. That’s just how it works. Not because
you’re not our best friend, or because we don’t care about you or anything, it was just… between
us.”

“So what happens now?”

Harry stared at him, puzzled. “Nothing, I hope. Bill reminded me about not forgetting the
charm…”

“So it’ll be… all the time, then.”

Harry was about to say he rather hoped so when he suddenly caught the drift of Ron’s
anxiety.

“I’ve tried to say sorry. Not about all of it, mind you, but the timing. I never planned that,
honestly. It can’t be all the time, can it, and it certainly won’t be in the middle of anything
with you again. I promise.” Harry gingerly scratched at the back of his neck. “Tell me though, will
you, why does the idea of us bother you now? You seemed okay with it when we started. What have we
done so wrong?”

It was Ron’s turn to veer back away toward the water. He picked up a stone and hurled, too angry
still to try and skip it.

Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on the balls of his feet, waiting.

“Nothing.” Ron said at last. “You’ve done nothing I shouldn’t have expected you to do. It just…
hurts somehow, seeing you and her like that. I guess I’m jealous after all. Not of you being with
her, but what you have with her, if that makes any sense.”

Harry almost told him about what Hermione had said about finding him a girlfriend, but thought
better of it and didn’t. He’d see it as pity or as patronizing, Harry was sure, and he couldn’t
exactly blame him. “Give it time, Ron. It’s everything going on at once as well. I feel kind of the
same; it’s all changing and it’s hard to know who or what to trust. Only I trust *you*, no
matter what, you were the first person I really ever could. The first kid I’d ever met who either
didn’t pity me for being related to Dudley or want to steal my lunch money, anyway. I’d never
willingly do anything to end our being friends.”

Ron hurled another stone, silent. He stole a sideways look at Harry, who saw him do it. “I guess
not everyone would say that after having their nose rearranged for them,” Ron admitted with the
beginning of a smile. “You don’t look quite so ready to take on Lockhart for the Witch Weekly polls
at the moment.”

“Lockhart’s smile is so much more genuine now that his mind is completely blank,” came a voice
from behind them, and they both turned to find Hermione standing on the path, eyeing them.
“Everything all right, then?”

Ron noticed that she was studiously *not* looking at Harry, and knew then that she loved
him still as well. Not having an enormous mothering fit over a bloody Harry was an act of will she
would not have mastered for just anyone. Especially a freshly post-shagged bloody Harry. *He was
a total idiot*. He held open his arms shyly, feeling as if he was standing on a precipice.

She flung herself at him fiercely, catching him up, all flying hair and determined eyes. Revenge
was hers; she probably hugged harder than he’d hit Harry anyway. “We love you, you useless git.
We’ll help sort things out with Ginny, we’ve always managed to work things out as long as we do it
together.” She drew back slightly and gestured impatiently for Harry, who Ron noticed was looking
distinctly reluctant with the whole group hug thing. He re-maneuvered slightly so that it was Harry
in the middle, rather than Hermione. He saw this seemed to rather please Hermione and felt right to
him somehow now. A change in the triangle, but just the points. Plus, there was no getting away for
the Boy-Not-So-Used-To-Affection.

“You guys are the best. More than I deserve,” Ron said happily.

“We know,” Harry and Hermione said at once.

“But we need you to make the magic work, Ron. Don’t give up on us. Not because of me,” Harry
said, suddenly serious.

They both looked at him, surprised.

His gaze had turned to the depths of the lake.

Ron reckoned he wasn’t worrying about the squid.


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18. Chapter 18
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 18


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The return of the newly agreeable triumvirate of Gryffindors to the Great Hall for their mid-day
meal after morning classes was not met with universal delight. While their housemates were
reasonably appeased with a muttered apology and a quick check of the hourglass to determine that no
further house points were lost, several other pairs of eyes registered emotions strong enough to
draw Harry’s attention from his soup.

And having missed breakfast to have it out with Ron, Harry would *really* have rather just
gone on happily wolfing down his first meal of the day.

Professor McGonagall was the first he caught on to, probably because the hair on the back of his
neck prickled with the electricity of her gaze. She appeared assessing rather than outright
disapproving; Harry reckoned he was in some sort of trouble about Hermione with her, then, rather
than the fight with Ron. Down the Gryffindor table he noticed Ginny Weasley was watching them as
well. Word traveled fast within the houses and she knew him well enough to have expected that Harry
would have told Ron when she didn’t. A quick flick of his eyes across the room revealed her
Slytherin cohort to be clearly unhappy about something himself and taking it out on Pansy
Parkinson, who wasn’t having any of it. If Malfoy didn’t watch out he’d be wearing his lunch in
another minute…

Or less. Except that Pansy Parkinson would never stoop to dirtying her hands with food.

“That’s it. THAT IS IT. I’ve *had* it with you Draco Malfoy. Enough of your lies and
excuses. You’d think you’d taken the dark mark on your dick from the way you’ve been whinging
around. Or did your little pet Weasel forget about her teeth? We’re through. For good this
time.”

“*MISS PARKINSON!*” Snape howled from the teacher’s table. Harry had long ago noticed
Snapes’ face got paler the more furious he was, quite unlike your average human being who required
blood to suffuse the area doing the work. (Vernon Dursley being a prime example and the opposite
end of the spectrum, of course.) Harry didn’t like to think about where else all that blood might
be going, because it was him Snape was usually yelling at and the idea *totally* grossed him
out.

“*WHAT?*” Parkinson howled back. Even her fellow Slytherins recoiled. Pansy usually played
the perfect feminine counterpart to Malfoy; cool, sneering, starting it all but giving nothing
away. She was obviously past some point of inner reserve.

“Go Pansy!” Seamus cheered softly across from him. “This ought to cost them a lot more than the
eighty he docked us!”

“Sad when Pansy Parkinson makes us look good,” Harry agreed just as softly, enjoying the chance
to watch just for once, well out of the front lines.

Of course Harry was operating on something of a sleep deficit and his brain had taken rather a
good shaking that morning, too.

“You take that *back* you Slytherin slut or I swear I’ll…” Ron was climbing over Harry and
across the table the better to launch himself at the Slytherins.

“Sit down you useless git. I can handle this myself!” Ginny snarled at him, nearly knocking
Pavarti Patil off the bench in her attempt to extricate herself from her seat and beat Ron to his
goal.

Harry made a grab for Ron and pulled him back onto the bench, motioning frantically to Dean to
hang on to his other arm. *“Silencio!”* he cast quickly, utterly forgetting in his moment of
panic that he ought to need a wand to do so. Dean and Ron’s eyes both went round at the same moment
as Ron’s mouth flapped wordlessly. Harry missed their exchanged looks as he suddenly realized none
of the Gryffindor girls were doing the same for Ginny.

“Gin…” he started, rising from his own place, and felt Hermione’s hand clench rather painfully
just above his knee.

“Sit, Harry.”

Harry sat, but felt anger start to flare through him at her tone. ‘*I may love you, but I’m
not your bloody lap dog!’* flashed through his mind resentfully. And obviously right on to hers.
He felt it go, like a ball slipping through his fingers he had no hope of retrieving before it hit
a window.

He saw her eyes widen and then just as quickly narrow.

‘Oh, *shite*.’ he thought desperately. ‘I’ve *really* got to get a handle on this
stuff.’

Thankfully Ginny had at exactly that moment managed to hurl herself past the whole of the
Ravenclaw table and reach the Slytherins.

“You *promised!*”

There was a moment’s silence as the entire Slytherin table considered her like an exotic bird
from a foreign land where it somehow wasn’t clear that Slytherins *never* kept their promises,
even to each other.

“Duh,” laughed Millicent Bulstrode, who suddenly found herself wearing her soup bowl.

Draco had sat quite still through all of this as far as Harry could tell, his eyes shifting from
Pansy to Ginny, calculating. He seemed to reach a decision just as Ginny reached his end of the
table.

Unfortunately, the teachers had obviously recovered from their moment of shock and managed at
last to intervene. Snape had reached the Slytherin table at exactly the same moment McGonagall got
to Ginny.

“Miss Parkinson, my office. This *INSTANT!*”

“Miss Weasley, likewise.” McGonagall said firmly, although her grip on Ginny’s shoulders was
gentle and her arm curved around her as she turned her toward the door. “I would also like Mr.
Weasley as well, please. And perhaps Mr. Potter and Miss Granger while I’m at it.”

Harry wondered what Draco had been about to say.

“Come on, Rover,” Hermione whispered in his ear before rising and following McGonagall and
Ginny. Thankfully she didn’t sound all that angry. Yet. Harry kept Ron in front of him so he’d have
no chance to double back for Malfoy. As soon as the door to the Hall closed behind them he removed
the hasty *silencio* that had kept Ron wordless through most of the action.

“What the *hell* was that, Harry?”

“My guess is Parkinson’s had enough of Draco. I’m no fan of hers either, but who could really
blame her? On the plus side, it’s seemed to take some of the shine off him for Ginny, hasn’t
it?”

“No, Harry. I mean, yes, I hope so for Gin’s sake, but I was talking about the *silencio*.
Right strong little spell there. I’m sort of an expert on those with five older brothers, you
know.”

“Sorry. If someone was going to lose Gryffindor more points I thought it ought not to be one of
us for change.”

They had almost reached McGonagall’s office and Ron grabbed hold of Harry’s arm to slow his
progress.

“You forgot your wand, Harry.”

Harry stared at Ron for a moment and ran back over their altercation that morning. Nope, no
blows to the head for Ron. Hadn’t hit *him* once. “Unh, Ron?” he produced it from his pocket
and held it up.

“The *silencio*, Harry. You, *unh*, “forgot” to use your wand. Thought you should
know. How long have you been doing *that*, then?”

McGonagall’s head poked back through the door to her office. “Anytime now would be fine,
gentlemen.”

They sat in a row before her. She had conjured stools rather than chairs. Harry figured they
were in for it.

“Miss Weasley? Would you care to begin?”

“That was a very rude thing Pansy was suggesting. And not very nice to have involved a fifth
year in it.” Hermione stated. Harry could barely believe his ears. Hermione *loved*
McGonagall.

“Not at all nice. And shockingly creative for Parkinson, who probably isn’t clever enough by
half to have come up with it on her own.” Professor McGonagall countered.

The terms of the battle were set, then. He’d happily leave them to it.

“I believe I asked *Miss Weasley* for her thoughts on the matter, however.”

Ginny’s eyes overflowed. For the first time since the whole thing began Harry found he could
feel more than disbelief and impatience for her. Sitting on a stool in her Head of House’s office
with Ron right there beside her she had finally had all her escapes cut off and the enormity of
what she had been doing seemed to be sinking in. Ron was staring at her as if she needed a bath and
Harry, who had accumulated rather a lot of experience with self loathing over the years, found
himself wishing it would be that easy for Ginny to rid herself of those thoughts.

McGonagall handed her a handkerchief. Hermione supplied the next. Ron and Harry exchanged
glances and felt uselessly through their pockets.

Finally resigned to the fact that Ginny wouldn’t be telling anyone what she thought anytime
soon, Professor McGonagall turned to the remaining three.

“Mr. Weasley, I quite understand and admire the impulse to defend your sister, so no house
points will be deducted for your outburst. However, in an effort to remind you to curb your
colorful and descriptive language you will be polishing the trophies tonight for as long as it
takes to get a nice shine on each and every one.”

Ron said, “Yes, Ma’am.” He knew it could have been considerably worse.

“Perhaps you will take your sister to Madam Pomfrey now. Please give her this note. Ginny, you
are excused from your classes this afternoon, and I’ve asked Madam Pomfrey to see that you have a
nice undisturbed nap. We’ll finish our discussion later.”

Ginny continued to sob silently but nodded her head. She got up to follow Ron but after a step
or two turned back and threw herself at Harry, who found himself once again in possession of an
armful of exceedingly tearful girl. He managed not to fall off his stool. Just.

“I’m sorry, Harry,” she choked out. “I never should have said those things to you. I don’t know
why I did.”

“It’s okay, Gin,” he whispered, stroking her back gently and hoping that it was. That she would
be. The hurt of being called a murderer if he took Voldemort’s life seemed to have subsided greatly
since the ties that bound him to Hermione had altered as well. It felt a different issue
altogether; not just that she would miss him, or he her, if Voldemort proved the victor but that he
would willingly, knowingly, use every power within him and then some to remain with her now, and
always. He had no intention of seeking Voldemort out for himself, but if fate or his enemy’s
intentions brought them together Harry was pretty sure he knew at last how he felt about taking
that final step.

Her arms convulsed wetly around his neck a final time and she fled. Harry heard Ron call, “Wait
*up*, Gin!” and the door closed behind them.

Professor McGonagall sighed and conjured a steaming tea pot and three cups and saucers on her
desk. She poured out and prepared a cup for Hermione and himself, two sugars in his, honey and
lemon in Hermione’s. She looked very much as if she were wishing for a rather different type of
additive for her own.

“There have been far too many instances requiring a bracing cup of tea over the last five and
half years with you two,” she said at last. “I don’t suppose either of you would care to share your
thoughts with me?”

Harry thought sharing their thoughts about Ginny having a thing for Draco Malfoy was an
infinitely superior idea to having to do the same about anything closer to home. He snuck a look at
Hermione, who seemed to be deliberating.

“Which matter exactly, Professor McGonagall?”

*No, no, no! You’re giving her a choice!*

“I went looking for you both last evening. Not for curfew, just to check and make sure all was
well after Mr. Potter’s earlier incident. When queried, the house elves told me that the dinner
basket they had provided the three of you returned quite depleted. Mr. Weasley was accounted for in
the sixth year dormitory, although Mr. Finnigan reported that he was in something of a mood and if
I wanted a pleasant word with him he wished me luck. No one, however, could point me in the right
direction to find the two of you.”

Given the state of things in Gryffindor and the imminent fear of losing yet more enchanted
rubies from the top of the hourglass Harry rather imagined she’d been pointed in all sorts of
directions. For all it was designed to help modulate behavior the house point system tended to have
its own negative impact as well.

“We were certainly back for curfew.” Hermione mused, as if where exactly they had been before
that had somehow slipped her mind.

“Indeed,” said Professor McGonagall. “You were.”

Harry’s eyes shifted from the watchful countenance of his Head of House to the calm,
self-possessed Hermione. Neither woman blinked.

If he hadn’t felt that her tears were genuine he would have said Ginny knew what she was doing
breaking down quickly and getting well away from this office.

“Sixth is something of a difficult year for most Hogwarts students,” McGonagall said slowly.
“Some of you have reached your maturity, some have not. Some are planning to go on to highly
specialized training…”

“Some are worried if they’ll live that long. Or if their best friends will. Or if there’ll be a
need for specialized training if their best friends *don’t*.” Hermione cut in quietly.

“Miss Granger, I am no Dolores Umbridge. I am in no way pretending that the danger facing Harry
is neither great nor real…”

“Then why pretend anything at all? Why make *us* pretend?”

“Because fear of death is *not* a reason to throw standards to the wind! To do so would
award those who seek to wield it as a weapon victors before the battle has even begun!” McGonagall
told her heatedly.

“I think I can speak for Harry when I say neither of us is trying to do that. But Professor
McGonagall, the one-set-of-rules-fits-all approach only works if everyone is also equally invested
in the ultimate effort. That’s not the case here. Some of us are trying to go on with our whole
lives at stake while others are arguing technicalities and house loyalties or pretending if they
just keep their heads down the ill wind will blow right by them and they’ll still be able to get
that ministry job at the end of it. It’s not fair. It’s also not fair that the majority of the
professors here were more willing to let Harry lay alone and paralyzed with Voldemort inside his
head than change one stupid rule that could at least give him a fighting chance. We’re not asking
for special dispensation to flaunt the rules, but I turned in my prefects’ badge for a reason. I
respect you *greatly*, Professor, more than you can know, but I won’t be obeying *any*
rule that tries to penalize Harry for trying to fight for his life and defend ours as well....”

*Go Hermione...*

“or any that try to stop me from loving him.”

*Except there.* *Maybe don’t go there just yet. Because I don’t think I can stand it if
they separate us now, so maybe we should just…* Harry thought for a moment. *What? Run? Hide?
What the hell could they do? Clearly Hermione had been down this road before him and already seen
the view he was just glimpsing now. Fighting for it was all he saw, no matter where he
looked.*

“I wish she’d speak for me more often, she’s so much better at it. But I feel the same way,
Professor. Please, *please* don’t make us choose,” he said.

McGonagall’s eyes appeared suspiciously bright, but even Harry’s somewhat benumbed emotional
barometer could read genuine affection and something that seemed painfully like sadness along with
the anger, which had to at least mean the anger wasn’t *entirely* aimed their way.

“I told Albus this would happen,” she said after a moment. “He ‘*now, now Minerva’‘d* me.
Yet if you told me he’d sat the two of you down and told you just how to go about it I wouldn’t be
the *least* surprised.”

Harry carefully set down the tea he’d been holding all this time. “No, Ma’am,” he said, feeling
a bit like Ron.

“I can not in any official manner tell you I condone what I suspect you have been doing. Nor can
I give you any sort of dispensation if you are caught at it, although you can count on your
Headmaster hearing my thoughts on the subject. I suppose I must at least applaud your judgment for
finding somewhere else and not flaunting the clear bend in the rules that allows Hermione to stay
with you as your dreamkeeper, Harry. But as one who has come to respect and care for you both a
great deal, I must beg you to be careful of each other as well. You were both Muggle raised, so
perhaps the best advice I can offer you is this: the physics and biology of what you are doing can
be achieved by even the simplest of organisms. It is in the rest of it that the magic truly
resides. Never forget that if you can. You are both excused.”

“Thank you, Professor,” they both said at once. Harry turned back as he held the door open for
Hermione, but Professor McGonagall was looking out her window, staring in the direction Dumbledore
had gone.


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“It would be extremely disrespectful of us to go and have ourselves a nice cold snog down by the
lake about now, wouldn’t it?” Harry wondered.

“I’m in a really disrespectful mood,” Hermione countered. “Why not?”

“I’ll get our cloaks and meet you at the top of the stairs, shall I?”

“Yes, please.” Hermione handed him her book bag

She wandered down to the entry hall lost in thought. She wondered about Ginny, wondered if she’d
asked for dreamless sleep or if her dreams were the only place Malfoy wouldn’t cross her. She hoped
Ron had been patient with her, thought again that Ron needed a girlfriend. She understood what
Harry had meant about leaving it for Ron to work out, but there was still a part of Hermione that
wanted to believe she could make a world of difference for Harry and that someone could do the same
for Ron. Luna Lovegood had always had a bit of a thing for Ron last year… She annoyed Hermione in a
mild way with her vague non sequitors but she also knew that Harry liked her. She’d have to be
prepared to nudge Ron if the right opportunity came along.

When Harry found Hermione with their cloaks she was sitting on the top step of the stairway down
to the entry hall staring intently at the rose window. The sun had passed over the front of the
castle and the window was in shade now, its colors still brilliant but deeper, no longer glowing
and projecting rainbow shadows on the wall. He settled her cloak around her shoulders and sat next
to her.

“It’s just not right that there’s no pattern to this window, Harry. That was the whole point of
building them that way, they were *meant* to tell stories. If there were pictures that bore no
obvious relation to each other I’d believe we’d just got the wrong thing and we should keep
looking. This window is like a riddle in itself, it just doesn’t make sense anyone would fashion
all that tedious stone work and then just fill it with random bits of glass. It must have taken
ages just to design and carve the shapes, let alone piece the glass together.”

“Two thoughts. You’re thinking like a Muggle. Hogwarts is magical. It wouldn’t take a wizard
like Dumbledore too long to make something like that once he’d figured what he wanted it to look
like and the properties of the stone he was using. Maybe it was just a copy of a Muggle one they’d
seen and liked the effect of, not knowing or caring about what Muggles used them for. Circles are
powerful shapes in and of themselves.”

She grinned at him and he grinned back completely involuntarily, without even realizing he
had.

“I can’t give you house points, but you’ve just earned yourself twenty snog points for that
brilliant answer, Mr. Potter. What’s your second thought?”

“I think I may have forgotten it in my joy at the discovery of snog points. How exactly do those
work?”

“I’m not sure yet. We’ll just have to work it out as we go along. Twenty points ought to be
enough for something good, shouldn’t they?”

Harry agreed. Harry rather thought it was time they were going, actually.

“Maybe it’s a code, or a pattern. It seems entirely random, but the juxtaposition of colors
could be significant…” she mused.

“Maybe there was a Quidditch accident and a bludger bludgeoned it and no one knew how to put it
back.” Harry guessed. “Maybe that’s why it was covered over.”

“But then we’d never figure it out!” Hermione seemed horrified by the very idea. Harry shrugged.
“I have a feeling about this, Harry. We’re meant to figure it out.”

“Since when does Hermione “divination is such a woolly subject” Granger have *feelings*
about things?” Harry teased, hauling her to her feet in an effort to get her moving toward the
lake. Classes were due to change in ten minutes and he wanted to be well clear of the castle so no
one got the inspired idea to join them. Hermione was done for the day but he had to be back for
remedial DADA in an hours’ time. He was rather hoping Dumbledore had remembered about Tonks before
he left. The idea of Snape post-Pansy was terribly unappealing.

“Since my heart overruled my head and I fell for *you*.” Hermione told him, and started
down the stairs.


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Snog points turned out to be a bit of genius on Hermione’s part. They decided between them they
could be redeemed for the exact number of the point earner’s favorite things, but could be broken
down into units no smaller than five. (“It’d be too hard to keep track of twenty different places
and ways to kiss you,” Hermione decided. “Five of the same type in four different places is much
easier.”) They could also be saved and the total accumulated for *other,* more involved
things. Particularly good performance fulfilling them could earn points as well. Just trying to
agree on the amount required for various activities was making Hermione feel like a hundred points
right then and there. They also agreed on the importance of inspiration and not keeping count on
each other too closely. Hermione had actually made that suggestion when Harry deviated from her
proscribed path in a particularly enjoyable manner. He’d never been that good with rules,
anyway.

The sun had warmed the flat rock they had chosen before it had moved on, so that it was at least
not cold to the touch. Hermione had settled into Harry’s lap, and with his cloak encircling them
both as well as her own beneath it she was comfortably warm. Her fingers traced numbers and added
point totals against his chest as they constructed their own private game and Harry was having a
progressively harder time remembering what things were worth. And that wasn’t the only thing
getting progressively harder, either.

“Can I use *my* points to get to do things to *you* if I want?” she asked.

He just loved the way her mind worked.

“I sup…pose that would be hmmmokay by me,” was the best he could manage before her hands had
finished work on his zipper. When they found what they were looking for he had to lean back against
the outcropping of rock behind them, jutting into his shoulder blades.

“D’you know what I thought when I first touched you here?” Hermione asked softly leaning forward
and resting her cheek against his chest.

Harry sincerely hoped this wasn’t a trick question. “What?”

“I thought you were lovely. And then I thought I shouldn’t tell you because it didn’t sound
very, I don’t know, *manly* I suppose. But you are, it’s just the same this time. Friendly and
warm and…”

Harry kissed her; all the description was making her overly enthusiastic and he needed her to
slow down just a bit. By the time he’d regained some control and letting her talk seemed safe
again, she appeared to have lost the inclination. And possibly the mental capacity. Harry noticed
an almost mesmerizing connection between the movement of his tongue in her mouth and her hand on
him. He played with it; first slower, then deeper, then faster… Just when he knew he was lost she
pulled back from him, watching, eyes intent. It was too late to feel self conscious. Harry had only
ever been to the ocean once as a child, brought grudgingly on a trip meant for Dudley. He’d played
alone at the water’s edge, thrilling to the power of the waves over his small frame and learning to
read their rhythm. The stronger the pull toward the ocean, the greater the force of the next wave.
He struggled to gasp out her name at the crest of it.

Hermione was still watching him when he opened his eyes again. Her gaze was somehow less
predatory and more possessive in its gleam; Harry realized he’d seen that look before. She was
*learning* him.

“Er..thank you,” he managed a little shakily, uncertain of the etiquette involved.

She relaxed and snuggled closer against him; Harry fought a wince. The rock behind his shoulder
felt like it was about to come right through.

Hermione fumbled for her wand and cast a cushioning charm. “You use the same one on your broom,
silly.”

Comfort flooded Harry’s already satiated mind. Hermione’s head nestled back into the crook of
his shoulder again. “What would you give that?” she asked curiously.

It took him a moment to figure what she was asking. “Oh! Oh…like mmmm one million, eight hundred
and twenty-five thousand points.”

She laughed, pleased. “That’s very nice, but suspiciously specific for someone in your present
frame of mind.”

“One hundred points a day for three hundred and sixty-five days a year for the next fifty
years,” he explained. “Don’t look too closely at the math, just go with the idea, okay?”

She smiled his very favorite smile. “Okay. I’d like to cash some in. What did we say this was
worth?” she asked, taking his hand and guiding it beneath her school skirt.

“No idea, but it’ll be free if you’ll just invent some knickerless wool tights for winter. You’d
make your fortune marketing them round the castle, I’m sure.”

And he set about helping her find the waves for herself.


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19. Chapter 19
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 19


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“Hey, Scarface.”

Harry looked up from the floor to find Draco Malfoy in front of him. The last effing person on
earth he had any desire to see.

He’d ascended a few minutes before from his own private little hell of ‘remedial’ DADA with
Snape and only just managed to hold off sliding to the floor until the door to the warded classroom
had shut behind him. He was still breathing hard; a mixture of fury and loathing pumping adrenaline
into his heart. Snape’s likely intent, of course.

It had been worse battling him today than ever before, and Harry had a sneaking suspicion that
was due in great part to Dumbledore’s continued absence. No holds had been barred in this lesson,
and Harry’s eyes had been opened quite a bit to Snape’s willingness to hurt him and his extensive
knowledge about how to go about it. The only problem was that Harry already knew his enemy was
capable of everything Snape had thrown at him and more. Harry also knew with a growing certainty he
was in some truly deep shite, because fighting Snape ultimately only taught him that he honestly
didn’t feel himself able to go *there*. Snape had kept taunting and goading him, spells
cracking like relentless whips. *Harry needed to mean it even when the curse wasn’t an
unforgivable, he had to think like his enemy if he meant to win.*

Harry just couldn’t mean it like that. He could get righteously pissed off. He could manage a
very personal anger, thinking of his Mum and Dad. He could feel his blood boil. He could sense
disgust and loathing and revulsion course through him and seek a way out. He simply didn’t have
Snape’s bent mind; Harry’s creativity refused to flow when it came to *punishing* the one he
fought against, wearing them down with psychological games and painfully maiming curses. Harry just
wanted it to be over, honestly. Kill old snakeface and get on with his life. Snape had pretty much
flailed him when that thought became apparent. *The impertinence, the fatal ego of you, boy!
Voldemort will wipe the floor with you, he’ll make you beg for death. You’ll never even get the
chance to **try** for a killing curse if you can’t handle this!*

Bastard.

Harry was beginning to wonder if he could even hate Voldemort quite as much as Snape. He was
desperately worn out as well, and so twice as vulnerable. A great part of that was his own fault;
he knew he shouldn’t have been with Hermione before facing Snape and he’d paid for it.

And now there was Malfoy, waiting to pick off the zebra his master had winded for him. If Harry
wasn’t mistaken there was hunger in those eyes.

“Go away, Malfoy.” Harry dropped his own eyes back to the floor and focused on an image of Draco
doing just that. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Funny, I’m having a difficult time right at the moment coming up with a single thing you could
tell me that I’d give half a rat’s ass about.”

“How about Dumbledore. Want to hear about what he’s up to?”

Harry shook his head. “Not really. He does what he does, and he’ll tell me if he thinks I need
to know. After the fact, of course. The question is why would *you* care what he was
doing?”

“Maybe this is my way of… *proving* to you that I’m not what you think.”

“I already know you’re a sneaky, lying ferret. There’s no disproving that anymore. I know I owe
you, don’t get me wrong, but all the crap you’ve put Ginny through, no one with a shred of human
decency could do that.”

“Hmmm, attempting to deal with the affection of two girls…. Seems to me the Gryffindor common
room’s seen its fair share of that little human drama. Unconvincing, Potter. What about you? You
seem to be having some trouble of your own balancing the feelings of your boy and your mudblood. Go
both ways, do you? That was quite the little display of affection Weasley placed on your face the
other morning.”

Harry laughed. “See, you try so hard to convince me that you’re an actual human being and then
you put your foot in it with that kind of thing. You have no idea how someone with an actual
functioning heart really feels, do you?”

Something was going on behind those icy eyes. Looking at them revolted Harry; the image of them
floating in his own face in McGonagall’s mirror would haunt him the rest of his natural life.
However long *that* lasted. Come to think of it, it was well past time to ask to borrow
Dumbledore’s pensieve. Harry had some serious baggage to dump; his head felt like it was going to
explode.

“Drop the act, Potter. Don’t tell me you haven’t been wondering where Dumbledore was.”

“He told me he was going. I was there when he decided to. He’ll be back. End of story.”

“What if it’s not?”

“You seem to be the answer boy. You tell me.”

Okay, if the truth be told, Harry was starting to get more than a little nervous. Dumbledore out
of the castle and Draco baiting him with information wasn’t good, no matter what was really going
on.

“Dumbledore’s in trouble. Voldemort hasn’t got him yet, but he knows where he is and he has
inside information that will allow him to attack when Dumbledore least expects it. He needs to be
warned.”

“Maybe that’s what Dumbledore wants Voldemort to think. He was right ticked off when he left;
maybe he’s trying something on.” Even as he said the words they rang hollow; the wretched prophecy
dictated the parameters of Dumbledore’s actions against his old student. Why would he place himself
in danger for a battle he thought Harry had to fight? Harry’s heart gave an off-rhythm thump.

“I can’t tell you how I know what I know, but why would I tell *you* if not to prove
myself.”

*‘Cause you’re a slimy little wanker?’* Harry *so* longed to say the words, but fear
was definitely lurking around the edges of his mind now.

“Okay, well, thanks. I’ll err, make sure someone who’ll know what to do hears that. It should
make sense to unh, someone.”

Malfoy laughed his nastiest, most cutting laugh. “Are you really so feeble that you’ll just turn
that over to McGonagall? Buy yourself a clue, Potter. For whatever reason, and I do hope that you
know what it is, the whole of Dumbledore’s fogey old support group think you’re the only one who
can do anything. If you like being treated like light shines out of your arsehole Harry, you have
to be prepared to be used as a flashlight now and then. Voldemort will get to him long before they
do anything.”

Cold sweat broke out over the whole of Harry’s tired body. It was fifth year all over again,
panic warring against sense. Harry swiftly came to yet another realization about himself. He was an
instinctual thinker. Instinctual un-thinker, really. He wanted to do what his body told him, felt
he had far less in the mental capacity department. His body so rarely failed him; his brain let him
down almost hourly. He needed Hermione. He hauled himself to his feet, pushing off the wall behind
him.

“It’ll have to be a start, at least,” he said. “Can you find out any more?”

“What more do we need? We can go now, Potter. We can probably save the old fool’s life while the
other old fools argue about what to do,”

“You’re in need of some glory to take with you across the lines, Malfoy,” Harry pointed out
suspiciously. “Why come to me? Why don’t *you* just handle it? Be the hero yourself, that
would convince everyone.”

“Dumbledore won’t trust me, Harry. He’ll believe you.”

Ha. Dumbledore could probably flip through every treacherous thought in Draco’s head in the time
it took him to blink.

“You’re okay, Malfoy. He can tell what you’re thinking, you know.”

Draco laughed. “You two aren’t the only ones who play mind games, Potter.”

Harry felt something cold and foreign at the edge of his consciousness. It snaked stealthily
forward. He let it get its revolting head in what he always envisioned as the door to his thoughts
and then slammed it. Hard.

Malfoy staggered back, swearing.

“That’s a little warning, *Draco*. Try that again, ever, and I’ll make sure it’s your
psychological dick that gets slammed. Your old friend Snape’s got my reflexes nice and tuned in
that department. And if *that* hurt, I can’t imagine you’d get anywhere with Dumbledore.”

“Not in. But I can lock the old fool out. He doesn’t even try me anymore.”

Harry suspected that to be far from the truth; he reckoned Dumbledore was just far more subtle
about how he went about it.

“The more you argue, Potter, the less time we have to warn the old goat.”

“I need to think about this.”

“You wussy. You mean you need to go ask Granger if you can go.”

“Umm, yeah, actually that’s pretty much it. That a problem for you?”

“Why involve her? You’re only setting her up to be Voldemort’s voodoo doll. Before you know it
he’ll be sticking her just to watch *you* dance.”

Why, look at that! Harry *could* still manage a step or two more in the mind-melting anger
department. Snape would be *so* proud.

“Shut the hell up, Malfoy.”

“Come the hell on then, Potter.”

Harry’s mind raced. Two trains of thought were heading through his mind at top speed on the same
track. In opposite directions, mind you. *Stupid-don’t-make-same-old-mistake-same-old-mistake*
was just about to collide with *Go-do-it-end-it-go-do-it-end-it.*

His hand grabbed the baby dragon’s tooth, nestled on its cord around his neck ever since the
summer day Charlie’s gift had arrived. It had become so much a part of him he’d forgotten he had
it; it had even stayed on the night he’d bared himself to Hermione. Suddenly he somehow knew just
what he could do with it; perhaps even what it was *for*.

He stared Draco in those menacing eyes and whispered a charm, more subtle by far then
*stupendo**.* Malfoy was briefly suspended without the slightest consciousness that time
went on. It was a difficult one to hold, particularly wandless. Harry had a minute or two, maybe
less. He quickly gathered his thoughts, focused on the tooth in his palm and *pushed*. It was
hard; he’d never tried anything quite like it before, only with Hermione. If Riddle could manage it
with a bloody book he could do it with this… *Please, oh please, he needed this to work.* He
prayed she would find it and read its hidden message; she was the only other person who’d ever
touched it without being burned. It had to work.

He pulled the tooth on its cord over his head and backed down the hall, trying desperately to
keep his hold on Malfoy. His hand reached out behind him and scrabbled until it found one of the
stone gargoyles that guarded Dumbledore’s door. He stuffed it in the gargoyles’ open mouth.

Pathetic, really, that he’d gotten so good at this sort of sneaky marauder magic when he just
couldn’t master the kind that might stop him from actually needing it.

He moved swiftly back toward Malfoy, just beginning to break through Harry’s hold. Unfortunately
Harry found himself even more drained. What he really wanted now was a nice nap.

“Alright, then.” Harry said. “Let’s do it.”

Malfoy blinked, but seemed unaware of the missing time or what Harry had done.

“Follow me.”

Follow me. *Follow* Draco Malfoy. And he was. What the hell was wrong with him?


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The two boys made it out of the castle undetected, walking along just behind a cluster of
Hufflepuffs heading for Hagrids’ but breaking off before they reached the hut.

“Malfoy, you’re not seriously headed for the Forbidden Forest.”

“There’s an apparition point in there if you know where, you know. One of the reasons it’s
Forbidden.”

“Hmm, fascinating, only I can’t apparate yet, you know. My birthday’s not ‘til summer.”

“I always thought you were a bit of a baby. Well, never mind, of course you can apparate, you
simply haven’t got a license. Not a problem considering we’re not anxious for the Ministry to keep
track of our movements anyway.”

Harry stopped walking. “No, I mean I can’t apparate. I haven’t ever. Not a clue.”

Draco stopped as well and stared at him. “You never just snuck out in the summer and…”

“Oh, I see… I get arrested and brought up in court for using underage magic to defend myself
against a bunch of dementors, but you can sneak off and apparate in the summer. How fair is
that?”

“What about your friends? Surely you…”

“Malfoy, I don’t get to see my friends over the summer. I get stuck home with my magic-hating
muggle relatives mowing the lawn with a push mower and trimming the shrubs with a cutter.”

Draco’s patrician nose wrinkled. “Explains so much, really. Not much help under the
circumstances though. Can you make a portkey?”

“No. Can you?”

“Of course not. Why would I bother when I can apparate? Idiot.” Malfoy seemed truly annoyed now.
“As powerful as you’re meant to be, you can manage a little apparition. All you have to do is
envision where you’re going…”

“Which would be?”

“The Shrieking Shack. Just outside Hogsmeade.”

Harry sighed in relief. “There’s another way. Go ahead if you want to, or follow me.”

He set off again across the grounds towards the Whomping Willow. The Shrieking Shack held some
powerful memories for Harry, but it seemed a highly unlikely place for Voldemort to ambush
Dumbledore. At least it wasn’t far. It was late afternoon, however, and drawing close to the
shortest day of the year; this far north the light died early and it was well into dusk. Harry’s
breath blew dragons’ plumes; he was glad he had his heavy cloak from earlier in the day.

He told Malfoy how to find the swirled knot that ceased the Willow’s flailing and both boys
waited just out of reach of the branches looking for an opening.

“Go!” shouted Harry, seeing a clearing. He was struck only by several smaller branches; they
stung like whips but managed little more than a few scratches. He reached the knot and pressed
hard. The Willow seemed to groan, straining to defend itself, then slowly stilled.

Malfoy walked coolly forward. He’d simply waited for Harry to do the hard part. *Jerk. No,
wait a minute, that would be me for falling for this.*

“I take it you’ve been this way before,” Malfoy said.

“Yeah. It doesn’t have such pleasant associations though, so don’t make any unnecessary sudden
movements if you like your bits the way they’re hanging. I really don’t have such a good feeling
about this, Malfoy. Why would Dumbledore be at the Shrieking Shack?”

“He’s not, stupid. He’s going to use it as a meeting point. He’s been a good few places since he
left, constantly on the move according to observation, but there must be one person he couldn’t
meet with wherever they were, and he’s arranged to meet them here, probably to get them into the
castle since you can’t apparate into Hogwarts.”

It didn’t make sense to Harry, but since Dumbledore never told him anything about what he was
doing it couldn’t really *not* make sense, either.

The passage narrowed, and Harry made sure that Malfoy moved ahead first. He might be dumb enough
to follow him, but he wasn’t stupid enough to leave him his back. He remembered traveling this way
with Hermione in search of Ron and wished desperately that both were with him now.

They reached the stairs up into the shrieking shack itself and Malfoy drew his cloak around him
fastidiously, avoiding the swaying cobwebs. They crept upward. Harry could see a flickering light
coming from the second floor and the soft murmur of voices.

“I had so hoped that she would be the one, but the invasions on the castle continue through him
despite her… *companionship*. Alas they must be separated, or we will fail to discover the
love that will truly protect him when we have need of him most.”

Harry froze, stunned. That was Dumbledore’s voice. And he was talking about … Hermione?

*Alas they must be separated, or we will fail to discover the love that will truly protect him
when we have need of him most.*

He must have been ready to scream the “NO!” that his brain had already cried out, but Malfoy’s
hand clamped firmly over his mouth.

“Can you do that effectively at the castle, or will she need to be… removed?” came another
voice. Moody. It was Mad Eye, Harry was sure of it. How could they do this to him?

“We have several options at hand. I believe her mind could be subtly altered to transfer her
affections to Mr. Weasley with out too much difficulty, and such a change would require fairly
little explanation given the frequency with which it occurs naturally at that age.”

“What about Potter?”

“If we can identify the correct partner he should quite forget about her. Actually, he should be
the easier of the two. Miss Granger is quite clever. If she suspects anything she will of course
have to be handled appropriately.”

Harry could stand no more. His first instinct had been to rush in and confront the two, now all
he wanted to do was find Hermione and run. He turned to start down the stairs and suddenly found
himself airborne, the force of a sharp shove to his back driving him over the edge of the rail. The
last thing he knew was a promise to kick himself for turning his back on Malfoy. Assuming he
lived.


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“Where’s Harry?” Hermione asked Ron as she settled herself across from him at dinner.

“No idea,” Ron said succinctly in between mouthfuls. “Maybe his DADA ran over. Did he say who
was teaching him this week?”

“He was supposed to have Snape, but Dumbledore promised to send Tonks at some point while he was
gone. Maybe he’s turned out to have some metamorphmagus in him after all.” Hermione said. She
served herself, but found she had lost her appetite once her plate was arranged. Something wasn’t
right. She didn’t want to seem paranoid, knew that Ron would think she was just being clingy and
controlling, but she really had a strange, empty sort of feeling without Harry there. In fact, just
*thinking* about him at the moment felt the same…

“I think I’ll just run up there and see if he’s on his way back,” she said.

“You haven’t eaten a thing,” Ron pointed out. “Finish up and I’ll go with you. We can have
seconds when we find him.”

Hermione pushed her dinner around her plate, thankful for once for the speed and alacrity with
which Ron could put away his food.

“There. Let’s go, then,” she said as his last mouthful disappeared, handing him a napkin and
ducking his wondering eyes.

“What’s gotten into you? He’s a big boy, he’ll be fine. Any damage Tonks can do is less likely
permanent than Snape’s.”

“Malfoy’s not here, either,” Hermione pointed out in an undertone as they exited the Great Hall.
Ron turned to look and she grabbed his arm to keep him moving forward. “Take my word for it, Ron.
Really.”

“Could be a complete coincidence, that,” Ron said with a disheartening lack of conviction.

They made their way to Dumbledore’s office, and along the corridor. They knew that the classroom
was somewhere close by, but even Ron could feel the flickering of extra wards warning them off.
There was no sign of Harry. Hermione sighed.

“Let’s go check the common room. Or your dorm. He was sort of tired this afternoon… Ron you
don’t think he forgot about the spell and fell asleep without it!” Hermione suddenly panicked.

Ron’s face remained calm but she could see his eyes turn a little panicky as well. “Merlin, I
hope not. Suppose we’d better check though.”


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Forty minutes later real fear was starting to set in. Harry was no where to be found in the
castle.. Hermione had even made the trip down to see Hagrid, which had yielded the information that
Hagrid had seen Harry and Malfoy not far from his hut late enough in the afternoon to be after
Harry’s DADA class, but he had no idea where the two had gone.

“He thought they might have been working off the detention. He said it didn’t seem like anything
was too off, they were just waking along,” she related, no longer bothering to mask her
concern.

“Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were just walking along AND NOBODY THOUGHT ANYTHING WAS TOO OFF?”
Ron raged.

“Dumbledore left Fawkes to contact him if he was needed. I think we should take Fawkes to
McGonagall and tell her what’s going on.” Hermione set off determinedly toward Dumbledore’s office.
Ron jogged to catch up.

“Why bother with McGonagall? Can’t we just send Fawkes ourselves?”

“No, Ron. We always try to handle these things ourselves and lately they’ve been blowing up in
our faces. Luck has its limits. And if you don’t think I’m going to hex young Mr. Potter within an
inch of his sorry life when we find him you’d be sadly mistaken.”

Ron winced and wondered again why his friend had ever worried about the Sorting Hat’s offer to
put him in Slytherin. Only a true Gryffindor could ever be in love with Hermione.

They reached Dumbledore’s office and pronounced the password. Nothing happened. A second try
produced no further joy and Ron kicked the door in frustration. “He’s changed the password!”

“No reason to kick the door young man! Mind your manners!” snarled one of the pair of
gargoyles.

“Murmph!” gargled the other in agreement.

“Oh, lump it, you bloody great downspouts,” Ron told them both.

“Weasley, isn’t it. Haven’t seen much of *you*. The others were all Head Boys and Quidditch
Captains except for those wicked twins. Blew one of my ears off and now I’m hard of hearing.
*You* only ever come with Harry Potter,” sneered the left one.

“Murpmh!” agreed the right one.

“Have you seen Harry today?” Hermione asked anxiously. “Did he come looking for Professor
Dumbledore?”

“Oh, he came by alright. Not looking for Headmaster, he wasn’t.”

“Murump!” chorused the other. Hermione looked closer and realized that the second gargoyle had
been muttering the whole time because something was stuck in his mouth.

“What’s that you’ve got?” she asked it. “Ron, see what it’s got in its mouth.”

Being taller Ron could see the object at eye level, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was.
He reached out his hand to pluck it from the gargoyles’ mouth but recoiled sharply when his hand
came in contact with it.

“Bit me! The bloody thing bit me!”

“Murmf mot!” protested the gargoyle.

“Says he didn’t. Never lies. Known him for centuries,” said the other.

“What was it? Could you see?” Hermione asked, taking his hand and looking at the wound. The mark
looked more as if the skin had been burned somehow than bitten. She took out her wand and healed it
easily.

“Wow! Thanks. You really are good at that, you know. Hurts lots less than when Mum does it,
anyway.”

“So what did it look like?”

“Something white and black. The black bit looked sort of coiled up, like cord.”

“Pick me up!” Hermione commanded, suddenly excited. “Ron, hold me up so I can see!”

Ron obediently picked her up and held her level with the Gargoyles’ mouth. He couldn’t believe
how light she was. Or how soft, somehow; no, make that fragile. And she smelled good, all that hair
in his face, silky and… Holy crap, was this what Harry was on about? Maybe he had a point!

“It’s Harry’s tooth, from Charlie!” she said.

“Well, whatever you do don’t touch it. Burns like acid, it does. How d’you think it got
there?”

Hermione reached out and plucked the necklace gently from the relieved gargoyles’ mouth. Ron let
her down quickly in his haste to be well clear of it.

“He put it there, didn’t he?” she asked the gargoyle.

“That he did. Harry Potter himself. Glad to be rid of it,” the gargoyle agreed.

Hermione had been holding the cord; she reached out then and enclosed the tooth in her other
hand.

There was no burning sensation at all. The tooth felt smooth and warm to her touch, welcoming as
Harry himself. Almost at once a flood of images began to make their way into her consciousness. The
first were of herself down by the lake; she was seeing herself through Harry’s eyes and felt tears
prick her own. She could sense his tenderness toward her, his utter content when they were done.
They walked to the castle door, kissed, and separated. Harry went on to DADA. She could feel his
disappointment when he discovered Snape waiting for him, and then the twist and surge of anger and
frustration that was his lesson, the sting of spells and the goading voice: *The impertinence,
the fatal ego of you, boy! Voldemort will wipe the floor with you, he’ll make you beg for
death.’* She felt a flicker of fear for him, then Harry’s realization about not wanting to have
to wear Voldemort down with dueling and mind games, his desire to simply render him powerless once
and for all and be done. *Yes!* She thought. Snape railed on in his memory. Harry slunk from
the room when he was dismissed, slid down to the floor as soon as the door closed. She heard
Malfoy’s voice ‘Hey, scarface.” Hermione felt Harry’s dislike and disbelief slowly turn to fear for
Dumbledore. She clearly sensed the point at which Harry recognized the war between his instinct and
intellect, felt with a swift surge of joy the strength of his longing for her then. Heard Malfoy
call him names and Harry admit that he would ask her permission to go, until… *‘Why involve her?
You’re only setting her up to be Voldemort’s voodoo doll. Before you know it he’ll be sticking her
just to watch you dance.’* The surge of fear and love and protective anger was so strong she
gasped and opened her hand around the tooth, seeking release.

The next thing she knew she waking up on the floor. Her head hurt terribly and her limbs felt
stiff and cold. Ron was shaking her.

“You’re going to have all my teeth out if you don’t STOP Ron,” she told him irritably, and sat
up.

“You just passed out. You were holding the tooth and muttering and then you made this awful
sound and dropped it and passed out.”

“Harry went with Draco. He told him that he knew where Dumbledore was and that Voldemort was
going to ambush him and he needed to be warned.”

“And Harry fell for *that*?” Ron said in disbelief.

“Yes,” Hermione said sadly. “Do you know, Ron, he left me all his thoughts from the afternoon
here, not just the last moments with Malfoy. He knew it could have been a trap, but he didn’t know
for sure and so he went. After the Department of Mysteries, after what happened in the Forbidden
Forest, he still went. He’s just always going to go, until it kills him.”

“Well, let’s go find out where he is so you can be the one to do it.” Ron told her. “Up you
get.” He helped her to her feet. “I think we need to find out if a certain little ferret is back in
his hole.”


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Ron found the Marauder’s Map in Harry’s trunk. Sure enough, the moving spot marked ‘*Draco
Malfoy*’ could be found down in the kitchens. He’d missed dinner after all. *‘Harry
Potter’* was still nowhere to be found.

They borrowed Harry’s invisibility cloak and made their way as swiftly as possible to the
kitchens, tickling the pear and quickly slipping in through the door. Draco was waiting near one of
the scrubbed work tables while one of the house elves put together a plate of food for him.
Hermione could see Dobby sitting, no lounging, really, by the fire and studiously ignoring his old
master. The bobble on his tea cozy hat was all that gave him away; it quivered with indignation and
animosity.

They pulled off the cloak as Ron thrust his wand firmly into Draco’s back.

“Where is he, Malfoy?”

“Where is who?” Malfoy asked. He was going for bored indifference but failed ever so
slightly.

“Harry. Harry Potter. About so high, black hair, green eyes, hates your guts almost as much as I
do… Ring any bells? You tried to kill him a couple of weeks ago.”

“Oh, Potter. About *so* high…” Malfoy dropped several inches off Ron’s estimation, “big
ugly scar, that the one? He’s still breathing because of me; by the way, I just have no idea where
he’s doing it at the moment.” He looked at Hermione pointedly, “Or who he might be doing it with if
*you’re* here. Ever reconsider my advice?”

Hermione’s wand work was so fast she even amazed herself. Draco was hanging upside down from a
meat hook in the ceiling, hands neatly bound behind him before he knew what hit him.

“Get me down. NOW!” he howled, pale face flushed with blood from his inverted position. And
rage.

“Tell me what you’ve done with Harry, NOW!” Hermione countered.

“You’ll get bloody nothing from me unless you get me down this instant!” Malfoy retorted.

Hermione’s wand began flicking. Cooking utensils, pots, pans all flew across the kitchen with
Draco as their target. He was swinging and twisting, unable to avoid the onslaught. A cast iron
skillet caught him a stinging blow and he screeched, “Alright! He’s at the Shrieking Shack! In
Hogsmeade!”

Ron held up his hand and Hermione ceased the bombardment. “What the *bloody* hell is Harry
doing at the Shrieking Shack?”

“Let me down and I’ll tell you.”

Ron flicked his wand with a charm and Malfoy was abruptly released face down onto the brick
floor. Ron leaned down and helped him to his feet, and when they were well and square under him
punched Draco solidly in the face. Hermione reflected on Malfoy’s taunt to Harry in the tooth’s
memory. *What about you? You seem to be having some trouble of your own balancing the feelings of
your boy and your mudblood. Go both ways, do you? That was quite the little display of affection
Weasley placed on your face the other morning.* She hadn’t told Ron, quite on purpose, but his
revenge was sweet none the less.

“You’ll tell us anyway, you filthy little ferret. You’ll take us there, because we’re not near
as trusting as Harry. And you’d better hope he’s okay. Because if he’s hurt and you did it any
wizard’s debt rubbish is out the window as far as I’m concerned. And then there’s the little matter
of my sister…”

Malfoy wiped his face and spit. Something that sounded suspiciously like a tooth hit the
bricks.

“You are so dead, Weasley.”

“You are so not in a position to make threats, ferret boy.”

Hermione swiftly returned the kitchen to its pre-bombardment state and lured the little house
elf who had been serving Draco out from under the table.

“Harry showed you the passage way to the Shrieking Shack, didn’t he.” she guessed. “So you know
the way.”


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

A/N: Okay, where do I start on this one… I screwed up on the Gargoyles. There’s really only one
outside Dumbledore’s office, but I liked them too much to kill one. Sorry! And a big reminder –
this was written before HBP came out. Harry had no idea the diary was a horcrux when he compared
what he was doing with his memories to what Riddle did with the diary. Lastly, there is a three
chapter ‘prequel’ to this in which Harry receives the dragon tooth he wears and uses here. If
anyone wants I will repost that too – I think I finally got the missing chapter back from Dell.

Thanks for reading! Have a nice weekend.



20. Chapter 20
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 20


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

*(refresher from chapter 19)*

“Harry showed you the passage way to the Shrieking Shack, didn’t he.” she guessed. “So you know
the way.”


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Ron put a *silencio* on Malfoy and prodded him along with his wand. Hermione followed them,
but wished desperately she could push past both boys and just run until she found Harry.

It occurred to her then that they were no better than he; they had no real idea if Malfoy was
telling the truth or walking them into a trap, perhaps the same one he had used on Harry.

“Ron, wait.”

He stopped, clearly puzzled. “Thought you’d be the first to want to get him.”

“How do we know this isn’t just another Malfoy trick?”

Malfoy sneered silently.

“Because we’re making him go first?”

“And if Voldemort himself were waiting, he’d just wave Draco aside and Avada Kedavra *us*.”
Hermione pointed out. *And Ron was meant to be the tactician...* “The problem is, whoever
turns out to have Harry will have something we want but we’ll nothing they want except Malfoy, and
I doubt they could care less if a stray spell went his way. I’m sure he annoys them as well.”

“So what do we do?”

“We stop here a moment and think *fast* before we blunder what may be our one and only
chance.”

She turned to Malfoy. “I’m going to remove the *silencio*, but if you make any fast moves
or speak when you aren’t spoken to I will incinerate your family bits. Quite clear?”

He nodded once.

“*Finite Incantatem*. What exactly happened when you came here with Harry? What did you do
to him?”

“I didn’t realize where the passage led until I came out at this end. Potter seemed to know
right where he was going. We heard voices on the second floor, so he climbed up to see who it was.
I heard him go running into the room overhead yelling spells like a banshee out of hell. There was
a thump and a bunch of apparation sounds. I decided to stay well out of it and head for home.”

“You *snake*. You took him here to be ambushed and went whistling home for dinner!” Ron’s
sense of honor was pushed beyond outrage and into complete disbelief. “You never thought to at
least tell someone?”

“I was hardly going to get myself killed because *Potter* flew off half-cocked,” Malfoy
said calmly.

“You’re lying.” Hermione told him. She was shaking inside with a potent combination of fear for
Harry and rage at Malfoy, but she also smelled a rat.

“Have it your way.”

“I think I will,” Hermione said softly. “You know that we know that Harry’s gone missing. You
don’t know what else we know. You weren’t just the logical suspect this time, we were sure Harry’d
gone with you because he left us his memories of you confronting him in the hallway. He was tired,
he barely wanted to talk with you, let alone go anywhere with you. You convinced him Dumbledore
needed to be warned about a potential ambush, but it took you an awful lot of persuasion. Sound
familiar? I don’t believe Harry went rushing in to battle anyone unless Dumbledore was actually
there, threatened. What *really* happened?”

Malfoy looked momentarily discomfited; it seemed to Hermione he was playing back his
conversation with Harry in the hallway, although whether it was to keep his story straight or to
see if he had already contradicted himself she couldn’t be sure. There was no hard evidence of
anything either way. She simply felt in her bones that he wasn’t telling the truth and the desire
to hex it out of him was almost overwhelming.

“The information was good, the timing must have been off,” he said. “I think there must have
been someone up there already waiting for Dumbledore. Whoever it was apparated away. Maybe Harry
followed them.”

“Harry can’t apparate, Malfoy.”

“Well then I have no idea where the hell he is and I care even less.”

“I’m right here, actually,” a voice said from behind them, and they spun around. He was covered
in dust and dirt; a spider web clung to his hair. His glasses were broken and a goose egg blossomed
from a bruise on his forehead. He was unsteady on his feet, weaving slightly like a drunk, but
blessedly whole and alive. “’Scuse me, Ron, Herm.. Herm…miny.” He launched himself between them at
Malfoy.

It shouldn’t have been a fair fight. Ron was ready to jump right in but realized quickly that
despite his apparent condition Harry seemed to be holding his own nicely. Malfoy had given away a
tad too much information in his lie to Madam Pomfrey the last time he’d accused Harry of attacking
him; now that he actually *had* the opportunity to pound him Harry hadn’t made the mistake of
going for his wand.

“Lying sack of ferret crap, I will *never* believe another word that comes out of your
mouth,” he gasped. They had their hands on each other’s throats and were rolling for dominance; as
soon as one managed a good choke hold the other would flip them over and gain the upper hand.
Hermione sighed and stuck her wand between them, muttering a spell. Harry found himself holding a
white ferret round its furry little neck. The ferret squealed, bit his thumb and raced away across
the passage. Hermione stepped firmly on its tail and *stupified* it.

“This has been such an outstandingly bad term for you, mate,” Ron commiserated.

“And you don’t know the half of it, yet,” Harry moaned, not bothering to move from where he lay,
prone on his back on the packed dirt of the passage floor, sucking his now bleeding thumb.

“What could be worse than what Hermione’s going to do to you for this?”

Hermione saw Harry’s eyes fly open. “You found it, didn’t you? I left you…”

She held out her hand so that he could see the dragon tooth hanging from its cord. “And you
think leaving me a message makes it all okay?”

“I tried to show you *why* I went, at least.” Harry managed, and then to her absolute
horror his eyes shut again and she saw what looked suspiciously like tears leak silently from the
far corners, dripping toward his ears. His face remained almost impassive.

“Harry?” she said softly, and dropped to her knees beside him. “I’m not that mad, honestly. You
*did* show me. I understand.”

He shook his head and rolled away, drawing himself up stiffly to lean against the passage
wall.

“Dumbledore *was* here. He was talking to Mad Eye and someone else I didn’t hear. He… I…”
Harry raised his eyes to her face, unable to finish. What he saw there finished *him*; he
could see her desire to comfort, her will to resolve the problem, her honest and unstinting
affection despite every stupid thing he did. How could she not be the one? How could anyone
possibly love him more than that? How could he ever love anyone else? The thought terrified him,
nauseated him. If that was what he had to do to defeat Voldemort it was beyond him.

“Harry? What is it? What’s happened?”

The familiar desire not to tell her, to keep it inside, pretend nothing had happened and wait
out the impending disaster filled him, but he understood, too, that acting on his other desires had
brought him to a place where it was simply no longer an option to do that to her.

“Dumbledore told Mad Eye that you… that we weren’t right for each other, that I wasn’t holding
Voldemort off the way I should. They were talking about… they want to…” Harry watched realization
dawn and the familiar flicker of self-doubt shadow Hermione’s eyes. “*Don’t.”* he begged
fiercely. “Please, please don’t.”

“Don’t what? What did Dumbledore mean you weren’t right for each other; that’s crazy,” Ron
protested. “What’s it to him, anyway?”

“Harry thinks he heard Dumbledore say that I’m not the one he’s supposed to love in order to
understand the power Voldemort knows not. That the reason Voldemort was still able to possess Harry
after I became his dream keeper was that *I’m* not the one he’s meant to be with,” Hermione
said, her voice carefully deliberate and even.

“But we know that’s not true,” Harry insisted. “Even before I understood about loving you
Voldemort shrank from you touching me. In the cave, remember? And that night in the dorms, he
couldn’t bear it and you kissed me and it was almost like Quirrell crumbling away to dust. I think
he felt the way I did in the Department of Mysteries, like his head was going to explode from the
connection.”

“Unless you’ve shared a lot more of what you two have been up to with *him* than you have
with *me*, there’s no way Dumbledore can know any of that. How could he tell if it wasn’t
working without knowing stuff you wouldn’t, umm, normally *want* to be sharing over lemon
drops with the Headmaster?” Ron asked. “He’d have to know exactly what you were doing with Herms
first to know doing it scared him off. There’s a conversation I don’t envy you guys.”

“The whole thing is just *wrong*, anyway. He can be right about everything else, he may be
Head Warlock of the Wizengamot, but how can he possibly know what Hermione means to *me*? The
prophecy didn’t say anything about the power to date or the power to have sex. Voldemort could do
either, I’m sure, repulsive as *that* thought is. It said ‘the power he knows not,’ and if
even Dumbledore can’t understand what you mean to me, Hermione, how could Voldemort?”

He saw a small glimmer of something light her eyes; it looked like hope. He wanted it to be
hope, he wanted it to be more, actually, but hope would at least get them through, keep her from
pulling away just yet. Harry knew that she would actually do it if she truly believed it would
change the outcome of that final battle and save his life. The wizarding world might be saved, but
what the hell would be the point of it all for him without her? He supposed he should be noble and
think about how she could live a peaceful life with someone else then, watch her go on with her
life from afar.

*Screw that.*

She crawled next to him and sat down, leaning her own back against the wall. Ron moved to his
other side and slid down as well. The white ferret stirred and almost as one all three pointed
their wands and *stupifi*e*d* it again.

“So what do we do now?” Ron asked.

Harry’s eyes shifted to Hermione. She appeared to be deep in thought. He was afraid to touch
her, afraid to make any move that might tip the balance of her belief in her irreplaceable
importance to him in either direction before she’d made up her own mind.

“Prove that he’s wrong, I guess. He was talking about some scary stuff though, there’s part of
me that still doesn’t want to believe it *was* Dumbledore. Maybe I’ve just never been on the
other side of what he wanted before. ‘*Alas they must be separated, or we will fail to discover
the love that will truly protect him when we have need of him most.’* He’ll get a great big
surprise when he has need of me most if he tries anything on with us.”

“Tries what?” she asked.

“’*We have several options at hand. I believe her mind could be subtly altered to transfer her
affections to Mr. Weasley without too much difficulty, and such a change would require fairly
little explanation given the frequency with which it occurs naturally at that age.’”*

He had the voice down, the cadence of speech. It sounded eerily like their Headmaster… except it
just *couldn’t* be right.

“What the *bloody* hell?” Ron choked.

“Harry, Dumbledore wouldn’t say that!”

“Even if he truly believed that’s what he needed to do to prime his only weapon? Nine years with
the Dursleys as my only reference point for human kindness isn’t much of an argument for his
judgment on that score,” Harry pointed out. There was more than a trace of bitterness in his
tone.

“Dumbledore has his regrets about that. You don’t see how he looks at you sometimes, Harry,”
Hermione said sadly. “As much as he may need you, I think he genuinely feels for you too. I think
he sees something of himself in you and wants things to be different for you. Even if separating us
really was what he thought he had to do I don’t think this is *how* he’d go about it anymore.
Not after Sirius.”

All three were silent for a bit, working it over in their heads. Ron was puzzled. Harry’s heart
felt like it was being ripped to shreds with every beat, agonizing alternately over Dumbledore and
Hermione. Hermione herself was being deliberately careful in her thoughts, pushing anger and fear
and loss away for later examination.

“What if it wasn’t Dumbledore? What if it was just someone polyjuiced to look like him?” Ron
asked.

“I would think it would be almost impossible to pull off, Ron. He’s not as paranoid as Mad Eye,
but he *is* the most powerful wizard alive. I suspect he’s pretty careful,” she said.

“The man’s got hair like an alpaca, how careful can he *be*?”

Hermione sighed. “Ron, there are….”

“I didn’t actually see him,” Harry cut in thoughtfully. “I didn’t *see* either of them.
Malfoy was in front of me on the stairs, I only heard their voices. I just know those voices so
well that I never doubted it could be them until I realized what they were saying.”

“Malfoy said you went up the stairs alone. I thought you *saw* them.” Ron said,
surprised.

“*Malfoy said*,” Harry mimicked. “You called that right from the start, Ron. He’s a bloody
unredeemed liar. I think he’s trying to play both sides and he’s so far over his head he’d grab on
to anything to keep from going down. I tried to turn back on the stairs, to get back to the castle
and warn you both and he pushed me over the railing.”

“It could have been anyone then, altering their voices!” Hermione’s mind jumped eagerly along
this far more hopeful road.

“The question is; why?” Ron asked.

“Here’s an even better question,” she said. “When Malfoy pushed Harry over the railing he must
have made noise falling. Why didn’t they come down and *obliviate* him, if it truly was
Dumbledore and Mad Eye? Why would Malfoy risk hurting Harry with Dumbledore right there? And why,
if it were Death Eaters or someone working for Voldemort, wouldn’t they have just finished Harry
off or taken him away with them?”

“That’s *three* questions, actually.” Harry reminded her, and she remembered chastising
Dumbledore in his office.

“Still, think about it!”

“She’s got a point there, actually,” Ron agreed. “You’re obviously *supposed* to remember
what you heard and take it back to the castle. Maybe even confront Dumbledore with it.”

The three eyed each other, warily.

“What did you feel when you heard them talking, Harry?” Hermione asked slowly.

His eyes dropped to the ground. “I tried to scream something but Malfoy covered my mouth. At
first rush all I wanted was to go in there and let loose on them both, I’d just had my DADA class
with Snape and I was primed. But then I realized I had to get back to you before they did.”

“Hardly a fool proof plan, but the possibilities are all there. Malfoy stopped you from making
any noise so you wouldn’t wonder why they *didn’t* come out to see what it was, because it
*wasn’t* Mad Eye or Dumbledore. He knocked you down and probably *stupifi*e*d* you
to buy time so you would wake up believing it was too late. You’re supposed to go back to Hogwarts
and either have it out with Dumbledore or walk around second-guessing and being jealous of
everything Ron and I do. Either way…”

“Either way I’m a loose cannon in my own camp, questioning the loyalties of my friends and
ignoring my enemies.” Harry finished for her.

“Except you’re older now, and wiser, and we’ve managed not to let anything come between the
three of us so far and we’re not going to start now,” she said firmly. “Right?”

“Right,” he replied gratefully.

“Right,” Ron agreed.

“And this is what we’re going to do instead…”


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They had to sneak back in to the castle with Malfoy still stupified in ferret form in the pocket
of Hermione’s robes. They only just had time to unload him somewhere and make it back to Gryffindor
in time for curfew.

“Oh let me, please,” begged Ron. “I’ll be in by curfew, I promise.”

Hermione was in no mood to deal; she handed her furry little burden over and headed up the main
stairs with Harry. They parted company finally in the common room as each headed to their
respective stairways.

“I’ll see you in a bit, won’t I?” Harry asked softly, uncertain, and she vowed to herself once
again to get to the bottom of whoever had come up with this newest assault on his confidence. And
then to hex them into utter oblivion.

She nodded. “Twenty points if you wear those nice, soft flannelly ones. I’m freezing.”

She decided she really liked the way his eyes kind of crinkled up at the corners when he grinned
like that.


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The boys might be quite used to Hermione in their room now, but things had never been as clear
in her own. Hermione was a creature unto herself to begin with; she got on well enough with
Lavender and Parvati and the others, but she had never *exactly* bonded with them. She
attempted to be a considerate roommate, leaving her things neat and coming in quietly after a late
night spent studying. She tended to rise early, but always dressed quickly and quietly not to rouse
later sleepers. She simply had no real patience for most of the girlish sharing the others craved;
she knew more than they thought of their various exploits from absorbing the chat that went on
around her but seldom entered into it herself. She co-existed with her roommates well enough, but
Harry and Ron were her friends.

She could tell something was up as soon as she entered the room. Lavender and Parvati both
bounced back guiltily from the area around her bed and Lavender quickly tried to make it appear
that she was teaching Parvati about Muggle stretching exercises.

“Don’t let me stop you,” she told them politely, and went about changing in to her pajamas. She
brushed her teeth and braided her hair in the girls’ lavatory and returned to find them still up,
now sitting on Lavender’s bed seemingly absorbed in some Witch Weekly quiz. Hermione dug through
her books and found her Arithmancy text and some parchment.

“Guess I’ll just work on this a bit downstairs. ‘Night.”

Lavender and Parvati burst into helpless giggles. Thinking it was their reading they found so
funny Hermione shrugged and headed toward the door.

“We….we….we….we…” Lavender tried.

“We wort…she wort …” Parvati gasped.

Hermione waited patiently for one of them to gain control.

“We short sheeted your bed *days* ago,” Lavender finally managed to get out. “Unless you
really like it that way you haven’t slept in here in almost a week. Now spill!”

It was the moment she’d *so* not been looking forward to.

Their lack of Muggle film knowledge precluded *‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill
you.’* She was going to have to rely on their solidarity as girls. Or *obliviate* them.

“I’ve been with Harry,” she admitted. “But it’s not what you think.”

“Hermione, even you couldn’t spend that much time with Harry and not get up to *something*
interesting.”

*Now what the heck did THAT mean?* Hermione’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“I mean McGonagall knows about it, that’s why I haven’t been caught. I’m not really supposed to
talk about it. I’m helping with a spell that’s supposed to keep Voldemort from being able to reach
him.”

Both girls winced. “That’s his one downside, I suppose,” Lavender said. “The Voldemort
thing.”

“That and the fact he can’t dance,” Parvati sighed. “The eyes almost make up for it, though. And
he really can be very sweet.”

“Damn fine on a broom, too.”

“Ummm, Hello?” Hermione reminded them. “Can I ask you two to please keep this quiet?”

“Absolutely,” Lavender said with a grin. “You can *always* ask.”

“Implore, beg, plead…” Parvati agreed.

“So is he, you know, any *good*?” Lavender wondered aloud.

For the very first time in her life, Hermione found herself torn between the “good girl” answer
(well I never!) and what she honestly believed to be the “real” answer (Hell yes!). *‘I actually
almost* want *to talk to them about… well not in detail, but I want… because I’m… happy. I’m
happy and excited inside about him and I sort of feel… girly? Merlin, Harry, what have you done to
me?’*

Hermione Granger nodded shyly and then blushed brilliantly. “I’ve got to go. I’d *really*
appreciate it if you’d not tell anyone, okay? We’ll, ah, maybe we can all, erm, talk, or something,
tomorrow. Thanks!”

She fled.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

The boys’ dorm seemed familiar and welcoming somehow after the strangeness of the encounter in
her own. Neville smiled a shy greeting, Dean waved vaguely, immersed in the news of his favorite
football team. Seamus didn’t even flinch that she’d caught him in his boxers.

“Put on your pants, Finnigan, you exhibitionist.” Ron nagged him.

“Like she’s looking,” Hermione heard him yawn in reply as she climbed onto Harry’s bed.
“Straight up to Potter like always, never a thought for the rest of us, poor helpless Dark Lord
fodder though we are. It’s a pity, I tell you.”

Harry was actually working, reading his potions assignment. “I figured I’d better, after the
DADA disaster today,” he sighed, and moved to shut the book. She stilled his hand.

“No, go ahead and finish. You really should. I don’t mind.”

“Thanks a heap,” he laughed, but returned to the assignment without further persuasion. Hermione
stretched out beside him and began puzzling through the loose ends of the day, trying to sort
through events. Across the room the boys continued to talk quietly amongst themselves until one by
one they began to succumb to sleep.

Harry finally closed his potions book with a sigh. “Done,” he groaned; tiredness heavy in his
voice. “For some reason reading potions always makes me desperately need to pee.”

“Really? How useful. Go on then. I’ll remember that,” she teased. He padded off to the loo. He’d
left the hangings open and as Hermione shifted her position after a bit she abruptly caught the
gleam of an open eye across the darkness.

“Good night, Ron,” she called softly.

“G’night Hermione. I, um, I’mgladyou’rehere. Actually. Glad.”

High praise, coming from Ron.

“Thanks.”

“Me, too,” whispered Harry, climbing back up onto the bed. “’Night, Ron.” He pulled the hangings
closed and settled down with a soft exhalation of relief. “Another day I’m not sorry to see the end
of.”

“It had its good *points*, didn’t it?” she inquired mischievously.

He *had* worn the pajamas she loved. She hooked her legs round his, snuggling in. “These
weren’t Dudley’s were they?”

“’Fraid so. From when he was twelve or something. He was always such a big, unh, boy. I’ve had
them at least three or four years though, if that’s any comfort.”

“It’s just they still feel like they practically want to fall off.”

“You seem to be helping. A lot, actually.”

“You *could* help as well.”


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Hermione was the one with restless dreams that night. She awoke from a dead sleep to the
horrible suspicion that she had become so distracted fooling around with Harry that she had
forgotten altogether to activate the dream keeper spell before they drifted off. He seemed so
peaceful; should she wake him? How could she sleep if she didn’t? It was her own fault, maybe she
should just stay awake the rest of the night and watch. She could petrify him if anything looked
off…

“Have I grown another nose or something?” he asked sleepily, and she almost screamed aloud.

“I thought, um, I, did we remember to do the spell earlier?”

“Oh, sod it, I thought you did, you were the one with the wand out,” Harry said anxiously, as
awake now as she.

“Not THAT one, idiot, the other one. Did I do your spell for you?”

“Oh. Yeah, you did. Yeah. No problems, then?”

“No, no problem.”

Except they were now both wide awake.

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think he knows when you’re ummm, when you’re really, *really* happy? Through the
scar?”

He shifted restlessly, eyes avoiding her, but he knew what she was getting at. “I don’t know.
But probably yes. I mean I always think he’s killed someone or something when he gets that sort of
triumphant, happy feeling, but for all I know he’s getting off. I have no way of knowing really,
I’m sorry. I know it’s…gross.”

“No… I mean yes, it sort of is, of course, but I’ve thought of something else. No one else but
Dumbledore should know about the prophecy, right? And we’re pretty sure now that it *wasn’t*
Dumbledore you heard today. So how would anyone else even think of love protecting you if they
didn’t know about a power that he knows not?”

“Voldemort shouldn’t know about a power he knows not, but he *does* know about you.”

“Right. He saw me with you the other night, you said it infuriated him and when I kissed you he
backed off, right? He’d want us split up then, if it meant a clear shot at you. It makes so much
more sense than if it were Dumbledore. What I’m not sure of is what exactly gets to him. Is it you
loving me, or you being able to love at all?”

“I don’t see the difference.”

“If it wasn’t me, then it wouldn’t matter if he broke us up, you’d have the same protection from
anyone else you loved.”

“Hermione, I don’t care about anyone else. I don’t want anyone else. Only you.”

“But maybe I really could be the power after all then. If Voldemort was the one behind whoever
was pretending to be Dumbledore, than maybe it’s because I really am what you need. He doesn’t know
anything about the prophecy; he just knows what’s happening when you’re here with me.”

“Hermione, you *are* what I need. All that I need. Trust me, I should know by now,” Harry
said patiently. “You do so much more for me than just revolt Voldemort.”

Hermione stared at him a moment, her velvety brown eyes unreadable. It occurred to him then that
*perhaps* he hadn’t worded that last bit quite so well.

“Sorry,” he said softly.

“Never mind,” she said, nestling down and slipping her arms around him again. “That was, dare I
say it, quite romantic coming from you.”

Not just any girl would say *that*.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>



21. Chapter 21
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 21


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Entering the Great Hall for breakfast the following morning Harry found his path impeded just
inside the door by Snape himself. Hermione had cured the physical evidence of the bruise but his
head still ached and his stomach was rumbling empty from missing yet another meal. He was not
feeling especially charitable or in control, never a good start to any confrontation with the
Slytherin Head of House.

Snape’s eyes were as angry as Harry had ever seen them, black and fathomless.

“Ah, Potter. *You* wouldn’t happen to know why Mr. Malfoy was discovered in the Ravenclaw
girls’ lavatory this morning would you? Or why he might be sporting *that* particular fashion
statement?”

Harry’s eyes shifted to the Slytherin table. Malfoy was once again sitting on the end, far from
his usual place in the thick of things. He seemed quite absorbed by whatever was in the bowl in
front of him, providing a perfect view of the top of his head. And aw… weren’t those a little baby
set of horns just poking through? Draco looked up to snarl something at his nearest neighbor at the
table (*probably asked him to pass the salt,* Harry guessed gleefully) revealing that his
tongue was now rather enlarged and… forked.

“I can quite honestly say, Sir,” Harry said truthfully, “that I had nothing to do with that.”
*But oh, how I wish I had!*

“Strange,” Hermione commented, brushing past them, “If he was as competent a wizard as his
continual high marks in Potions would lead one to believe, that he hasn’t just changed it
back.”

Snape grasped Hermione’s upper arm, stopping her in her tracks. Harry surprised all three of
them by hissing something alarming in Parseltongue. A relief, really, because he quickly realized
he would have been in a *way* more trouble had Snape actually understood his words. His
meaning was clear enough, however, that Snape removed his hand. Quite quickly.

“The change has… resisted removal,” Snape said furiously. “I should have known it would have
been beyond you, Potter. Now, Miss Granger…”

“Had nothing to do with it, either.” Harry informed him. “She was with me.”

“Was she really?” Snape asked triumphantly. “How interesting.”

“I think you’ll find it interests no one anymore but *you*,” Hermione told him witheringly.
She tugged at Harry’s sleeve. “We’re blocking the door.”

“Indeed,” said a deep, good-natured voice from behind them, “And I am quite looking forward to
my breakfast.”

Dumbledore had returned.


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“You realize where those horns came from, don’t you?” Hermione said softly as they took their
seats across from Ron at the Gryffindor table.

“Well it wasn’t me,” Ron said through a mouthful of scrambled egg. “I gave him to Ginny. I
thought it was only fair.”

“Whatever Ginny did, it wasn’t the horns or the tongue. That’s the jinx he signed. He’s crossed
the line somewhere between acting *on* Voldemort’s orders and providing information *to*
him. He betrayed at least one of us last night. And it’s going to take them a good long time to
figure out how to get them off, too. I may not have thought about Voldemort working it the other
way round, but I was very thorough when it came to the jinx itself.”

“Guess that explains the Ravenclaw girls’ shower bit, though.” Harry offered. “I bet Ginny got
Luna to help her. And knowing the two of them I’d wager there was a good bit more to it than that.
Almost makes me wish I was a Ravenclaw this morning.”

“Except for the Cho side of things and the fact neither of us have a hope in the brains
department, I’m with you,” Ron agreed.

“I think Luna would love to see you as a Ravenclaw, Ron.” Hermione told him, seizing the
opportunity.

“I think Luna’d like to see Ron just about anywhere, actually,” said Harry, buttering his toast
with a grin. “Better than a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, you are.”

Hermione chose to see hope in Ron’s fiery red-headed blush. Perhaps girls were losing their
cooties at last. Or at least one of them.


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Harry received the inevitable summons on his way to Transfiguration. The methodology was
different; Dumbledore had never before sent Fawkes to find him within the castle walls. It also
troubled Harry somewhat that the note specified that the Headmaster wished to see him but said
nothing about Hermione or Ron.

“It’ll have nothing at all to do with anything, for all that,” he muttered. “I’m probably in
trouble for something else entirely now.”

“Harry, remember, tell him *everything*. He needs to know what you saw and we need to know
what he thinks about it, or what we decided to try will get us into more trouble than we can
handle. Don’t get put off.” Hermione was watching him, anxious.

“I will. Honestly. I’ll meet you and Ron after. In the library?”

She nodded and watched him head off toward the staircase to Dumbledore’s office with a feeling
of trepidation. It used to comfort her when she thought he was letting the teachers know what was
going on. Life was altering immeasurably now.


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The gargoyles hailed Harry like an old friend and inquired whether Ron and Hermione had caught
up with him. Upon learning the message had worked they promptly congratulated each other, drew
themselves up proudly and opened the door, utterly forgetting to wait for the password. Harry
reckoned Dumbledore really needed a better security system.

The headmaster was pacing the confines of his office as Harry had so often seen him do on the
Marauders’ Map.

“Ah, Harry. Sit down,” he said gravely, turning to meet him. There was no sign of a twinkle in
those blue eyes now; something had detoured his good mood of earlier that morning in quite another
direction. Harry sat.

“We have something of a problem to sort out,” Dumbledore began.

*‘When have we not?’* thought Harry.

“Where were you yesterday afternoon, Harry? After your Defense class with Professor Snape.”

“I went to the Shrieking Shack with Draco Malfoy.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose inquiringly.

“He cornered me outside the classroom. It seems letting Snape into it means all of Slytherin’s
going to know.” Dumbledore shook his head, whether to deny the fact or in resignation Harry could
not tell. “He told me that he wanted to prove himself, that you were in danger and he had solid
information that Voldemort meant to attack you and that we could warn you. He thought you wouldn’t
trust the information coming from him, he wanted me to come along.”

“And you believed him?” Dumbledore questioned, sounding very much like Hermione.

“I couldn’t disprove it. You never tell me anything real, how can I know? I think I’ve finally
come to realize I can live with the accusations of stupidity easier than the thought that I could
have done something and didn’t.”

“Assuming, of course, you *do* live.”

“Yeah,” said Harry, but without remorse. He felt quite done with that particular battle now.

“Harry, Miss Parkinson claims that during that same period of time yesterday you were possessed
by Voldemort and took her to the Shrieking Shack where you attacked her and forced her to accept
the Dark Mark, which she does indeed now bear. Mr. Malfoy claims he went nowhere, and there are
five students who are willing to testify that he was in the Slytherin common room with them.”

Harry stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore.

“Draco knows…”

“Draco is quite probably lying.”

“*Quite probably?*” Harry said furiously.

“It is not that I do not trust you or believe you, Harry. One of the things I am proudest of in
you is how hard it is for you to open up your mind to the true possibilities of evil. The other
side of that equation, however, is that many things simply do not occur to you until you are forced
to accept them. It is possible, for example, that someone else used polyjuice potion to appear to
you as Draco.”

“Highly unlikely. I know that pr, er jerk too well by now. Better than I ever wanted to.”

“Still, we must rule it out before we respond in an accusatory manner.”

“Hermione and Ron were there. They saw him as well. And even if it *wasn’t* him, they know
Pansy wasn’t with us.”

“Perhaps you had better start at the beginning,” Dumbledore suggested wearily. “This appears to
be a more tangled web than first I thought.”

“It’s more than just tangled,” Harry responded angrily. “It’s knotted like a net and it’s
snaring *me*. When Draco and I reached the end of the tunnel from the Whomping Willow we heard
voices. We climbed up the stairs to hear. I kept Draco in front of me the whole time; it wasn’t
like I trusted him or anything. It was *you* I heard. You and Mad Eye. Talking about
separating Hermione and me. You said Hermione wasn’t what I needed and that you would refocus her
feelings toward Ron so that I would be ready when you needed me.”

Harry watched Dumbledore closely as he spoke; saw the range of emotions begin and be quickly
shut down under his gaze. Something surged blindly in him, a need to know for sure, and he cast a
desperate wordless *legilimens* almost before he realized what he was doing. Images began to
flood him, random things, people he did not know, snippets of conversation. He sought desperately
to hold on to something as the current swept through him with the force of a flood-swollen river,
pummeling him, until he suddenly made out a voice he did not recognize intoning *“It can not be
the girl then, Albus. Only you can know if she does more harm than good.”* He felt Dumbledore’s
power then, thrusting him away from the thought. He clung, fought with all that he had to know
more, to hear Dumbledore’s response to whomever spoke. He *had* to know…

A sudden fierce pain lanced through him. He heard a dull roar… that slowly became a distinctly
furious “*HARRY POTTER!*”

Dumbledore stood before him, trembling, wand pointed directly at *him*. Every muscle in his
body suddenly knotted painfully. *Holy Aslan*… he’d actually managed to…

“Yes,” Dumbledore finished for him. “You have indeed been undergoing a growth in your abilities.
Now you must hurry up and mature in the knowledge of their judicious use.”

“I’m sorry,,,” Harry began.

“No, you are not,” Dumbledore said resignedly. “Nor would I truly expect you to be. You felt you
needed to know what you sought, not for yourself but for Hermione. This should reveal to you
something about the power that acting on your feelings for her invokes in you. Isn’t that what you
really wanted to know?”

“Is it? I wanted to know for sure it really wasn’t you I heard, but there in your thoughts is
exactly what I was afraid to find.”

“Was it? Exactly? I think not, Harry. I was not at the Shrieking Shack, nor have I discussed
your relationship with Miss Granger with Mad Eye Moody. Of that, at least, you can be certain.”

“But then who said, ‘*It can not be the girl then, Albus. Only you can know if she does more
harm than good.’?”*

Dumbledore smiled sadly and sat down in the chair beside Harry. “You truly do not know your own
strength, Harry. What you discovered in my memory had nothing to do with you or Miss Granger. It
was a memory of my own, from long, long ago. One I had buried, I thought quite deeply. One I have
never allowed myself to pensieve so I do not forget. A story for another time, perhaps. I will be
entirely honest with you about this matter, Harry. It was not I you heard in the Shrieking Shack,
but if you asked me the question that burdens you so, you might not like my answer, either.”

“I *am* asking it,” Harry said, “whether I’ll like it or not. I need to know.”

“I believe that you love Hermione with all your heart,” Dumbledore began. “That you both wish to
love and can after all that has befallen you is a credit to you, and to Hermione. The connection
that was forged between you and Voldemort on the day he killed your parents is indeed powerful and
could easily have overcome you. Between that portion of Voldemorts’ powers latent within you and
the Dursleys’ mistreatment, you could well have made Draco Malfoy seem quite the amateur in
comparison.” He smiled, as if amused now by the thought.

“Yet you arrived at Hogwarts… yourself. You have inspired the love of at least two good souls,
Harry, no mean feat for any one of us. I was pleased for you when you and Ron and Hermione
befriended each other so quickly your first year; I had feared that your years at the Dursleys
would have made the transition to Hogwarts difficult, yet you took to it like a duck to water and
proved to us all that you are indeed a wizard to be reckoned with. I am likewise delighted with
what your union with Hermione is awakening in you now. It has come in due season and I *do*
believe that it is helping to strengthen you in some ways. Sirius’ death was a painful blow, and I
am quite sure Voldemort thrilled at the despair he sensed in you. I can only guess at the extent of
it, but a relationship such as the one you are forming with Hermione is more than likely to produce
a redoubled will to live, if only for her. That has quite probably likewise been a blow to
Voldemort, one he rightly fears. The truly good, Harry, fight far stronger for those they love than
ever they could for themselves. He experienced that once already with your Mother.”

“Then how can Hermione not be what I need? I love her. I’d fight for her, die for her. He knows
that. Because she’s not pureblooded, it really seems to disgust him and pain him that she can
achieve all that she has. When he has control of me and she touches me he can’t stand it. He’s
literally so repulsed and frightened of the two of us together he leaves me. She’s not afraid to
help me. How can it not be her?” Harry was confused as well as angry; all that Dumbledore had
related so far had done nothing to change his mind.

“I am not saying Hermione is not a powerful witch, Harry. Nor am I saying that she is not
awakening a sense of power within you. I do *not* believe, however, that what you are
experiencing is the power referred to in either the prophecy or the Sorting Hats’ riddle. The
difficulty with the connection forged between you and Voldemort, Harry, is that I think it happened
long before it was meant to. I don’t think the soulless depth of evil it takes to cast a killing
curse on an eighteen month old child is what the universe ever had in mind for you. I have long
believed what took place was meant to happen when you were of age and confronted him. You alone
would have power enough to kill him, but your burden for taking his life would be that portion of
his power you would then have to carry within you and control for the rest of your own. Voldemort
cheated, thinking he would kill you before you ever grew strong enough understand your destiny.
You’ve had to bear his unwilling gift to you ever since, and you are unquestionably stronger for
it. What now will happen if you are successful in taking his life? When that part of you is torn
from you with his death will you truly welcome it? What if he were in turn to take all your magic
with him and leave you a squib? Have you thought of this? What if you were to claim the rest of his
powers? Could you keep from being consumed by them? No one, Harry, takes a life without
consequence, no matter how evil the life force that is snuffed. I have come to believe that the
power you need is one that will let you survive not just Voldemort himself, but the vanquishing
*of* him.”

Harry felt as if the Centaurs’ poison had reawakened within him; breathing seemed to be all he
was capable of and was difficult at that. He had been struggling just to come to terms with
ultimately confronting Voldemort; Dumbledore’s suggestions opened up a chasm beyond the mountain he
had yet to climb. *A squib?*

“I…no. I never thought…”

“And why should you have?” Dumbledore asked gently. “I’m sorry, Harry, so sorry to have to lay
yet more to cope with on top of what is already a considerable burden. I would not have unless I
believed you to be either ready or needful, and I think present circumstances dictate a bit of
both.”

“But then what is it? What can it be that I have to survive him with?”

“I could only hazard a guess at this point, and I will not. I truly believe the answer to the
riddle of the window is meant to help you, but I also sense you have been… resistant to the idea. I
suggest you revisit your reasoning. In the mean time, however, we must determine our response to
Miss Parkinson’s accusations.”

A thought suddenly occurred to Harry’s overburdened brain.

“The dragon’s tooth! I left Hermione a message in the dragon tooth Charlie Weasley gave me this
summer. It only goes up until the point that Draco and I left, but Hermione and Ron used it to
figure out how to find me. Draco pushed me when I turned my back to go down the stairs in the
Shrieking Shack. It must have knocked me out, or he stupefied me. He left me there and went back to
the school and Hermione and Ron found him in the kitchens. The house elves saw him there too,
although no one will take their word for anything, will they? But the tooth should at least prove
that I wasn’t Voldemort then and that Draco’s lying.”

Dumbledore looked at him uncertainly over the tops of his half-moon glasses. “You left a message
in a dragon’s tooth? What sort of message?”

“My memories, like your pensieve. I put my memory of what happened into the tooth for Hermione
to find.”

“You removed them?”

Harry realized the Headmaster was looking at him quizzically. “No, just an image of them, like
this.” Harry collected a bit of their earlier conversation and shoved it to the edge of
Dumbledore’s consciousness, careful to stay politely outside. He could still feel the sting of
whatever Dumbledore had hit him with to break the legilimency bond. Dumbledore’s expression never
changed and Harry was afraid it hadn’t worked until he spoke.

“Harry, that is indeed extraordinary. Neither truly legilimency nor telepathy nor… well. Nothing
I have ever seen done quite that way. So you created an image of your memory and imbued the tooth
with it?”

“I thought if Voldemort could do it as Tom, with the book, it should be easier on something
already magical, like the tooth. It kind of wore me out, but it worked. I have no idea how he did
what he did with his whole essence, but just the images seemed to work out alright.”

“You must see how this is born of that same connection that he uses though, Harry. The power you
drew on there would be betrayed to him by the recognition of his earlier usage of it, just as
drawing on his physical condition to slow your heartbeat in the cave allowed him further access to
you. Each time you make use of what was passed to you through the scar, he knows.”

Harry felt stricken, numbed by his own obliviousness once more. “I *didn’t* think of that,”
he admitted. “It’s hard, sometimes, to know where things come from. It’s all inside me, how can I
know what’s him and what’s me other than by knowing when it’s just… wrong?”

“You quite probably can’t, Harry. This is one of the dangers you face in confronting him. If you
choose to use a power that comes from him, he will know. The more devastating the power, the more
likely it is that you inherited it from him. It doesn’t mean you will not be able to use it, but he
will know it well and be prepared. The pleasure of the strength you find through Hermione is that
it is one he *doesn’t* share. The ability to utilize Avada Kedavra is one he knows only too
well.”

“So you think he knew what I was doing when I left the message for Hermione? Will he have known
what the message was as well?”

“Perhaps we can determine that. What exactly made up the message?” Dumbledore asked.

“The first bit was, erm, just for Hermione, in case anything happened to me. It was the sort of
thing he hates, perhaps he tuned out then. The rest was… oh *cr**…*” Harry raised worried
eyes to his headmaster. “I let her see my DADA class with Professor Snape. It was…awful. I thought
he was coming down on me because you were gone, I can’t duel the way he wants, I’m not half as
nasty as he thinks I should be and I’m just too stupid at faking it. I kept thinking how I didn’t
want to duel Voldemort, I just wanted to kill him and be done with it. Get on with my life. Snape
went off. ‘*The impertinence, the fatal ego of you, boy!* *Voldemort will wipe the floor
with you, he’ll make you beg for death. You’ll never even get the chance to try for a killing curse
if you can’t handle this!’’*

Harry saw Dumbledore actually wince at his Potion Master’s words.

“I’ve killed *him*, though, haven’t I? If Voldemort saw that he’ll know all about
Snape!”

“Calm down, Harry. If it is done, it is done and nothing will change it now. Severus has been
striding a fine line for years, it was bound to come to an end at some point and at least we will
know in time to ensure he would not be caught out in Voldemort’s presence. What else was in the
message? How exactly did you leave it for Hermione, and more importantly, how did you ensure that
no one else found it? Is it possible Miss Parkinson got hold of it?”

“The rest of the message was the conversation with Malfoy, so she’d know why I was going. I put
a suspending spell on Draco for a couple of moments so he wouldn’t know what I was doing and left
it in one of your gargoyles’ mouths. Ever since I got the tooth Hermione’s been the only other
person who seemed to be able to touch it. That’s why Uncle Vernon finally let me alone when you
sent Bill to help me this summer; he grabbed the tooth and it burned his hand. Everyone else who
tries to touch it says it feels as if it burns or bites them somehow, but when Bill took me to the
Burrow and Hermione cleaned up my eye she touched it and nothing happened. I thought it would be
safe because no one else would be able to easily retrieve it.”

“Do you still have it? May I see?” Dumbledore asked. Harry loosened his tie further and slid his
fingers beneath his collar, fishing for the leather necklace. He pulled it over his head and
carefully handed it over by the cord.

Dumbledore examined it closely, carefully extending a long boney finger to the tip. He withdrew
it again quickly.

“Quite the stinging sensation. Interesting, indeed. Miss Granger affirmed for you that she
received the information you intended?”

Harry nodded.

“Well, I think we can safely assume that it is unlikely the message within the tooth itself was
intercepted. The question remains however, whether Voldemort was, as you suggested, uncomfortable
enough with the first part of the message to disregard the rest as you planted it. How… detailed
was your memory?”

Harry blushed, remembering giving Hermione a lifetimes’ worth of snog points for her efforts
down by the lake. “Erm, very. Quite detailed. He was so utterly repulsed by a so-called mudblood
kissing me the night he found us together that he almost took my head off getting out. This would
have, erm, sent him right round the bend.”

“I see. Well, let us hope you, er, succeeded. It would be a most beneficial outcome, though I
fear we should proceed as if he had full knowledge of the message, particularly where Professor
Snape is concerned. As far as Miss Parkinson’s claim, I am afraid the tooth will do us little good
if others can not examine its contents. There must be a way to alter the protection upon it. You
said Charlie Weasley gave it to you?”

Harry nodded. “Do you think he’d know? He sent me a note with it. He said it was from one of the
hatchlings of the Hungarian Horntail I drew for the first task of the Tri Wizard tournament. He
said the baby seemed to want me to have it; he spit it at Charlie and wouldn’t look away until
Charlie said my name. He said it just kept popping into his mind until he said “Harry Potter?” to
the dragon, and it sort of nodded at him and went away again. Charlie wrote that the *‘tooth of a
dragon, willingly given’* was supposed to be very potent and used in powerful charms. He never
said anything about touching it. I was as surprised as Uncle Vernon when it burned him. It left a
mark on his hand.”

“If memory serves, Vernon Dursley had just attacked you to get at the tooth. Was his reaction
more marked then the others?”

“More noticeable you mean? Yes, I guess it was.”

“You wanted him to leave you alone, did you not? You did not wish for him to take the tooth from
you?”

“Actually, I wanted him to have the massive coronary he deserves, but that’s a bit beyond the
scope of what you’re asking, isn’t it?”

Dumbledore’s lips twitched. “I meant only that the most severe response was to one you wished
very much not to have the tooth. Hermione, whom you have always trusted and wished to have it,
touched it without incident. I wonder if the potency is in fact linked to you.” He handed the cord
back to Harry. “When you handed it to me before, you were willing to let me see it. What might
happen if you actually wished for me to be able to view your message as a means to help you defend
yourself against Miss Parkinson?”

Harry held the tooth itself in his palm, focusing on Dumbledore being able to view the memories
it held. It grew slightly warm, then cooled within his palm. He handed it back hopefully.
Dumbledore took it by the cord and again extended a finger to tentatively touch the tip. When
nothing appeared to happen he slowly closed the rest of his fingers around it. Harry watched his
old blue eyes take on a slightly dimmed, inward turning gaze. He also realized his headmaster was
watching he and Hermione…

Could his life *possibly* get any more humiliating? Was that Voldemort’s secret weapon?
*Never mind about young Harry, Wormtail, I’ll just let him embarrass himself to death!*

He reverted his eyes to Fawkes, who eyed Harry sympathetically and promptly burst into
flames.

“Well,” said Dumbledore, several very long minutes later. Harry noticed the hand that held the
necklace was shaking slightly. “You are not just recording images of your memories, Harry. The
emotions you experience are inextricably attached and fully recorded as well. Hermione must have
received quite a shock when she relived your response to Draco’s taunt about using her as a voodoo
doll.”

Harry felt a pang of remorse; he’d never meant for Hermione to feel *that*.

“And I admit to entirely forgetting quite the… *surge* of teenaged hormones.”

Harry felt another pang, and it had nothing to do with remorse. “But you do believe me?” he
asked.

Dumbledore met his anxious gaze directly. “Harry, I did not need to see that to believe you.
Still, I think we must at least try to build you a defense based upon other evidence.”

“What do you think she’s trying to do?”

“My best estimation would be that Voldemort seeks to see you expelled through Pansy. I imagine
he has somehow learned of the incident at your Aunts’ house and realizes you no longer claim Privet
Drive as home. He may also have come to the same conclusion that I did, that your protection from
him there was weakened by his own use of your blood to reanimate his body. Either way, without your
Aunts’ home to return to, you could be at a serious disadvantage if you were in fact turned out of
Hogwarts. He has seen that you grow stronger as well, he may wish to strike at you before you
understand your new power.”

“How do I fight that? Cho’s made half the school believe I’m nothing but his puppet, and the
other half either already believed it or thought he was still dead and I’m an attention seeking
liar. What can I do?”

“I would throw the onus of proof upon Miss Parkinson. Other than the Department of Mysteries
when he was actually in your physical presence, Voldemort has only ever taken you over through the
scar when you are asleep. Since he has already discovered you petrified we can surely reveal the
Dream Keeper potion and its effect. You could hardly have taken her to the Shrieking Shack fully
petrified. Professor Snape can attest to making it and to your taking it. It comes down to word
against word, and while your position here is indeed tenuous as far as the governors are concerned,
this hardly seems conclusive enough to break the Snorkack’s back.”

“Wait a moment. If Draco wasn’t with us, why did he wake up in the Ravenclaw girls’? Hermione
turned him into a ferret and Ron gave him to Ginny. We’re pretty sure Ginny and Luna let him loose
in the showers. How does he explain ending up there?”

“I can not answer that, but I must suggest that turning Draco Malfoy into a ferret is hardly
behavior you should wish to advertise in defense of anything.”

“He pushed me down the stairs. It hurt! Besides, Hermione did it, to stop us fighting.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Go back to class, Harry, and please, at least attempt to stay out of trouble
until I can sort this out. I promise to keep you informed as things progress and to warn you if
need be. In the event it becomes necessary you shall go to Grimauld Place for a bit, but I will do
my level best to keep that nothing more than a last ditch option.”

Harry said, “Thank you, Sir,” but it came out as little more than a whisper.


<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Harry found Hermione and Ron in the library as he had promised, but knew there was no way he
could begin to relate all Dumbledore had told him there without an outburst from at least one of
the three of them resulting in their expulsion by Madam Pince.

“We need to take a walk,” he told them. “Outside. I’ll get our cloaks and meet you back by the
stairs.”

“Bloody cold for a walk today,” Ron grumbled, gathering up his books.

“He wouldn’t ask us unless he thought we had to,” Hermione pointed out. “Either he doesn’t want
to be overheard or he thinks Madam Pince is going to kick us out when we hear what he has to
say.”

They trailed out of the library and headed slowly toward the door. Harry had a lot of stairs to
climb.

“So…” Ron said.

Hermione raised a single eyebrow at him.

“So, Harry. How’s that going?”

“Fine, thanks.”

“Is it… I mean, I kind of thought that… well, everyone sort of thought that you were going to
get together sooner or later. Is it what you… I mean are you, unh, happy?”

She started to give him her mini-McGonagall glare, but spoiled it when her lips quivered. She
gave up and let a Cheshire cat grin light her face. “Do you know, Ron, the usual evil dark lord
baggage aside, the answer is yes. I really am.”

He let out a relieved breath. “That’s a break then. He’s been doing some pretty heavy stuff
lately, the wandless thing and all that. I really wasn’t looking forward to having to yank his
chain if you weren’t.”

“Not very nice, either, yanking his chain after you flattened his nose.”

“It still looks a bit off, doesn’t it? I told him he should get Madam Pomfrey to fix it, but
he’s fed up with the Hospital Wing just now.”

“It doesn’t seem to bother him, anyway. But thanks for asking, Ron. I’m really glad that, well,
that you’re okay with it. He needs you, too.”

“Thankfully not quite the same way,” said Harry from behind them, holding their cloaks.

“Quit crushing a boy’s dreams, will you? Where to?” Ron asked, taking his.

“The lake, I guess,” Harry told him, holding Hermione’s out for her.

They made their way out the door and down the path toward the choppy blue water. The afternoon
sunshine was weak and overruled by a gusting wind thrusting clouds in its way and tugging at
Hermione’s hair. They seemed to almost automatically find their new configuration with Harry
sandwiched between them and walked for awhile without need of words. Harry felt himself relaxing to
the rhythmic sounds of their foot fall on the path and the warmth of Hermione’s hand in its soft,
woolly mitten in his own. He hated to spoil it, but knew that time wasn’t waiting around for him,
either. It never did.

So he told them everything he’d learned.

Ron was predictably outraged at Malfoy and Pansy.

Hermione unpredictably ignored Dumbledore’s assessment of her role, *(‘but if he ever tells
you the story about the girl that wasn’t me, Harry, you have to promise to tell. I always wondered
about that’)* and focused instead on the riddle. “I think he’s right, there’s something there in
that window. I just can’t get any kind of brainhold on *what*.”

“Maybe we’re looking at the wrong time. Remember how it said; *So* *seek me through these
castle walls/ Search where the light of morning falls/At break of day.* Maybe it was a fluke
Harry blew it out when he did and it only shows something at dawn. Mrs. Norris and Filch’d be the
only ones to see it then, and they don’t seem to look up much, if you see what I mean.” Ron
suggested.

He slowly noticed Harry and Hermione were staring at him with distinctly quizzical
expressions.

“What?”

“You just quoted poetry, Ron. *By heart*,” Harry informed him.

“I really want to go to Hogsmeade, Harry. I’m right out of Chocolate Frogs and just about
everything else as well. It’s been a long friggin’ fall, mate and I’m ready to bust this stupid
riddle and be done with it. If it’s going to help you defeat Voldemort, I could likely spout that
Shakesword guy,” Ron retorted.

“Shakespeare, Ron,” said Hermione. “And it says *search* where the light of morning falls.
It may just have been pointing us to the eastern side of the castle. But you do have a good point;
we’ve strayed away from our two most important clues. The words themselves and how they were hidden
to be found. Remember how it said; ‘*Obscured from those who seek in wrath/But waiting on the
righteous path.’* And ‘*Seek me in faith and you shall find/Answers hidden long in time.’*
Maybe we’ve got to go about it not at the right time so much as in the right frame of mind.
Particularly you, Harry, you’ve been very down on the whole thing from the first.”

“So I’ve got to walk around the castle thinking righteous thoughts now, have I?” he questioned.
“That should attract Slytherins like a magnet.”

“You need to stop being so bloody cynical about something that could help you, is what you need
to do,” Hermione scolded him. “And Ron and I need to follow up on why and when the inscription
beneath the divination tower got erased. Now seems like a perfectly good time to me.”

They turned around on the path and headed back the way they’d come, the sun setting behind
them.

“I still can’t believe you used legilimency on Dumbledore, Harry,” Ron said wonderingly as the
approached the castle.

“I still can’t believe I lived to tell you about it,” Harry replied. “He was that angry. I’ve
never been on the business end of a wand I dreaded more, including Voldemorts’. He zapped me with
something to stop me and I have no idea what it was, but I can still kind of feel it. Like an
electric whip. Won’t let happen again anytime soon, I can assure you.”

They saw Malfoy and Snape leave the castle, heading toward the greenhouses.

“Have you noticed his horns are growing?” Ron snickered.

“I’ve got to credit you, Hermione. Is it a sort of Pinnochio effect, like every time he
bullshits someone his horns get a bit bigger?” Harry wondered.

She nodded and grinned wickedly. “From the look of things he won’t be able to hold his head up
by tomorrow.”

It was the best laugh the three had shared in what seemed like forever.


<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>



22. Chapter 22
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 22


<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

Hermione wrapped her cloak more closely around her as she found a seat in the Quidditch stands,
watching the end of the Gryffindor practice. Ron had been driving Ginny, Vicky Frobisher and Katie
Bell hard until Katie had found a weak spot in his defense of the left most hoop and begun
exploiting it mercilessly. His frustration level, both with them and himself, was almost off the
charts. Kirk and Sloper were idly watching the show, having returned the bludgers to the trunk
below already. Harry was at the far side of the pitch playing catch-and-release with the
snitch.

She observed carefully, delighting in a rare opportunity to enjoy him so utterly absorbed in
something other than gloom and survival until he spotted her and pulled up. He motioned to indicate
that he was just going to catch the snitch and come over to where she waited and took off at top
speed. Almost as if it knew the game was up the snitch hared off down the pitch, feinting high and
low. Harry followed its movements, never more than a fingers’ breadth away. He crisscrossed the
pitch twice in hard pursuit and Hermione watched, holding her breath, as it darted in over the
stands and he determinedly followed it. She saw it zoom along a line of seats directly towards her,
heard a buzzing *zip* as it whipped round behind her. Harry pulled up hard, stopping his broom
within inches, out of breath but grinning.

“Turn around, slowly, nice and smooth until you’ve got a bead on it. Stay real still and then
snatch. Go on, you can do it,” he coached.

She rolled her eyes but eased around, hearing more than seeing the buzzing golden-winged ball.
She hesitated a moment, stilling herself and trying to get a sense of its motion; then lunged.

She had it! She’d got it! The Snitch! It felt even smaller then she would have thought and
continued to flutter valiantly between her fingers, quivering.

“Good girl!” Harry laughed, green eyes alight. Hermione thought she’d catch a thousand snitches
to keep them that way. “I always knew you had the speed. If we could only get you on a broom…”

“I can sort of see what you like about that,” she told him. “Very satisfying somehow. But you
can just forget the whole broom bit, Potter. Not happening.”

He shrugged and dismounted into the stands to sit next to her, eyes on Ron. “He’ll be ages yet.
He won’t stop until he’s stopped Katie. Do you want to go ahead?”

“No. I’ll wait. Why can’t the rest of you go, though? Kirk and Sloper have been circling for a
quarter hour already.”

“Team solidarity, or so he claims. Doesn’t want the Slytherins to see us come off the pitch
except as a team. Daft git. They’re only looking for an opportunity to cheat, that lot. They could
care less what our morale is like.” He sighed and scrubbed at his eyes, rather uselessly with his
Quidditch gloves on. “He’s a great captain, though. Far better than I would have been.”

“You look tired,” she told him softly, and suddenly inspired, shifted to the row of seats behind
him and moved her fingers to the back of his neck. *Talk about tense.* “Make that wired. Nice
knots. No wonder you’re so cranky.”

“Am not cranky,” he said, his head literally falling forward. “When’m I ever cranky?”

“Harry, you blew a hole in the wall for goodness sake. Not to mention trying to legilimens
Dumbledore,” she informed him, lowering her hands to his shoulders. *Goodness. Even
tighter.*

“That wasn’t cranky, that was defensive. It’s your fault, really. Aren’t you, in your role as
official snoggee to the Boy-Who-Lived, meant to be, erm, relaxing me?”

“Isn’t that what I am, in fact, now doing?”

“Yeah, well… yeah. Umm, yeah, I would have to admit that in fact you are. Very ummhmm nicely,
too.”

Once he got over that whole uncertain-about-being-touched thing he really got over it, she
decided. Either that or no one had ever actually given him a back rub before. Although, come to
think of it, who would have? Hardly one of the Dursleys. She thought of all the moments of comfort
in her own life; her mother tracing the alphabet on her drowsy four year old back at nap time, her
fathers’ famous foot rubs. Adoring pats on the head and hair ruffling from her Grandfather while he
praised her report card, her Grandmother’s enveloping lavender-scented comfort. While small Harry
was shut up in his cupboard alone.

Grown Harry was pretty much putty in her hands at the moment.

She kneaded the tightness on either side of the base of his neck until she sensed him unwinding,
then ran her thumbs down beneath the ridge of his shoulder blades to the spring of his ribcage
below, slowly convincing the bunched muscles to relax. There was a particularly knotty bit on his
left side but he sucked in his breath and shifted away when she tried to press against it. For a
moment she thought it might be where the arrow had struck him, but it was the wrong side and too
far back. And she had healed that pretty well, if she did say it herself. “What’s that, Harry?”

“D’nno,” he said, settling back against her again like a dog seeking a good scratching. “Never
mind.”

She slipped her hand underneath his jersey and easily found the spot again, a hard lump spanning
two ribs, two or three fingers breadth from the ridge of his spine. He didn’t pull away when she
probed this time, but still stiffened beneath her hands.

“Harry? What *is* that?”

“Voldemort. He’s growing out my spine the way he did Quirell’s head.” He pretended to hiss.

“Not funny, Harry. Not even a bit.”

“It’s where Uncle Vernon jumped on me, when I was trying to get my wand out from under the
mattress the night I left Privet Drive. I couldn’t get up fast enough after he left and Dudley
kicked me in pretty much the same place. It’s alright, Hermione, it doesn’t hurt unless you push on
it. I’d forgotten it was even there. Really.” He sighed, figuring the admission meant an end to the
happy trance her fingers had been invoking.

Juxtaposed against her earlier thoughts it set her blood steaming and her fingers trembling.
‘*They aren’t muggles, those people,’* she thought. *‘They’re not even human.’*

“Ow! Merlin, Hermione, you’re the one who needs to relax now. Yikes.”

She shook off her thoughts and slipped her arms round him from behind, nuzzling apologetically
at his neck. “I’m sorry, Harry. For all of it. For not having your own Mum and Dad to grow up with,
for your nasty relatives and now for ruining your back rub.”

“S’okay, Hermione,” he reassured her, letting his head fall back against her shoulder. “Really.
I… we’ve got so much going on ahead of us now it’s just not worth looking back anymore. It’s done.
If I beat Voldemort I’ll never have to go back there, and if I don’t, well… I’ll never have to go
back there. Dumbledore knows that if I make it through this year I’m not going back next summer.
The protection may not be worth anything now that Voldemort shares my blood, anyway. And if I never
see Vernon or Dudley again it’ll be too soon. When I die I’ll know I did okay in my life if they’re
not wherever I end up.” He leaned in to kiss her gently just below her ear and she was sure he
could feel her pulse racing there. “Actually, I’ll know I lived a worthwhile life if I end up
wherever you do,” he whispered; she could both hear the words and feel them reverberate beneath her
fingers. She shivered and tightened her hold, unwilling to consider relinquishing him even to the
thought of finding him again later. Not now. Not yet. Not willingly *ever*.

The sun was setting and the evening’s chill setting in. It had finally occurred to Katie Bell to
start faking it, and she lobbed a couple of sneaky ones Ron’s way, attempting to look crushed when
he saved them.

“All right! Nothing’s going through there anytime soon. Let’s call it a day, team!” he called
happily. Kick and Sloper whooped and headed for the pitch while the girls exchanged smiles of
relief. Ron noticed Harry and Hermione in the stands and flew towards them. Harry reluctantly
pulled himself back upright and Hermione equally reluctantly let go.

“You’re supposed to be practicing,” Ron chastised Harry.

“Couldn’t,” he grinned. “Hermione caught the snitch.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “Is that another one of those double entry joke thingies for snogging your
girl on team time?”

Harry and Hermione met each other’s eyes and gave in to the urge to laugh themselves
senseless.

Ron groaned and flew back alone toward the broom shed. *Now* what had he said that was so
damn funny?


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

They reconvened in the library after dinner for another meeting of the detention of doom. Malfoy
was not invited.

“What if we actually need him?” Hermione fretted. “The Sorting Hat did say, ‘Four again must
walk these halls/And wake me from my rest.’”

“We’ve walked the halls with him.” Harry said darkly. “And I couldn’t have blown out the hole to
find the stupid thing without his….*help.* I think his bit’s done.”

“Unless he’s meant to wake it from its rest. It certainly hasn’t seemed to do much, has it?” Ron
pointed out.

“It’s a *window*, Ron. What’s it supposed to do?”

“Wake up! How the hell do I know? This isn’t exactly my thing, you know.”

“Oh no, it’s *my* thing, isn’t it?” Harry flared. “So sorry it’s boring you, having to
figure out something that’s meant to help defeat Voldemort. Let’s all just leave that to Saint
Potter and get back to Quidditch.”

“Whoa, Harry. That’s not what I meant, mate. What’s eating you?”

Hermione almost fell out of her chair. She’d been certain that Ron would rant right back at
Harry and the two would stomp off to their separate corners effectively ensuring nothing got done
once *again*. Yet there was Ron, being downright sensitive and concerned. What was up with
that?

Harry, being Harry, was oblivious. “Excuse me? What’s wrong? We’re stuck in this crap detention
that’s going to last forever while we all wait for some bloody window to wake up. Now Hermione
thinks I’m supposed to feel righteous and faithful every time I go through the front hall just in
case something decides to happen. Like what? Malfoy and his goons will faithfully push me down the
stairs while I’m righteously staring at the sodding thing is the most likely result of *that*
plan. That’s what’s wrong, Ron.”

“Maybe Ssstaint. Potter needsss to get a clue,” came a voice they knew only too well. Except it
did sound a *little* different with the forked tongue…

“Piss off, horny,” Ron snarled, sensitivity and concern diving for cover.

“I have a deal for you,” Malfoy lisped, eyes on Hermione.

“We’re not interested,” Harry told him.

“I sssuspect you would be, if you knew what I found out about your precioussss riddle.”

“Yeah, because you’re Mr. Reliable Research. I’m ssssure you sssspent hours coming up with
ssssomething. Did Sssnape help you?” Harry taunted him, eyes hard. “What kind of idiot would it
make me to deal with you after you and Pansy try to get me *expelled?*”

“The sssame kind asss alwaysss, idiot. I want thessse effing hornsss off. And the tongue gone.
I’ll trade for who erassssed the riddle from the divination hallway and what the messsssage they
were trying to remove ssssaid.”

“Yeah, right,” Ron scoffed. “How would we know you weren’t lying to us like every other time
we’ve been sssstupid enough to trust you? Forget it.”

“Because his horns wouldn’t grow!” Hermione pointed out, eyes lighting up. “If he lies to us
they’ll just get bigger.”

“Issss *that* what doessss it? Damn!” Malfoy appeared furious. “You evil little
*bitch*.”

Harry prepared to lunge, but Hermione was laughing so hard he couldn’t quite see leaping to her
defense.

“Sssso go on, Malfoy,” she gasped. “Tell ussss your little ssssecret!, Wait, should we measure
them first? How big a lie is it?”

“Look, at leasssst take the damn tongue off. If you don’t believe the sssstory you can leave the
hornssss.”

“Can’t. They’re linked. It’s all or nothing,” she told him.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and pulled out a chair, scoping out the room as he sat.

“It turnsss out it wasss a Sssslytherin that wrote on the wallsss over the ssstone where the
riddle wasss written. Thatsss how I found out. I asssked Ssssnape. There’sss old files in the
Ssssslytherin head’ssss office that lissst dentionsss and punissshmentss..

Professssor Forthcombe wasss the divination teacher then. Sssshe went into a transssse during
one of her classssess and predicted thissss.” He produced a slip of paper and handed it to
Hermione. “You read it Granger. Too many ssstupid sss words.”

Hermione took it and read aloud: “When the wheel of life spins once more a lion scarred by death
itself will rise, who speaks the language of snakes and bears the fangs of a dragon. He will follow
its path to begin his journey and he will strike down an immortal evil where it lies five times,
but the sixth time he will find it within himself. Only if the lion can vanquish his own darkness
will his seventh strike save him. If he cannot, the pretender has won, and by all that is sacred in
this world magic must die.”

“A group of Sssslytherins figured sssshe meant a Gryffindor and got together and wrote ‘fraud’
and ‘hoax’ and ‘charlatan’ and sssome other choisssse thingsss about divination in magical ink on
the wallsss of the hall that night. Professssor Forthcomb wasss very upssset when sssshe sssaw it
next day. Sssshe tried to *evenesssco* the ink and *blam*. No more wordsss, no more
riddle, no more Professssor Forthecombe. Sssshe walked out that very day.”

Ron’s mouth was gaping, stunned. Harry felt sick.

“What a load of utter nonsense,” was Hermione’s assessment, but her voice shook slightly and
Harry thought she did not sound quite as confident as he would have hoped.

“Hornsss!” said Malfoy. “Check them. Every word issss true.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t telling the truth, I said the whole story was the typical heap of
feeble rubbish whenever divination comes into the picture.”

“Sssstill, that’sss what happened to the inssscription in the hall. Asssk Dumbledore. Remember,
he didn’t sssay he didn’t know what happened to the inssscription, jussst that it wasss
‘curiousss.’ He’sss known all along. He just hasssn’t told *you*.”

“It must have happened long before Dumbledore was Headmaster,” Hermione pointed out.

“It happened long before Dumbledore wassss even here. Doesssn’t mean he doesssn’t know about it.
And now, I believe we had a deal?”

Hermione sighed and reached for her wand. *“Finite incantatem.”*

Malfoy’s horns fell off with twins *clunks* onto the table. He stuck out his tongue
eagerly, almost going cross-eyed trying to look down on it.

“It’s *fine*,” she said waspishly. “And you were just leaving.”

“My pleasure!” he snarled happily. See you later, scarface, Weaselbee. Happy window watching,
idiots.” He moved away quickly, heading for the door before she could change her mind.

“What the hell?” Ron said.

“We need to ask Dumbledore,” Hermione said decidedly.

“Not tonight,” Harry said. “I’m shattered. Let’s just call it a night, okay?” He began piling up
books and parchment, avoiding their eyes.

“You don’t believe a word of that nonsense, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“What does it matter anyway?” Ron said.

“A lion that speaks the language of snakes and bears the fang of a dragon? Hullo?” Harry rolled
his eyes at him.

“But it doesn’t really say anything. It’s just divination-speak for ‘bad things *might*
happen to you.’ Then again, a lion with a lisp and a dragon bite might have already done it.”
Hermione said. “So it just as easily might not.”

“And we sort of already knew bad stuff might happen to you,” Ron agreed. “Although the whole
‘magic must die’ stuff is a bit creepy to be sure.”

“Ron, if I fell off the astronomy tower tonight and Dumbledore came to you and said, ‘well, you
were his friend, it’s up to you now to defeat Voldemort,’ how would it make *you* feel?”

“But it’s not…, I mean, none of the prophecies or stuff like that is about me.”

“They’re not about *me* either. Maybe they’re meant to be about *another* Potter.
Probably one that was supposed to be born into a regular wizarding family and brought up prepared
and knowing about all this, not stuffed into a cupboard by muggles until the age of eleven. What
possesses anyone to think I can do this? Unless it really is so simple an idiot could do it, unless
there’s some missing piece of the puzzle like that window jumping into action and spelling out
“duck!” at just the right moment, we’re all toast and somehow you know it’ll be all my bloody
fault.”

The library had grown quiet as he spoke this last bit, Madam Pince and the rest of the students
slowly becoming aware of what he was saying. Into the silence at the end of his words there came
the distinct sound of a whimper, and a first year girl burst into tears. Hermione flashed him a
furious look and made her way to the table where the girl sat, crouching down beside her.

“He doesn’t mean it, any of it,” she said reassuringly. “It’s like before a potions exam, when
you feel all nervous and cranky because you can’t wait for it to be over. He’s just tired, really.
It’s okay.”

Harry fled.


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The best part about having Hermione as his dream keeper had been having her to himself every
night. The down side was not being able to flee to his bed, pull the covers over his head and hide
from the world. Harry wanted to be alone for a bit. The Room of Requirement was right out. His
choices within the castle were limited to braving the snoggers up the Astronomy tower or the layer
of droppings and busy nighttime comings and goings of the owlery.

Harry figured his appearance sans Hermione on the Astronomy tower would lead the other
inhabitants to believe he was actively channeling Voldemort and induce them to flee for their
lives. He wasn’t far off. He walked briskly out to the wall and stood quietly for a few moments in
full moonlight where he could be seen. There were numerous stirrings in the dark, like the
scrabbling of partially clothed mice upon the appearance of a hungry cat. The door slammed after
the last departing couple.

He sighed and moved away from the puddle of moonlight into the darkness and slid to the ground,
eyes filled with stars.

That was the second time today he’d heard a prediction of a future as a squib if he lived to
defeat Voldemort and he forced himself to look squarely at it now that he was alone. Being a wizard
had been the best thing that had ever happened to him; Hagrid’s assertion that he was ‘a wizard o’
course, an’ a thumpin’ good’un once yeh’ve been trained up a bit’ had changed his life forever. He
had secretly reveled in the power growing within him these last years, had loved learning to
channel and use it. It seemed to be a living part of him, no different than his heart or lungs.
Could he stand to have it ripped from him? Could he live without it? If it meant the lives of his
friends and the innocent people that Voldemort intended to kill he reckoned he’d have to… but it
sure made death a more enticing option *after*. He’d been envisioning living for Hermione.
Would she, could she, still truly love him if he lost his magic? Would he be little more than
tolerated by the Wizarding world, pitied for his uselessness? Would he be forced to live as a
Muggle? Fear and grief warred for his heart and the battle seared him. Tears welled and fell
unnoticed from his eyes, blurring the paths of the stars.

Why? Did it *have* to be? Dumbledore hadn’t seemed certain; he’d been suggesting that it
wouldn’t be possible to eradicate Voldemort without cost, but Harry felt as if by this point he
could stand almost anything other than losing Hermione or his magic.

*But what if that’s what it takes?* Then take the magic, he supposed. *And Hermione?*
She’d understand. Wouldn’t she? *Sure she would. She’d pity you, too. ‘Oh, here, Harry, let me…
Children, don’t pester Daddy, you know he can’t do magic.’*

Children? Where the hell did *they* come from?

Without magic, he’d never fly again.

He heard the door open and close; saw the brief flickering shadow cross to where he sat.

She sat down beside him.

“What is it? It seems stupid to ask with everything you’re worried about, but there’s something
new, isn’t there?” she asked softly. Her eyes probed his face through the darkness.

“Hermione, don’t answer this right off, think about it. Really think. If something happened to
my magic, if I survived Voldemort but my magic didn’t and I was for all intents and purposes a
squib, could you still love me?”

He’d asked her to think about it, but her quietness hurt him nonetheless. It could only have
been minutes; it felt like hours.

“Harry, I’m trying to be as honest as I can. I won’t say it wouldn’t hurt me, that I wouldn’t
have regrets for you or wish it could be different, but yes. I love *you*, not your magic, and
not because you’re a wizard, weak or strong. I feel as if it’s all tied up in you and I wonder what
it would do to you to lose it, but I don’t think I could stop loving you now, even if I wanted to.
Does that help?”

It should have been a relief but his heart still felt heavy, weighted with the knowledge of what
it would mean to both of them.

“It’s no different than the prophecy, Harry,” she said at last, her voice low and urgent. “It’s
not what will be, it’s what *could* be. The truth of what your life will be is up to you; and
me if you’ll let me help. Maybe there’s a way to make sure that’s not the outcome. Don’t just
accept it until there truly is no other choice.”

“I’m not,” he told her. “But Dumbledore said almost the same thing earlier today. Actually that
was only part of it; he seemed to think there were all sorts of possibilities, like ending up with
all of Voldemort’s powers and being consumed by them. I never really thought past being scared
shiteless or dying before this, I don’t know what to think now. I don’t know which is worse, what
to want anymore. None of it seems any good; being a squib might be the best of a bad lot. I don’t
want to beat him just to become him, I know that.”

“You couldn’t. I honestly don’t believe you could. There’s too much in you that’s good for
that.”

“Hermione?” he found her hand in the darkness and held it, forcing his fingers not to tighten.
“If anything goes wrong, if you see me…becoming what you know I hate…”

“No!” she said fiercely. “Don’t ask me, because I can’t. I will do *anything* else for you,
Harry, but not that. Ask Ron if you have to. I can’t promise you that.”

“Okay.”

She crawled into his lap and slipped her arms around him, tear streaks reflected in the faint
light. “No! Don’t ask him. *Please* don’t.”

“Dumbledore would, I think. I’m just afraid the first person I’d… I broke into his mind,
Hermione, what if I could hurt him? I need someone to do it fast and sure if anything goes wrong.
That’s just not Ron’s style.”

They were both silent a moment, forehead to forehead.

“Maybe I should ask Malfoy. He’d do me in right quick.”

She hit him, surprisingly hard, thumping both fisted hands against his chest. “Shut up! *Shut
up*. It’s not funny, or brave or anything. It’s…”

“Realistic. Logical. All the things *you’re* supposed to be.”

“Yeah, well if you don’t have to be *that* Harry Potter all the time I don’t have to be
*that* Hermione either,” she informed him, and with the same reflexes she’d used to capture
the snitch captured his mouth instead. Nothing else about squibs or Ron finishing him off before he
could succumb to Voldemort’s magic was coming between those lips the rest of that night if she had
anything to do with it. She had a limited range of permissible sounds in mind and he was making one
of them right now, a low sort of growly-pleased noise that she really liked and was determined not
to lose to any freaking reconstituted Dark Lord. It was her second favorite, right after
*that* one, the sort of pleading oh-don’t-stop one that she also felt very possessive of. Or
there was always the one where she reached down and touched him right there… Maybe that one was her
favorite after all. That one had a particularly nice bodily response to accompany it. No, this was
infinitely preferable to their previous discussion, and the nagging little voice in her head that
said he had been the mature one for once, considering the possibilities, and she was doing what she
so often accused him of and dodging the future could just get *stuffed*.


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A/N: Those of you that read this chapter before will notice a change here. I’ve left this story
almost entirely as it was except for cleaning up typos or inaccuracies where I could spot them, but
first time round the inimitable and awesome Anne U found a major goof here. I needed to fix it, but
I have fixed it with the inescapable knowledge of HBP now firmly entrenched in my brain. So no – I
was in no way prescient. The new verbage ‘*When the wheel of life spins once more a lion scarred
by death itself will rise, who speaks the language of snakes and bears the fangs of a dragon. He
will follow its path to begin his journey and he will strike down an immortal evil where it lies
five times, but the sixth time he will find it within himself. Only if the lion can vanquish his
own darkness will his seventh strike save him. If he cannot, the pretender has won, and by all that
is sacred in this world magic must die’ is* meant to mean Voldemort’s seven horcruxes. It won’t
change any of the major facts of the story though, because we sort of knew what was coming anyway,
just not the specifics

Of course it’s going to turn out all right in the end anyway, because we all know that Magic
Never Dies.



23. Chapter 23
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 23


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Harry was dragging the next morning, his brain worn down with sorting through the various
permutations his fate now seemed to offer and his body feeling thoroughly worked over, if not
necessarily in the usual Quidditch-practice-type places. He felt as if he was trying to make his
way through a misty marsh, slogging knee deep through uncertain waters into places he could not
quite see. He was for once quite glad to find his next class to be History of Magic.

“You are such a goner, mate,” Ron laughed at him as they claimed their usual seats. “I give you
less than five minutes awake and aware after Binns gets warmed up.”

“Optimist,” Dean Thomas chipped in from Ron’s other side. “I’d put my money on three, starting
the minute Binns floats through the wall.”

“How is it that you aren’t falling over?” Harry asked Hermione suspiciously. “You were up er,
*studying* every bit as late as I was.”

“Quidditch training clearly isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You simply have no endurance,” she
replied sweetly, pulling fresh parchment and a quill from her bag.

“*Cough* did all the work *cough* just lie there and scream *cough*,” hacked
Harry into his hand.

Her lips twitched. “We’ll see about that, then. I think I can manage to top *your*
astronomy skills next time.”

“I thought you guys left off astronomy last year,” Neville said from Hermione’s other side. “I
heard they were going easier since so many people trolled the practical fifth year. D’you think I
should try it for an elective next term?”

“Absolutely. I’ve found it very fulfilling up there this time round.” Harry told him, straight
faced. “I keep telling Ron he should give it a go.”

“La la la,” said Ron, his fingers stuffed in his ears.

“It’s Luna, Ron, not Lala. L-u-n-a. She won’t like it if you get her name wrong.”

Dean seemed to perk up and Neville looked bemused.. “Lovegood? The Ravenclaw? You dog, Ron.
Since when?” Dean asked, and Harry leaned back in his seat, his work done. Binns drifted through
wall notes in hand to begin his lecture and Harry felt his eyelids droop.


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She’d noticed Harry drifting, saw that his forehead was propped in his hand, looking down as
though studiously taking notes. His quill had stopped moving some while ago, but she noticed his
hand twitching oddly now, as if not quite in control.

“Harry!” she whispered fiercely, and surreptitiously thrust her right elbow against his left. It
knocked the arm that propped him out from under him and his head hit the desk with a solid
*thunk* that echoed throughout the classroom. Even Professor Binns looked up from his
notes.

“Wake up!” she hissed.

His head came up off the desk and turned toward her, eyes black and fathomless. “Are you really
so sure you want him to, *MUDBLOOD?*”

Hermione knew those eyes; Harry’s worst nightmare had come to pass. Voldemort was loose in
Hogwarts. Inside of him.

There was no point in being subtle; this time Harry had two functional arms and a wand he didn’t
even really need. Hermione scrabbled for her own wand in her bag beneath her desk while loudly and
shakily declaring, “VOLDEMORT! It’s not Harry, it’s VOLDEMORT! RUN!” even as he reached across and
grabbed hold of her by her hair.

Pandemonium should have ensued but it took Harry’s body physically wrenching Hermione from her
seat and pointing his wand directly at her heart for her words to actually bear fruit. Students
suddenly ran, crying and screaming from the room, some actually dropping their wands in their haste
just to get out. Binns faded quietly back through the chalkboard. The empty black eyes never
wavered from her own.

Ron, deeper asleep than Harry, came to as the stampede began and blearily took in Harry’s wand
and its target.

“What the hell, Harry?” he asked, eyes widening.

“It’s *not* Harry Ron!” Hermione said fiercely. “Run!”

“Let her go!” Ron protested, only beginning to understand the danger,

“I think not,” said a voice that was definitely not Harry’s, though Harry’s lips moved. This
voice was high and cold and devoid of anything identifiably human. “Be a good little Weasley and go
and tell that doddering old fool that his precious Potter is *dead*, and the mudblood is next
unless he brings what I want to the Entrance Hall. He’ll know what you speak of.”

“I…I…I…” Ron babbled, then took a deep breath, his eyes on Hermione. “I’m not…”

*“GO!”* hissed the awful voice in Harry’s body.

“Ron, go, please!” Hermione begged, and he heard in her voice her faith that Dumbledore could do
*something.*

He went, backing out of the History of Magic classroom.

“I’m sorry Hermione, I …”

*“NOW!”*

Harry’s wand pointed in his direction and a sharp pulse of red light splintered the desk in
front of Ron. The sound frightened him but at the same time managed to awake all the dormant
instincts Harry had been attempting to foster in the DA. Without actually pausing to think, more of
a reflex, Ron whipped out his own wand and fired off a blasting curse directed at Harry’s left leg,
as far from where he held Hermione as he could get. Voldemort was unbelieving that he would have
*dared* and thus unprepared; the spell hit Harry and Hermione heard his cry of pain mixed with
Voldemort’s scream of rage. Taking a still firmer grip on Hermione’s hair he pointed Harry’s wand
after Ron, performing a series of vicious swishes and slashes. Spells shot across the room with the
swiftness of gunfire; Ron ducked and disappeared through the door.

“You liar,” she hissed. “He’s not dead. I *heard* him. Leave him alone!”

Harry’s body looked up from inspecting the damage to his leg and without speaking or allowing
the tiniest flicker of emotion to cross his face dropped her hair and flicked a wordless spell at
her, flinging her weightlessly into the desk behind her. Not stopping for an instant to register
her pain or fear Hermione rolled and dove for her book bag and her wand.

No words were spoken again, no spell shouted; she was suddenly simply paralyzed and fell
woodenly forward to the floor. Her wand rolled along the ancient boards, warped and worn through
centuries of use, and disappeared under Binns’ podium.

Voldemort/Harry limped forward and pulled her up by the hair again. “*Finite incantatem”*
he snarled. “Look at me.”

Hermione felt what must have been a petrificus recede and dizzily lifted her head to see a face
she dearly loved contorted by hate.

“This is for you. This is what *you* wrought, thinking you know what magic is, or that you
have even the smallest right to use it. Cleverest witch of your age, show me your power now. Show
me what good your precious *love* can do against *real* magic.”

The staring black eyes blinked and the blown pupils slowly retracted, revealing green. Harry’s
own hand seemed to fight with itself, wrestling down to the desk before him to splay flat against
its surface while his other hand leveled his wand toward it. His whole body began fighting itself
now, jerking and reeling. Twice he managed to pull back from the desk, twice more he was forced
close. He was sweating now and his leg bleeding profusely with the struggle.

Hermione inched her way a long the floor toward her wand, moving only when it seemed the battle
within him was going Harry’s way. She was almost there when the flare of red spellfire crackled
toward her. She heard Harry’s voice call out her name once in panic and turning toward him surely
saved her; she smelled singed hair and felt a lash of pain in her shoulder, heard rather than saw
the power of the spell slice through the podium with enough residual force to sever it from its
stand. The top crashed to the floor, further blocking her path to her wand and tears of frustration
joined the ones of pain already stinging her eyes.

The battle for Harry surged on; Voldemort forced him toward her where she lay, Harry threw his
body backwards into the long, glass-doored bookcase that housed all Binns’ treasured histories,
shattering them and toppling the combined weight of wizards noble deeds and their callous misuse of
magic over them both. They wrestled amongst the books and broken glass and Hermione took her chance
to try and move the heavy mahogany book rest of the broken podium clear of her goal. The verbal
fight at least was growing somewhat more even; Hermione heard Harry responding now to more of
Voldemort’s rhetoric as control wavered between them.

“Pathetic accident of nature, it is *my* power within you.”

“Get out of me. Get *out*. If you’re so all bloody powerful why’d you have to sneak into
Hogwarts inside of *me*, you great slimy…”

“Be *silent*, you filthy corruption. I will have it back today. I *will* know what
Dumbledore has kept from me for all these years…”

“He’ll tell you nothing. Kill me and he’ll tell you the same…”

“He thinks to influence me with the feeble threat of *you*, when his only real secret is
the founders’…”

“He’s worth two of you without any secrets at all…”

Voldemort won control of Harry’s wand hand then and turned it on Hermione just as she had
managed to snake her hand under the fallen podium. Her fingers scrambled desperately for her wand,
there was no way to pull her arm out fast enough to escape; perhaps if she could manage a blasting
charm to blow away the…

“*Avada*…”

“No…” she whispered, unable to stand that *this* should be her end.

“No!” Harry howled, and hurled his wand across the floor, toward her.

She reached her other hand toward it just as another silent spell sent it careening off out of
reach.

Her fingers closed on her own wand beneath the toppled stand and she closed her eyes so that she
could not see it was Harry who was her target. Her lips moved to the words as silently as possible,
to anxious to even attempt a wordless incantation. “*Petrificus* *totallus**.”*

Time slowed as she heard Voldemort laugh, as she saw him almost effortlessly despite Harry’s
struggles to stop it lift Harry’s hand in the line of her spell. It glowed briefly as it hit and
rebounded back upon her, seemingly returning the speed and force of the earth’s rotation with it.
It hit before she could begin to move and she was frozen once more.

It wasn’t *fair*. How could they fight that, how could anyone? How was it possible to be
that evil and yet that… lucky? Suddenly Harry’s dreams, his terrors of failing strength and feeble
spells, of crying ‘time out’ to gather his wits and breath made so much sense. How had she though
she could ever best this? And how unfair was it that only her eyes could move, so that they could
not help but take in what he was doing *now*.

Harry was on the floor, still fighting. One arm was shuddering its way across the floor towards
his wand, the other was around his own throat, tightening convulsively. His lips trembled but no
sound came out. His eyes were focused unflinchingly on her own, and she was both hopeful and
totally repulsed to see that one was now green, one blown and black. It was as if they had each
claimed a portion of his brain; the arm opposite the green eye was the one inching its way to the
wand, the one opposite the black slowly strangling him.

She was sure the green one was trying to tell her something as his body arched in agony off the
floor. The black one sparked in victory.

“Mine!” Voldemort cackled at her. “Not yours. *Mine*.”

“RIDDLE!” came a thunderous cry from the hall outside the classroom. “SHOW YOURSELF!”

*Dumbledore…* Hermione almost sobbed with relief but cut herself short, determined to
understand what she thought Harry was trying to tell her before he was submerged by Voldemort
again. His fingers only reluctantly released his throat, leaving swiftly purpling marks behind and
it occurred to her Voldemort could not be planning to engage in much of a duel with Dumbledore if
he was so willing to incapacitate his already injured host. What was he up to? Harry’s eye implored
her but she could already see him slipping from the forefront of his own mind. His body drew itself
to its knees and crawled across the glass and ruined books toward her, retrieving his wand. She
felt herself wrenched forward, her hair snared once more in an iron grip. That the hands that could
touch her so gently and bring her such pleasure could exert such cruel force as well was almost
more than she could bear.

“*Finite,*” Harry’s lips hissed, and he pulled her to her feet.

She made her way struggling fiercely out into the hall, found herself pushed along the hallway
to the head of the stairs down to the Entrance Hall. Dumbledore and the four Heads of House stood
across the landing at the foot of the stairs to the hall that led to Dumbledore’s office. Hermione
could make out Ron behind McGonagall and Snape, who at least made an imposing backup for
Dumbledore. Flitwick and Sprout, able wizards though they might be, were hardly likely to
intimidate on looks alone. That fact that both were visibly shaken was no help at all.

“You break faith already,” Dumbledore asserted, his voice reverberating across the empty Hall.
“The boy is not dead.”

*He knows!* she thought.

“Would you have come for any other?” sneered Harry’s empty face.

“Any other. I would come for any of them. They are children, Tom.”

“They are corruption in the act, if not accomplished. It makes no difference. Though I credit
you Albus, this one is a pleasure to… *inhabit.* Such power for an empty-headed means to an
end.”

“He’s not a means to an end!” Hermione spat. “He’s *Harry*.”

The wand raised toward her again but faltered once more, and Hermione did not miss the flicker
of annoyance in the black eyes. *Harry was in there, he was still struggling to fight back,*
she thought. *Make sure they all remember that, they haven’t seen what you have.*

“Mr. Weasley told me I was to bring what you wanted to the Entry Hall, Tom. But what is it?
“

“I am *not* Tom Riddle. He is as dead as your puppet will be. And you *know* what I
seek, Dumbledore.”

“I am afraid,” Dumbledore said firmly and quietly, “that I do not.”

“The *pageless* story! The Founder’s secret. I will be done with this meddlesome brat at
last.”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore calmly, nodding. “I see. It is before you.”

Harry’s face with the burning eyes so not his own swung from side to side, searching.

His wand quivered in trembling hands, swung up and released a bright burst directly at his own
face. Hermione saw his head manage to dodge just before the beam hit, glancing off beneath his ear.
*Harry is going to be a mess when this is over. But it WILL be over. He’s fought so hard, we’ve
made it this far. There must be a way to make it stop. Think, Hermione, THINK.*

“I *will* kill him!” Voldemort howled.

“You will *NOT*.” Dumbledore howled back, and raised his own wand with a singing, metallic
*ping* that rang throughout the halls. “It is only his body you control. Only one soul can go
free if you do. Are you so certain it will be yours, Tom? Is this truly the way you wish it to
end?”

Voldemort began to laugh then. It was the most hideous sound she could ever remember hearing,
high and mirthless and only too sure.

“Oh yes, Dumbledore. It is. And I am quite, quite certain that I shall go on long after your
mortal little toy is but a bloody husk.”

She saw the Headmaster seem to blanch and his wand lowered slowly. *He knows something,*
she thought. *Or suspects it.*

“It is before you. The window. Do you remember one there when you were at Hogwarts, Tom?
*That* is the pageless story they found, although what tale it tells I can not say.”

The black eyes swung to the window. The light streaming through for a moment turned the black
eyes red with in its reflection and Voldemort’s face was fully revealed in Harry’s, as if the bones
and skin themselves gave way. There was a moment of absolute silence as he studied it; Hermione
seized the opportunity to try and jerk away. The iron grip upon her hair never faltered, the eyes
never turned from their mark. She turned toward Dumbledore and the others, trying to discern their
plan. It was certainly well masked if they had one. Ron met her gaze, looked purposefully away down
the stairs and back. She followed his lead in hope, but saw only Malfoy starting to climb them from
below. She had thought the students all cordoned off in their houses; Malfoy, as always, clearly
had to be special. Voldemort appeared to take no notice of him, eyes darting feverishly around the
segmented shape of the window as if attempting to discern some pattern in its myriad colors. If
there was one there, she had never found any trace of it. Why didn’t they *do* something
*now?*

McGonagall’s wand twitched but to no apparent result; the others all hesitated.

Hermione felt the hand upon her hair suddenly shudder and convulse and seized the opportunity to
pull free. That’s what McGonagall had done! *And Harry had seen it or felt it!*

She heard Ron shout “Run, Hermione!” but turned instead and launched herself toward her best
friend. He was covered in glass and slick with both sweat and blood but she had become expert at
capturing those lips, and swallowing her revulsion at the thought of their temporary controller
kissed him as she had done weeks ago in the cave, with everything she had inside and for all she
was worth. She remembered what he had said about Voldemort fleeing from her touch and was only too
aware he had only ever touched her willingly by her hair since possessing him. She ran her hands
everywhere she could reach, touching every inch of him she could. Glass tinkled to the floor, her
hands prickled and bled. *Harry. It’s Harry. This is for Harry. Get out!*

She sensed far more resistance this time than ever before; the body beneath her fingers seemed
literally to be wrestling with itself muscle by muscle and several times he seemed to gag almost to
the point of choking against her lips. She hoped that was a good thing. She clung to him harder
when his hands seemed as if they would push her away, waiting, dying, for a sign that Harry knew
what she was trying to do.

He stumbled and they went down at the top of the stairs, rolling dangerously near the top step
in a travesty of passion. Hermione felt her strength waning, her faith failing; she wasn’t strong
enough to fight him. Why wasn’t it working? Please, *please*, couldn’t something go right,
someone somewhere take their side for once? What was Dumbledore playing at? Why did he wait?

There was clearly a battle raging inside Harry, she just had no sense that her own efforts were
helping at all. Then she heard a choked “Hermione,” followed by “filth, stinking, tainted, *you
will not*,” then “I WILL!” in Harry’s own voice, loud and clear.

He pushed her away. Harry himself, eyes green and frantic, pushed her away, hard, as the
momentum of the battle within his own body lurched the other way, down the long stone staircase to
the door of the Great Hall. He fell backward with a bone crunching thud, rolling and falling on
before Dumbledore once more cast a spell to slow his fall. The first missed, the second caught him
just short of Malfoy, who had been watching open-mouthed from the lower steps. Instead of slowing
him the spell seemed to sharply halt his forward motion, like a dog abruptly reaching the end of
its leash. He crashed into Draco, bringing them both down, and was still.

“Miss Granger, do NOT move.” Dumbledore instructed, and he was suddenly behind her as quickly
and smoothly as if he had apparated there. Of course he couldn’t have, because Hogwarts, a History
said so. *Why didn’t it warn you about the rest?*

He handed her off to McGonagall, who didn’t even attempt to lead her away, simply finished
helping her to her feet and straightening her robes, watching avidly right along with her. Snape
pushed past them and followed Dumbledore cautiously down the first two steps, wand extended. Ron
came and stood at her other side.

Harry began to stir and rolled to his side clear of Malfoy, struggling to push himself upright
on shaking arms, blinking and peering nearsightedly up the stairs, glasses lost in the fall.
“Hermione?” he called anxiously, just as Snape hit him squarely with a *stupefy**.*

“You *BASTARD*,” Hermione screamed, all sense of restraint and decorum shattered.
McGonagall clapped her own hand across Hermione’s mouth, knowing that to voice a rebuke at this
point would be less than useless. Hermione pulled it away angrily, unable to stop. “Traitor! How
could you do that, it was *Harry!* He was trying so hard…”

“One can never be too sure with the Dark Lord.” Snape said smoothly to Dumbledore’s questing
gaze. “And after that, he would only leave Potter if he believed him dead. Clearly he is not, so I
suspect something else. I suggest we *mobile corpus* both of them up to Pomfrey
immediately.”

Dumbledore nodded his agreement, but stepped forward before him to cast the spell on Harry’s
immobile form himself. Snape flicked his wand at Draco and led the way.

“If you three would be so kind as to join us,” Dumbledore requested tiredly of McGonagall,
Hermione and Ron as they passed.


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Harry had never been fond of the Hospital Wing on previous visits, but Ron reckoned this one
would put anyone off for life. For one, the atmosphere was undeniably dark, fraught and on-edge,
with most of the staff gathered anxiously just outside the door and asking unanswerable questions.
Professor McGonagall was attempting to deal with them.

Madam Pomfrey was not at all happy with the general stress level invading her well ordered
domain and appeared ready to blow. Only Dumbledore, Snape, Hermione and Ron had been allowed in,
Hermione because Madam Pomfrey insisted on examining her as well and Ron because Dumbledore had
requested it. All of which was insignificant, really, against the fact that Harry had been
magically bound to his bed in an extremely thorough manner by Snape. Madam Pomfrey kept having to
send Ron round the curtain to retrieve the Potions professor to loosen or remove one of the spells
during the course of her examination and treatment. It was probably quite a good thing he seemed
oblivious to it all.

Madam Pomfrey finally threw back the curtains herself. “That is *it!* Professor Snape, I
really must insist you simply remove the spells until I am finished. For Merlin’s sake, the boy
could hardly throw off a first year’s *petrificus* in the shape he’s in, possessed or not! I
can not work like this. I am quite capable of restraining my own patients.”

Dumbledore came over then and had a long look at Harry, who was still under Snape’s original
*stupefy* as well as the variety of binding and tethering charms and, as Madam Pomfrey had
pointed out, was hardly likely to be able to move in any case.

“Take them off, Severus. He’s quite out of it for the moment and it’s best Poppy care for him
while that is the case.”

Snape removed the binding spells, shaking his head. “The Dark Lord does not play by others’
rules, Albus.”

“He doesn’t play by others’ rules? He doesn’t *play* at all. How can you even speak of him
like that? There’s that little bit of admiration you just can’t hide, can you, he still awes you.
He is *evil incarnate*.” Hermione ground out at him furiously. Ron heard himself make an
inarticulate sound that could have been construed either as support or terror.

Snape looked at her with only too apparent contempt and continued. “He must be restrained,
perhaps kept in dreamless sleep until…”

“No! He *begged* you. You know that he’s helpless then…” Hermione interjected.

“If he is in a *dreamless* state there is no danger…” Snape spoke over her.

“It isn’t a dream, it’s not the dreams, it’s the vulnerability of sleep…” She raised her voice
over his.

“Potter has proved he is no match…” Snape raised his voice as well.

“He’d done it! He’d done it by the time he pushed me back, it was *Harry* you
stupefied…”

“WILL YOU BE *QUIET!* You have no idea what you are talking about. There is no textbook for
this, you silly little girl!” Snape finally turned on her and spat.

“*What* did you call me?” Hermione breathed.

Ron noticed, in the middle of it all, that Dumbledore’s worried eyes regained some of their
spark at that exact moment.

“As if throwing yourself at him was any help at all, of all the hare-brained ideas…” Snape
sneered.

“Think about it, you bitter, *twisted* little man,” she bit out, completely beside herself.
“Voldemort *hates* mudbloods. He *despises* me. He’s found Harry and I together before,
and it disgusts him. What better way to force him out than his own prejudice? He couldn’t even
bring himself to *touch* me except by my hair, and then only because he wanted to hurt Harry.
Anything honest and selfless revolts him, but he fools himself to believe he won’t sully his hands
with a muggle born. What else could be more powerful against him?”

“She has,” Dumbledore concurred calmly, “an excellent point, Severus. While we have been
attempting to arm young Harry with warrior spells and skills, Miss Granger has been pursuing a
different path with him altogether. As long as the demon is in fact *within* him, all the
weapons in the magical world will not assist him in his battle.”

“Albus, you can not be serious, she…”

“Deserves a chance. And I believe our respect,” he admonished gravely. “It took great courage,
and great love, to turn away from her own freedom and confront her worst fear in Harry. I think you
underestimate Miss Granger.”

Snape’s black eyes burned, his face appeared paler than ever. “It is a *ridiculous*
idea.”

“It is not, as we all know, any final answer, but it certainly was more effective under the
circumstances today than anything I myself could think of. Or you, Severus, if I may be so bold as
to suggest it. She weakened Voldemort’s hold on Harry without injuring him further. And it
*was* Harry you stupefied, Severus; surely even you can admit that. I think it is you who
should enervate him now.”

“And bring Voldemort back into the castle?”

“It will be Harry,” said Hermione positively. Ron edged away from the bed.

“The blame will be mine if we are wrong, Severus. Please proceed.” Dumbledore told him firmly.
Madam Pomfrey stepped back as well.

Snape rolled his eyes and pointed his wand. Hermione noticed he did not move any further from
the bed. *He knows*, she thought.

“*Enervate,”* he intoned resentfully.

There was a harsh, rattling gasp of indrawn breath and Harry’s eyes flew open. Unfocussed and
watery, but dearly, familiarly green. He swallowed once, appearing to watch them watching him. His
eyes wandered fretfully from Snape to Dumbledore to Madam Pomfrey, and finally found what they
sought.

“Hermione… Ron…” They closed again in relief, exhausted. Hermione moved forward anxiously,
reaching toward him. Snape prodded Harry’s leg with his wand and they flew back open, still green
and now alarmed.

“Tell us, Potter, is he quite gone?”

Harry’s expression grew thoughtful, and one hand moved shakily to his scar. “He’s not with me.
But he’s not far, either.”

“It makes sense that Voldemort would attempt to draw close to Hogwarts if he believed he could
use Potter as a stepping stone, or diversion,” Snape said grudgingly. “We should prepare at once.
Search Hogsmeade and reinforce the castle’s defenses.”

Dumbledore nodded and said softly, “Perhaps you will notify the Order? We should see if any of
our mutual acquaintances have anything to report.”

Snape turned in a swirl of black robes and made for the door.


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Madam Pomfrey visibly relaxed after Snape left. She gave Hermione a cooling poultice for the
lump on her head where she had connected with the desk and another for the burn on her shoulder.
She even allowed Ron to stay and sit on the end of her bed beside Harry’s.

She tutted in her usual manner over Harry, repairing as best she could the damage Ron’s spell
had wrought (‘nice one,’ Harry congratulated him, wincing,) and the results of tumbling down the
stairs into Draco, who was still blessedly silent and unmoving on the next bed. She cast an
*evenesco* to rid him of the glass still winking and shining from his clothing, ridding him
just as swiftly of all its many splinters. His eyes watered and a string of curses hovered in the
air, powerfully thought if unspoken.

“All this having the Dark Lord in control is just not good for you,” she scolded him, handing
him a dose of Pepper-Up potion. Harry eyed her incredulously and she made fierce drinking-up
motions. “It takes tremendous wear and tear on your innards, young man. Whatever is keeping that…
*thing* alive seems not to operate by any normal rules of the wizardly body, and each time he
has left his stamp on you.”

“That’s it then,” Harry said, laying back with a groan. “No more being the Voldemort hotel for
me.”

“That was a damn scary thing, Harry,” Ron admitted. “I woke up in Binns’ classroom and you had
Hermione by the hair with a wand to the heart. Nearly stopped *mine*, you did.”

“That *wasn’t* Harry, Ron. That’s the point, isn’t it.” Hermione said, exasperated and sick
to think he would inadvertently start Harry on the road to self recrimination *already*.

“Erm, yeah, I know, I just meant…”

“It’s okay,” Harry told him dejectedly. “It was my body, anyway. I was just still too bloody
feeble to kick Voldemort out of it before he got what he wanted.”

“But he *didn’t,* Harry,” Ron said earnestly. “I don’t think he had a clue what the
window’s meant to reveal either. He certainly seemed confused enough and frustrated by it.”

“First good the bloody thing’s done. With my luck I would have thought it’d hear his voice and
immediately start spitting *more* glass.”

“He thought it was going to tell him something, like the prophecy, some missing piece about how
to finally end the struggle between you two.” Hermione told him. “He seemed very… frustrated. Or
disappointed, perhaps, that there was nothing to see.”

“That makes two of us, then,” Harry said. He let his eyes droop closed. “I just want this to
stop, this bit of it more than anything. I can’t *stand* it. I honestly think it will shove me
off the deep end if he ever does it again. I’d jump off the astronomy tower to get him out of me
next time, and he knows it.”

His eyes opened again, flicked from Madam Pomfrey, who was checking over Draco on the next bed,
and back to Hermione. “I know what you were thinking, Hermione,” he whispered. “It wasn’t you. You
did everything right, he was responding to you the same as always. It was me, I just wasn’t strong
enough. I don’t want… promise me you won’t ever try that again. He *will* kill you, you really
rile him. There’s disgust there, but there’s a tiny bit of fear and something *else* as well.
You’ve got his attention now and there’s no difference in him, killing is good as… as good as I
think it gets for him. You saved me this time, I couldn’t have done it without you loosening his
hold, but promise me, *promise*, that you won’t ever do it again. He’ll be ready.”

“Then we’ll just have to make sure that the connection between you is closed. For good.”
Hermione declared, far more firmly than she felt. She had begun to understand his fear today; so
much of what he had faced alone, like the night in the graveyard fourth year when Voldemort
regained his body and Harry was forced to look him in those red eyes, was clearer and far more
immediate to her now.

“He’d better skip History of Magic for the rest of the term, then,” Ron decided.

There was a wooden *thunk* from the bedside beyond Harry’s; their eyes moved in unison to
find Madam Pomfrey stupefied upon the floor.

“Never mind, *Potter*,” came a voice they knew only too well from the bed. “I’ve found a
*willing* volunteer to help me. And we both think its past time for you and your little
friends to die.”


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24. Chapter 24
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 23


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“Never mind, *Potter*,” came a voice they knew only too well from the next bed. “I’ve found
a *willing* volunteer to help me. And we both think it is past time for you and your little
friends to die.”


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Even as his brain registered the danger of Voldemort dwelling in Malfoy’s body on the next bed
over in the Hogwarts infirmary, Harry simultaneously knew an enormous surge of relief. Finally the
evil he was meant to fight was not holed up in his own brain, it was *over* *there*.
Harry could deal with over there. His scar throbbed with the closeness but did not sear with the
blinding knife-like pain of possession and even as he wrestled himself upright to block Hermione
behind him he began to feel that for once this year he just might actually have a fighting
chance.

“First time a Malfoy ever volunteered for anything,” Ron said furiously. “Figures.” He whipped
his wand from his robes and ducked down behind Harry’s bed, maneuvering toward the end.

Harry realized it might actually be Voldemort controlling things but Ron *saw* Malfoy and
he wasn’t afraid of the ferret, a plus he definitely hadn’t counted on.

He slid off the far side of his bed, trying to stay in front of Hermione, his eyes darting
around the room for anything that could be used to their advantage. He decided they stood a far
better chance just about anywhere else; the infirmary was full of things he was quite sure he
didn’t want flying at him – he’d tasted too many of them before and they had some interesting
effects. Best to make for the halls and see if they could lure him outside of the castle.

“You must be pretty desperate, to rely on Malfoy for transportation,” he said boldly, stalling
for time. “As a chronic liar – and you know I already know all about your Muggle Dad, Mr. Pureblood
- how do you go about entrusting your soul to another liar?”

“Oh, I know what’s inside *this* one’s empty little head,” Malfoy’s own mouth hissed.
“Before you start thinking you have any recourse Potter, know that I am here to *finish* you.
You have far outlived any usefulness you may have had distracting the Ministry from my movements
now. Malfoy minor was always meant to be my escape when I destroyed you; it was, shall we say, the
very *least* he could do. You have changed nothing.”

“Still can’t quite risk that feeble excuse you call your own body, can you?” Harry forced out as
a laugh, backing slowly. Ron was still crouched down by the end of the bed, waiting. If Harry could
maneuver Malfoy just a little further…

“Enough!” Voldemort cried from Malfoy’s lips, and put his wand into action.

Hermione had already seen the scatter-gun effect of his spell casting in the History of Magic
classroom. What she couldn’t quite grasp was Harry’s response to it now. Shields and counters
seemed to surge from his wand without a word; he appeared to quickly visualize the thrust of
Voldemort’s strategy in working the room around them and responded to it without hesitation. She
could see him maneuvering to find a way to both shield Ron and yet cover for him at the same time
even as he worked out an escape route, still keeping her behind him.

Clearly, whoever he’d been working with in that warded classroom had known their stuff, for she
could see him making use of things with a faith in his instincts she’d never seen more than flashes
of working with the DA. Ron’s spells were mostly blocked but they were strong enough and persistent
enough to keep Malfoy pinned near his own bed and responding. It bought them the little time they
needed; she kept moving as smoothly and quickly as she could, hand clutching his robes to guide him
so that his own eyes could remain on the two before him.

“Door,” she told him tersely.

“*Accio* Ron.” She heard him whisper, and Ron’s body flew back to them with a surprised
yell as they crashed back through the doors.

“*Colloportus*.” Hermione cast quickly.

“Harry, you’ve got to tell a guy you’re going to do that. I didn’t know what the hell had hold
of me.” Ron gasped.

“Next time,” Harry said distractedly. “Now *run*!” They tore off down the hallway, almost
reaching the stairs before the sound of the infirmary doors blowing out reached them.

“Ron, keep going, hopefully Dumbledore already knows something’s going on, explain about
Malfoy.” Harry said quickly. “I’m going to try to make him follow us outside the castle and away
from everyone, maybe the Quidditch pitch, where it’s more open. Meet me there, okay?”

“Okay, Harry. Watch yourself.” Ron’s worried eyes met Hermione’s for a moment. She could
actually see his belief that Harry would protect her with his own life if need be etched in his
expression; Ron fully expected to see *her* again and wasted no more words on her. He set off
down the stairs at a run.

*I will not be a liability!* She thought determinedly. *I can fight as well as any witch.
Better!*

A vine snaked like lightening down the hall from Malfoy’s wand and tried to twine around their
ankles; Hermione chose a severing charm for the branch around her own but was surprised to see
Harry transform his into a snake and send it back toward Voldemort with a series of hissed
instructions. Voldemort met it quickly with another, larger one and the two snakes coiled and rose,
weaving, fangs exposed. They struck at the same time but Voldemort’s overpowered Harry’s, sinking
its fangs deeply.

Hermione heard Harry cry out and saw the fang marks appear, red and dripping, on his own
neck.

She slapped away his shaking hand and quickly cast purging and healing spells, hoping it wasn’t
too venomous and she’d got them right. Harry’s green gaze never wavered from Malfoy’s borrowed body
at the far end of the hall and when Hermione had finished she looked up in surprise to find that he
had charmed several of the suits of armor that lined the hall to their aid. As Malfoy lurched after
them he was accosted by various age-blunted spears and swords hacking and slashing at him
vigorously.

“Take that you vile and scurvy Sir!” Aethelred the Antagonistic’s haunted armor taunted, poking
at him with a drawn sword. “Halt and do battle! How dare you move so maliciously against a Lady!
For shame!”

“Here, Here!” cheered the portrait of Horatio Angus Mac Aleful. Hermione knew that voice. A
Scots wizard, he had be renowned for wiping out his enemies by inviting them to dinner and feeding
them exploding haggis; he was a great personal favorite of Fred and George Weasley who had often
spent hours conversing with him while still at Hogwarts. “At least leave the Lass out of it.
There’s never been a Malfoy here worth a pig’s bladder, but none of ‘em have sunk as low as that,
ye ken.”

“Pig’s bladder indeed, there’s never been a Malfoy worth the very *product* of a pig’s
bladder in all my years. Useless, sniveling creatures always looking for a cheat, can’t trust them,
even at cards,” added the next portrait, a portly, elegant wizard in green velvet dress robes.

“I am NOT A MALFOY! This body is *NOTHING* …” Voldemort shrieked, distracted.

He twitched Malfoy’s wand hand and Aethelred’s armor dissolved into a pile of fine red rust.
Malfoy’s body claimed the fallen sword and raised it with a sick, pleased grin. Harry twitched his
wand as well and Aethelred’s dust flew into Malfoy’s eyes and face, briefly choking and blinding
him.

“Down the stairs, carefully,” Harry whispered. “Don’t turn your back on him unless you’re
positive I’ve got him covered.”

Hermione backed down a step and found the railing with her outstretched hand. It struck her then
that he’d made a choice, conscious or not, to send Ron for help and allow her to remain with him.
*He trusted her*.

Down the hall the last of Harry’s valiant knights collapsed themselves across Voldemort’s path
and his temper, not helped by the clinging red cloud of Aethelred, blew. A violent wind burst
through the hall, scattering the armor like litter and rushing over Harry and Hermione, pelting
them with helmets, visors and gauntlets. She ducked and lifted her wand, choosing the largest,
heaviest helmet and sending it back to crash down over Malfoy’s still blinking, rust-reddened
eyes.

“Nice one,” Harry whispered appreciatively, and sent a storm of stunners down the hall while the
helmet blinded him. Voldemort swiftly erected a shield around Malfoy as he struggled to remove the
helmet; deflecting them, but Harry was poised and ready when he lowered it to send another curse
their way. It was countered, almost effortlessly. It seemed impossible to hit him with
anything.

“Duck, *now!*” he warned, crouching down before her as a blasting curse ripped over them
and burst against the castle wall. A crater bloomed, raining a shower of pulverized rock over them.
Her hair was whipped fiercely around her face and she was momentarily blinded, she leant forward,
pressing her face into his back, hearing his choking cough through the stone dust. It hadn’t
stopped him from sending his own spell Malfoy’s way; when Hermione raised her head she saw a cloud
of vengeful Cornish Pixies, taunting and tearing at Malfoy’s clothing. Voldemort caused him to spin
round, swatting spells at them in a raging fury. It struck her how much more effective seemingly
simple, annoying spells worked against him than conventionally damaging battle tactics.

They moved stealthily backwards through the crunching grit. They were more than halfway down the
stairs now.

Harry muttered and twitched his wand again; the steps above them abruptly disappeared and she
had the dizzy sensation of hanging suspended in the air even though she knew the bottom steps must
still be attached to the landing behind them. At least she hoped so.

“It is time to stop this school boy nonsense.” Voldemort snarled through Malfoy, stopping
disappointingly short of the top step. “You dare play at *Cornish Pixies* with ME?”

Malfoy’s immaculate clothing was in disarray, his fine hair snarled. He was focused on Harry and
she saw his wand arm extend; she turned quickly back to see how many steps were left and
immediately knew her mistake when she felt herself thrown swiftly sideways and hurled over the
railing. Before she could even scream she saw Harry unhesitatingly launch himself after her; she
felt herself slowed by magical force while he continued dropping at full speed and caught her up.
He wrenched them both around in mid air so that he was falling beneath her. She heard him mutter
desperately; felt him arching back behind her. She saw he had managed to charm the stairs two
floors down to twist their way and was reaching desperately for the railing. She twisted quickly as
well and they grabbed it together, arresting their fall and momentarily blocking them from
Voldemort’s view as they dangled, gasping for breath.

“I know it’s not *really* remedial DADA,” she whispered fiercely. “But just what the hell
is going on in that class, Harry?”

He grinned unsteadily, still visibly shaken by her fall and the adrenalin of going after
her.

“We need to get him out of the castle,” he whispered back. “I’ll try to pull the next stairs to
us. We need to drop down on them and make sure he follows us out the front door.”

They heard Malfoy’s feet thundering down the flights above them; Harry cried, “*Now!*” and
Hermione jumped trustingly, landing awkwardly mid-step on the stairs as they swung past. Harry
landed beside her and snatched her hand. They flew down the last steps, turned and,

*A blast of red light hit the final staircase*. It glowed for a brief moment and
pulverized, collapsing into heaps of stone dust. They were poised now between Voldemort and a sheer
drop to the main floor below. Hermione fully expected Harry to jump and tensed herself to follow,
already sorting through which charm would soften their landing best. It took her several precious
moments to notice that he had turned back and was holding his scar with one hand while using
*wingardium* *leviosa* on one of the hall torches to threaten Voldemort with setting fire
to Malfoy’s robes. Voldemort abruptly turned the flame into a galloping fire-dog and sent it back
at him with a swish of Malfoy’s wand.

“This is what Black looks like in Hell, Potter,” he sneered. “Still running scared.”

Harry made an unearthly sound, almost more than Hermione could bear. The fire-dog exploded, and
the shower of sparks sparkled down to the entrance hall, shimmering like fireworks.

“I can still have you, Potter.” Voldemort insisted through Malfoy’s lips. Harry clutched
desperately at his forehead; she could see his fingers scrabbling at his scar. “If I desire it. I
must admit we do make a better pair than… *this* one, willing or not. He has not my power, as
you do.”

“No. NO!” Harry ground out. He began to move back up toward Malfoy on the landing. “*Never
again.*” Hermione grabbed hold of the sleeve of his robes, tugging hard. He shrugged them off in
a single twitch, leaving them in her hands like a forgotten skin.

He reached the landing and sparks began to fly from the two wands, jets and bursts of magical
energy crashed into quickly cast shields or careened off the walls, leaving scorched stone in their
path. Twice the paths of the wands almost crossed; the spells they were issuing swerved off course
toward each other like magnet to magnet, countering each other explosively. She remembered what he
had told them about their wands joining in the graveyard. Harry hadn’t had a wand the first time;
he’d been an infant, unarmed, and by all accounts Lily had never raised hers. Now that his own
magic had chose the brother wand to Voldemort’s was it even possible for them to use either against
the other with deadly force?

They were both eerily silent, neither seemed to need words to focus their magic when it came to
the other and Hermione knew she was seeing things from both that she had never even read of. It was
not formal magic between them, but a release of elemental feelings more powerful than any written
spell. Voldemort conjured what looked for all the world like a cloud of true dementors and sent
them at Harry; they swooped down on him in delight as if hungry for their deadly kiss. Harry called
on Prongs, and the silvery stag bounded into their midst, flailing madly with his antlers until
they were dispersed and then bearing down on Voldemort, charging right through Malfoy before he
disappeared. It appeared to have a draining effect; Malfoy’s body staggered and Harry drove home
his slim advantage, knocking the sword from his hand with a spell that clearly burned and sending a
roiling black mist to surround him, momentarily obscuring his view.

“You will *never* take me again,” Harry stated; his tone low and furious. Hermione heard
six years of pain and revulsion in his voice, but she also heard a new resolve that had not been
there before; a steely determination to forever block Voldemort’s access through the scar joined
the loathing he had held so long for the one who had cost him his parents. If only he could…

Voldemort laughed and cleared the mist with a wave of Malfoy’s wand. His power and darkness had
begun to contort Malfoy’s face closer to his own image, though the silvery eyes shone red instead
of black as they had in Harry. Hermione wondered at that, was it some indication of how fully he
had submerged his victim? Was his power somehow increasing as he affected his host? If so, then the
longer they fought, the more danger Harry was in.

A quick swish of his wand severed the heavy link chain that hung one of Hogwarts many lanterns
over the open stairways and sent the iron lamp hurtling at them. Harry answered with a flick of his
own, sending it veering of course. Voldemort had clearly planned for this; another wand slash and
the end of the chain snaked itself around Harry’s neck as the lantern crashed over the side of the
stairs. Hermione heard Harry’s choked gasp, saw his knees buckle as he was pulled, grappling with
the chain, against the railing. She *winguardium* *leviosa*-ed the lamp, just managing to
hold its massive weight aloft until he broke free of the chain. As it crashed heavily to the floor
below she suddenly remembered his dream, how he’d begged for a time-out to Bellatrix’s mocking
laughter, needing that *one minute more* he never got.

That much, at least, she could give him. She took aim and cast a charm just before Malfoy as he
leapt forward on what he believed to be his triumphal journey over the missing stairs toward Harry.
It was one she had learned third year using the time turner. This one held time suspended in a
small area for a brief period, it had been most helpful in assuring more graceful transitions from
one moment in time to another. Without it she’d had a tendency to wipe out her landings like Harry
on floo powder.

*There’s your minute Harry. Use it, please! Don’t let him…*

Even his voice slowed down as Malfoy’s body slowly sailed over the gap. “Yoooouuurrrrr
miiiiiiinnnnne Potttttttttter.”

She saw Harry visibly struggle to rise from his knees, extend his wand and let loose a spell.
Whatever he chose intersected with Hermione’s timespell but ricocheted off as if it were a
protective shield, racing through the empty air above the entrance hall with a crackling sound like
lightening…

Straight for the rose window.

Hermione felt herself tense, waiting for the explosion of raining glass. The spell slammed into
the window with a sound like a great, reverberating gong, but it held and then began to glow with
an unearthly light. It was late afternoon now, the sun long passed over the peak of the roof, but
all at once the stained glass gleamed brightly and the myriad pieces began to shift and click,
whirring through their lead frames into new places. It was for all the world like the turning of a
giant kaleidoscope, the colored bits reforming in a new order.

She watched in unbelieving silence as each petal-form slowly came into focus as a distinct
picture or symbol. She felt she could watch it forever, the colors mesmerizing before her eyes. A
story began to unfold there, far greater than she could ever grasp in the brief time allotted her.
She realized only one truly important fact.

Neither Harry nor Voldemort had anything to do with the central hub. They were there; both a
recognizable ‘chapter’ of their own in a timelessly unfurling story of good and evil, and there
were blank ‘chapter’ segments still at the very edge, where the petal forms bore only clear glass,
or shadows of what was to come.

The difference was that Voldemort’s chapter was at the *end* of a concentric ring; Harry’s
overlapped it in position but began the next ring outward, the one containing the dimly emerging
future and clearly moving ahead in the spiraling of time.

“No!” hissed Voldemort, “This is just more of Dumbledore’s trickery and lies. NO!”

Hermione saw Harry mesmerized by the window as well. He was searching not ahead of himself but
behind, for those he had loved and lost before. Trapped in the past, he was clearly unaware of the
portent for his future. Or the one who would make it a lie if he but could.

“Harry!” she cried out, and raised her wand. She knew what spell Voldemort would choose this
time around. The time to taunt his prey was done. There was no shield that would withstand the
killing curse, but Hermione could not bear to do nothing, not to try.

Only belatedly registering the fear in her voice, Harry shifted his gaze and hurriedly cast a
strange silvery spell she did not recognize just as Voldemort let loose the unmistakable green
light of the *Avada Kedavra* his way. Hermione’s protection spell intersected the other two;
both reached their targets slightly altered and diffused.

Malfoy’s body trembled, dropped to its knees and vomited a wraith of red mist. It rose in the
air, writhing and twisting on itself like a blood-colored snake.

Dumbledore’s voice arose suddenly from the ground floor like thunder. “*Malefactoris*
*Abi*.”

The red mist dissipated with a high-pitched, enraged scream that seemed to go on and on.

Or maybe that was her.

Harry lay sprawled below, limbs unnaturally splayed and unmoving where the green light had
finally caught him.


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A/n: Ok, I’m hard on Harry and all, but you MUST know by now that I could *never* do
anything fatal to him… Hermione’s got all those bazillion snog points still to call in! Relax
already.

If you are not familiar with rose windows, do yourself a glorious favor and go to Google (or the
image search engine of your choice), choose images and search on Rose window. A feast of color for
your eyes and soul. An excellent example of what I am trying to evoke can be found here:
.artlex.com/ArtLex/r/images/rosewndw_notrdm.par.int.lg.jpg Add an http:// and www before it. This
is the famed rose window at Notre Dame You’ll get a sense of how they are shaped, the center and
rings radiating outward. The design and images and the way the magical window in this story
actually moves will be discussed more thoroughly next chapter, but if you can’t visualize what is
going on it’s just my crappy writing and a picture might help. ~ Lynney



25. Chapter 25
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 25


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Hermione and Ron kept vigil in the infirmary. They both knew that the rest of the school beyond
the magically repaired (but now somewhat recalcitrant and squeaky) infirmary doors had already run
the gamut from fear to relief to speculation to benumbed exhaustion with the whole topic. Inside
Harry remained oblivious, Madam Pomfrey remained concerned and Hermione remained both frightened
and fiercely determined.

Ron just remained, miserable and stunned. “He’s not usually out this long.”

“He’s not *usually* hit with an AK, either. We don’t really know how he was after the last
one; he was so little and the protection from his Mum was new. No one’s ever said just how long he
was alone at Godric’s Hollow before Hagrid got him. No one knows how it *really* affected him,
because he was with the Dursleys then. They probably didn’t even notice. We just have to be
patient, Ron, and hope that the spells colliding diffused it enough...”

They had brought him back to the same bed he had just left, but Hermione had insisted he be
moved to the other end of the room so that if he was disoriented when he awoke he wouldn’t be
looking out for Malfoy. Malfoy, who claimed now to have been only unwillingly possessed. He swore
to having agreed only to take Voldemort *away* from Hogwarts to save them all from the Dark
Lord’s wrath. He went on and on about the damage Harry had done to *him*, the assaults and
pain he had endured. He sulked anxiously in a bed near the door now; magically bound to the
Hospital Wing. Professor McGonagall had privately assured them he would still face charges if she
had anything to say about it.

Hermione had something in mind for him to face, and while it *did* charge when angry there
wouldn’t be much left of him afterward. Surely Hagrid would know where to get one.

Madam Pomfrey had made a series of small, distressed sounds as she had examined Harry. Hermione
had seen her eyes meet Dumbledore’s more than once during the process, and she had wished
desperately for legilimency abilities of her own then. He seemed physically unmarked to her eyes
except for a small, new lightening shaped scar on his chest where the spell had connected. He
appeared deeply unconscious and cool, almost cold, to the touch; his breathing shallow and
uneven.

Time dragged.

Ron climbed up on the bed next to Harry’s and slept. Hermione turned at one point to muffle his
snoring with a silencing charm but thought better of it; there was always the chance it might be a
familiar, comforting sound to Harry even though it sounded like a Nogtail with bronchitis to
*her*.

She had pulled her usual chair close to the bed and laid her head on her arms beside him,
waiting. His coldness disturbed her; he was usually her source of warmth. It reminded her vividly
of the night in the cave. She ran her fingers down his forearm and threaded them through his. They
were unresisting and unresponsive, and the combination cut her to the quick.

She drifted into fitful sleep as well.

She awoke to find Dumbledore on Harry’s other side; his hand was resting on Harry’s head,
fingers lost in the unruly black hair; eyes closed. Her feelings were torn; part of her wanted to
tell him he had no right poking around in Harry’s mind, but another part ached to ask what he had
found. The old headmaster opened his eyes as if he had felt her gaze and smiled, gently.

“He *is* healing, Hermione.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“No. You are doing it. Waiting is, as you are finding now, hardly a passive activity. The rest
he must go through again alone.” Dumbledore conjured himself a comfortable armchair and sat down as
well, with Harry between them. “I have dreaded this day for quite some time, Hermione, but it
turned out far, far differently than I had feared, thanks in great part to you.”

“Voldemort wasn’t… he’s not gone, is he?”

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid not. But he has been greatly weakened once more, of
that I am certain. Far more than he could have anticipated. You and Harry have quite likely saved
many lives this day.”

“But Harry will have to fight him again,” she said slowly, “won’t he.”

“Yes, Hermione. He will.”

Hermione felt tears well up and fill her eyes against her will. So *stupid.* Like crying
would help at all; make anything different in the end. She willed them away.

“How many time,” she said angrily. “How many more times will he have to…”

“I believe the answer to your question,” Dumbledore said gravely, “is six,”

Her heart dropped, but her mind raced on and she eyed him suspiciously. “How can you be so
sure?”

“I can not be positive,” he said. “I am giving you but one possible guess, one potential answer.
Do you not recognize the number?.”

She thought for a moment and then her eyes flared. “You *did* know all along. Malfoy said
you did but Harry didn’t believe him.”

Dumbledore inclined his head once, in acknowledgment, and then his deep old voice intoned words
she already knew;

*“When the wheel of life spins once more a lion scarred by death itself will rise, who speaks
the language of snakes and bears the fangs of a dragon. He will follow its path to begin his
journey and he will strike down an immortal evil where it lies five times, but the sixth time he
will find it within himself. Only if the lion can vanquish his own darkness will his seventh strike
save him. If he cannot, the pretender has won, and by all that is sacred in this world magic must
die.”*

“You said six,” Hermione told him. “How can that be? He struck down Voldemort when he was a
baby, and again first year, and in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“I have come to believe,” Dumbledore told her, “That young Harry was *meant* by Voldemort
to be something quite special that night. I know Harry told you of the prophecy that foretold his
coming, and how it could have applied either to him or to Neville Longbottom. Voldemort choose
Harry, probably because Harry too was a half blood and might be more likely in the long run to need
to prove himself than Neville. He was trying to eliminate what he believed to be the more dangerous
of the two, so chose the one more like himself. He did not know about the part that said he would
mark Harry as his equal; his informant was thrown out of the Hogs Head before he could hear the
rest. And in the end he did just that; mark him. I don’t believe he ever meant to. I believe now
that he went to Godric’s Hollow that night with quite another purpose in mind.”

“I don’t understand…” Hermione said. “You don’t think Voldemort meant to kill him?”

Dumbledore smiled gently, and shook his head. “Alas no,” he said. “He always meant to kill him.
But I think he meant to make something special out of Harry’s murder. Avada Kedavra is a powerful
curse, Hermione. There are other ways to kill a wizard, particularly a baby Harry’s age. The Avada
is unspeakable because it requires the true intent of the destruction of another soul, not simply
the disarming or elimination of an enemy. There is a cost to the wizard that casts it, each time it
is cast. I believe that Voldemort did not die when his curse rebounded off the protection of Lily
Potter’s selfless love because he had already found a way to make use of the destruction to his
soul his willingness to use the Avada had begun.”

Hermione’s head was spinning.

“I wish to speak of this to Harry, to warn him what he might face, but you and Ron will surely
hear it too. But not now. There is time enough still. Not now.”

“Professor, does the window mean what I think it might? I didn’t really have time to take it all
in, but it seemed to show Harry *after* Voldemort. Does that mean he’ll survive him or just
that he came later?”

“I am counting on you to help me find out, my dear girl. It is a rich and mysterious thing, your
pageless story. It will bear a great deal of study. I, too, have not had the time to examine it
that I would wish. Perhaps the placement of their ‘chapters’ alone is not enough to guarantee Harry
will defeat Voldemort, but there are other promising indications.”

“How can it… I don’t understand the enchantment of it. How could the founders have known… I
mean, is it divination or prophecy that causes the images to appear or… what?” Hermione asked,
deeply curious.

“When Harry’s spell set the window in motion it was in a way like winding a clock. It has
continued moving and ever-so-slowly changing all the while you have been watching over him. The
striking of the spell and the focusing motion of the window revealed an inscription I am quite sure
was not visible before. From what I can ascertain, it was not the enchantment or intention of the
four Founders that brought the window into being at all. The central hub, as you may have noticed,
is not made of glass or stone. It is a substance I myself have never come across before or can
name. It was discovered by Godric Gryffindor near the shores of the lake while the castle was being
built. He meant only for it to be illuminated in the entry hall as a thing of beauty, but when it
was mounted in the stone it began to slowly spin and caused the window to be created by spiraling
it out from itself. The founders watched the window grow before their eyes until it caught up with
their present day. It must now be significantly larger than it was, and will, I hope and imagine,
grow larger still.”

“I still don’t understand then. Who or what makes the images appear?”

Dumbledore’s face grew somehow both softer and yet more remote; the blue eyes over their
half-moon spectacles met hers gravely. “There is magic far beyond what we simple witches and
wizards can stretch our minds to perceive, Hermione. It is easy for us to grow flippant and too
casually accept the greater gift that is given us. The best among us can harness but a small
percentage of the true magic in this world. I am certain there is far more to it than most of us
will ever, or can ever, know in one lifetime.

What gives life and meaning to the window is nothing you will ever uncover in a history book,
although it clearly reflects our history and I believe begs us to learn from it. It is the essence
of magic itself. Muggles and Wizards both have tried to name it, but it is so much *more* than
we can explain that no one has ever discovered the one name everyone can acknowledge. Take to
heart, Hermione, that there is magic far greater than what your books can or will teach you. You
are wise to seek it there, but I have been hoping against hope that your… friendship with Harry
would initiate you both in one of the greatest truths of life; that there are things we can not
logically understand without our hearts, and were never meant to.”

“So the window is…” Hermione whispered.

“To marvel at. To remind us always to look up,” Dumbledore said gently. “To show us that time
moves eternally on and we must make the most of our portion of it. That good will *always*
triumph over evil in the end. That there is a reason to aspire to do great things. That there is
meaning in the smallest shard of glass. That Harry’s struggle against Voldemort is not, and should
not be, *all* that his life is about. Or yours, or Ron’s. Do not forget to take joy in the
life you have been given, or evil will have won an unearned victory.”

Hermione looked down at Harry. He seemed unchanged, still unconscious, but his hand was warm now
within her own and his breathing seemed easier. Dumbledore sighed and rose to his feet, neatly
disposing of his armchair.

She suddenly remembered one of the things she had been puzzling out before she had fallen
asleep.

“Professor Dumbledore? What spell was it that Harry used on Voldemort?”

“One that he has been working for quite some time to master. I did not know that he had in fact
perfected it; I’m not sure he knew it would work himself. But it did, and I am most hopeful he will
use it again.”

“The spell I cast, that went between them, it didn’t ruin it?” she asked anxiously.

“No, Hermione. It may indeed have had an effect, but Voldemort was still ultimately driven from
his host in Malfoy and from the school grounds. More importantly, it may have helped save Harry’s
life, as it is equally possible, in fact highly probable, that it affected Voldemort’s curse as
well.”

Hermione felt as though something tight within her chest eased, her heart seemed to beat more
easily. “Thank you.”

“You should sleep while he does. He is not likely to awake for some time yet, I think. If you
would be so kind as to tell Madam Pomfrey to notify me when he wakens I will go and see what I can
do with the enormous pile of senseless parchment the Ministry has burdened a flock of owls to bring
my way in regard to all of this. Perhaps Peeves will have a creative approach to the problem.” He
moved off to the door, drifting deliberately wide of Malfoy’s curtained bed and appearing deep in
thought so as not to have to hear Draco’s litany of threats about what the Malfoy family would do
when they found out he was being kept a virtual prisoner in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. The door
squeaked shut behind him.


<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

In the end it was as Dumbledore had indicated; Harry required his own time to heal. It was a
full forty-eight hours after the Headmaster’s visit that he finally awoke.

The first thing he saw – fuzzily, of course – was Ron, sitting up on the next bed over and
grinning. A blond blur was seated on his far side and from the sound of things his weary brain very
slowly came to the conclusion that it was Luna Lovegood. The two of them seemed to picking through
a large selection of Bertie Botts beans and having a rather enjoyable time together doing so. Nice
to see, but not what he really needed at the moment.

He felt as if his mind were slogging through some sort of thick sticky syrup. It was hard enough
to think; speaking seemed a task too monumentally complex to be considered. He wanted his glasses
and something to drink; he wanted to be understood without having to say a word. He wanted warm
brown eyes like a puddle of spilt chocolate, sweet and comforting … where the hell was Hermione?
Had something happened to Hermione?

The remembrance of all that had happened hit him like a wave of cold water; he literally gasped
for air and shuddered at the impact of it, attempting to sit up in his horror. He managed to get
upright but promptly succumbed to the dizziness that follows prolonged unconsciousness and
overbalanced. He slumped sideways but instead of meeting the comparative softness of pillow or
mattress collided with the sleeping head of the very one he was looking for. Roused from a deeply
unconscious state brought on by the sheer exhaustion of watching over *his* deeply unconscious
state for the better part of three days Hermione came up swinging and gave her attacker a mighty
shove.

Harry flew off the far side of the bed, colliding with the night stand bearing the various
potions and implements Madam Pomfrey had been using and hit the floor with most of the contents.
The cacophony of breaking glass, a bouncing metal basin and one bonelessly tired young wizard
hitting the floor brought the school healer at a run.

“What in the name of Merlin is going on here?” she demanded at roughly the same time that a
sleep-dazed Hermione shrieked “Harry!” and dove over the bed. Ron and Luna exchanged stunned,
*what-just-happened?* glances and scrambled down from the end of the other bed as well.

Harry looked up from the uncomfortably littered floor of his bedside to find himself engulfed in
a tearful hug from his best friend and at the business end of three wands. His arms seemed to find
their way round Hermione like a reflex.

“It’s just me,” he managed to croak out. “Honest.”

“Welcome back, Harry,” said Luna calmly, tucking her wand back behind her ear.

“Sorry, Mate. The way she went at you I was sure you were back to you-know, um Voldemort.” Ron
apologized, pocketing his.

“Harry, I’m sorry, you *scared* me. I must have been asleep, I had no idea where I was,
that it was you. I can’t *believe* that I did that to you after… I am *so* sorry,”
Hermione sobbed.

Perhaps it was the sight of Hermione full-out crying; she’d been known to tear up but wasn’t
much of a sobber. Whatever it was, Madam Pomfrey underwent an abrupt transformation from her usual
Head-Nurseyness and was instead kindness itself. She helped the still unsteady Harry to his bed and
used her wand to clean up the broken potion vials and bottles. She didn’t say a word about Hermione
still being fastened securely to her patient’s neck and hiccoughing while she magically scourgified
his hair of split potions and glass fragments and otherwise checked him over. She was even
extremely tactful in the way she suggested Ron and Luna together go and tell Dumbledore that Harry
was awake.

She handed Harry a glass of misting blue potion and nodded in satisfaction as he gagged his way
through it. “That will help, now that you’re back amongst the living,” she said with satisfaction.
“I’m going to my office to finish up those dratted parchments from the ministry Peeves keeps
bringing. Hands above the waist at all times, both of you,” she admonished, moving off.

This at least brought a snort from Hermione, although whether it was humor or humiliation he
couldn’t tell; her head was still buried in his shoulder and all he could see was the rather
substantial fall of her hair. Of course he still didn’t have his glasses yet.

“Hermione, would it be really insensitive or anything if I asked you where my glasses are?” he
asked hesitantly.

She scrabbled around with her left hand and passed them to him without lifting her head; they
had been in the pocket of her robes for safekeeping.

He put them on. The rest of the room beyond her hair came into view, which oddly allowed him to
focus more on her since he wasn’t worried any longer what might be lurking beyond his line of
sight. She was still hiccoughing sporadically, but the intervals had grown longer and he could tell
she was quieting. He found her very solidity and warmth comforting, he was still profoundly cold.
It felt nice just holding her and rubbing her back, entirely undemanding. He felt competent and up
to the task, something he could claim about very few other activities at the moment. It was as if
Voldemort had pulled some sort of cosmic plug on Harry; he literally felt drained of life
force.

Hermione gave a giant sniff and drew back at last. Harry still wasn’t much of a fan of the
tear-stained female look, but he thought she wore it fairly well; she appeared sadly vulnerable
rather than on the edge of outright scary. Besides, the last time he’d seen her cry they’d actually
finished up quite nicely. He was cautiously optimistic.

“Okay?” he asked tentatively. “Look, it’s okay about the pushing me off the bed thing, really. I
understand.”

“I was waiting and waiting for you to wake up; it’s been *three* days, Harry.”

“I’m sorry. I…”

“No, no, *I’m* sorry. I’m so sorry about the spell, Dumbledore says he didn’t think I
spoiled it but I had to ask you. He lived, Harry, Malfoy coughed him up like some sort of red mist
and Dumbledore said something that banished it, I think. I didn’t know what you were doing; I was
only trying to keep you safe. He… do you remember what happened?”

Harry shook his head slowly. “I remember my spell flying off of something and hitting the
window. I can remember seeing the window move, and all those little pieces clicking around and
changing. I started to see people and places I recognized; then I heard you call my name.” His eyes
grew puzzled. “I think I saw…” \they shifted to her. “The last thing I saw was green,” he said,
realization dawning. “A flash of green.”

“You’re the Boy Who Lived Yet Again now,” she told him. “You sent some spell I didn’t know at
him at about the same moment he cast the *Avada Kedavra* at you. I tried to use a
*protego* between you. All three spells collided.”

“So you saved my life?”

“Or cost you your chance to finish him and be done with all this.”

He shook his head. “The spell I was trying to use, Hermione, I’ve kind of been experimenting
with… I’ve been trying to master something that would finish him that I could still live with. I
don’t think it’s anywhere near ready to work yet, if it ever does. I only tried it because I wasn’t
thinking clearly. I was so distracted by the window actually moving, I just reacted. I wasn’t ready
for him to AK me. You *did* save me.”

Hermione remembered seeing Harry’s eyes searching the window as if it held some answer to where
all those who had loved him had gone. In that moment she had realized her fear that he might be
drawn more powerfully to follow them than remain in a world that still contained Voldemort. Her
speed in launching the protection spell had had quite a bit to do with keeping him where she could
see him. Death had never seemed to hold any attraction for Harry but she understood that repeatedly
facing it down was having its own effect.

“Dumbledore told me a little about the window while we were waiting for you,” she told him
slowly, watching him. “He said that once your spell hit it, it was like winding a clock. It’s still
changing. He said they could see an inscription after it first started to move, and that it wasn’t
made by the Four Founders. He thinks that it was created by the source of magic itself. We still
don’t know what it really means, but I wish you could have heard what he told me, the way that he
said it. He said that it was to remind us that time moves eternally on and we need to make the most
of our bit of it, if we let our lives be dominated by Voldemort evil will win an unearned
victory.”

She could see that Harry was puzzled. “I *did* hear that somehow. Or something like it. I
remember hearing his voice saying *‘do not forget to take joy in the life you have been given, or
evil will have won an unearned victory.’*”

“Were you asleep that whole time? I mean, I know you were unconscious, but did it feel like
sleep or something else? Did you dream? Were you aware of anything?”

His eyes retained their puzzled expression but their focus seemed to soften slightly, a look
Hermione had always interpreted as introspection on his part. “It was horrible, really. Not so bad
at first, but I was more than ready to move on by the time I woke up. It was like an unending mist
or fog or something. I slogged on and on, there was just this feeling that if I stopped moving
something awful would happen, but it never felt as if I was really getting anywhere. Like being
trapped in between something, I guess, not being able to find my way back here or on anywhere else,
either.” She saw him shudder once, but it was almost reflexive and seemed to bring his gaze back to
her. His eyes met hers, green and trusting and somehow still hopeful, and she knew then that she
hadn’t lost him as long as they could still look at her like *that*. It was part of the
miracle of Harry for her, that after the Dursleys and Voldemort and losing Sirius and watching
Cedric die and living through Umbridge and Malfoy’s treachery, he could still somehow turn to her
with hope.

Okay, so she realized as soon as she felt his lips on hers that no small part of it was also
hopeful of a good snog, but he was after all sixteen and really a boy still at, erm… heart. And
that was a good thing, too. A very good thing. Despite an uneven start and something of a rocky
path to follow, Harry had actually turned out *very* nicely at the whole boy thing. Nice and
considerate and actually kind of *creative*, really. Like *that*… that thing with his
tongue right there. Nice, not gaggy or overpowering or anything, sort of sweet and questioning, and
of course the answer to the question was *Yes!,* wherever he was going with it.

Hermione heard the telltale squeal of the Hospital Wing doors admitting Dumbledore and Ron and
Luna, and realized that for once, entirely unintentionally of course, Voldemort had actually done
them a favor by warping the doors. They drew apart, reluctantly.

“Later?” she asked softly, attempting to straighten out his hair where she’d been at it, and
quickly realizing the benefit of his eternally wayward locks as well.

“Absolutely.” Harry grinned.


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26. Chapter 26
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 26


<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

There was something to be said for getting the whole appearance-of-the-Dark-Lord bit over before
Christmas, Harry reflected. He was actually looking forward to a holiday relatively free from the
shadow of evil; and while it was not technically impossible that Voldemort would make his presence
known again soon, Dumbledore at least continued to assure him that it was highly unlikely for some
time yet. The Weasley’s had invited both Harry and Hermione to the Burrow for Christmas and to his
surprise (and gratification) Hermione had managed to convince her parents that skiing in
Switzerland would have a negative impact on her N.E.W.T. review schedule and so was Burrow-bound as
well.

“They do understand N.E.W.T’.s aren’t until *next* year?” Harry asked somewhat
suspiciously.

“Would you prefer me to go skiing, then?” Hermione asked sweetly. “It’s not too late.”

“Erm… never mind.”

“I’m expecting you to help me revise, Harry. There are several areas in particular where I could
use your natural strength with charms and wand movements.”

“Sweet Merlin, Hermione, there are four eleven-year olds sitting three seats down. I’m sure
they’d be fascinated with Harry’s natural wand movements, perhaps you’d care to make a school-wide
announcement?” Ron groaned. “You two had better behave over Christmas. The twins will be
there.”

“Ronald Bilius Weasley!” Hermione scolded. “Get your mind out of the gutter, please. You’re
going to be sorry when N.E.W.T. time rolls around next year if your grasp of the situation remains
stuck where it is now.”

Harry, who’d been on the receiving end of Ron’s amazement at his own increasing interest in a
certain blond Ravenclaw just that morning found Hermione’s phrasing suddenly gut-wrenchingly
amusing and was forced to develop an intense, quivering interest in the contents of his plate.
Seamus and Dean, who’d begun following the conversation with Ron’s original contribution about wand
movements, broke into outright laughter.

“If Ron’s grasp of the situation gets any stronger he’ll peak *way* before N.E.W.T.s,
Hermione,” Dean managed.

“The boy needs a firm hand to guide his revision,” agreed Seamus.

Hermione realized that perhaps she’d gotten to know Harry’s room mates just a tad too well.
Being accepted by the boys had its amusing side, but it made maintaining decorum in front of the
younger students… oh *right*. She wasn’t a prefect anymore.

“You boys have *so* much to learn…” she sighed. “When it comes to revision, study technique
is always secondary to the simple, healthy desire to master your subject.”

Professor Snape looked up from his pudding to observe an almost eerie silence at the far end of
the Gryffindor table where Potter and his sixth year companions tended to gather. He took in the
back of Weasley’s neck (flaming red) and the shuddering posture of Thomas and Finnigan. The Granger
girl was turned toward Potter with a look Snape had never seen before on her face, and one he was
uncertain exactly how to read. Four young first years just down the table were staring, wide-eyed,
at the older students. He plucked his wand from his robes and leveled it as Potter lifted his head
from his unnatural fascination with what Snape held as an only a barely tolerable evening meal.
Lily’s green eyes were squeezed shut and James’ expressive mouth was open in a howl…

In was only *after* he’d stunned Harry that Snape realized it was laughter. He’d simply
never seen the boy-who-lived laugh like that before.

Oops.


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“You do realize,” Harry said furiously to Ron and Hermione as they climbed the rebuilt stairs
toward the sanctuary of the Gryffindor common room following his return to consciousness with
Snape’s reluctant enervation and even more reluctant excuse for an apology, (“Get up, Potter.”)
“that this means war.”

“*Harry*,” Hermione sighed.

“Alright!” Ron agreed.

“For once I *finally* have the focus, the energy, and enough time to make up all the house
points it’ll cost before the end of the year. If you add in the fact the Malfoy has to at least lay
low for a bit, it’s an opportunity too good to lose. I may still have to battle Voldemort yet
again, but Snape is going down.” Harry vowed.

Hermione reflected on her painfully clear memory of Snape stupefying Harry as he attempted to
crawl back up the stairs after wrestling Voldemort out of his mind, how her elation as the shaky,
questioning ‘Hermione?’ proved he was alive turned to horror as their Potions Professor coldly
leveled his wand and brought him down again.

She saw Harry’s eyes glowing softly now, the tension that played across his face as his mind
raced. He was breathing quickly, flushed with agitation and freed from the usual constraints on his
behavior put in place by the annual fight for his life. The anger with Snape might be mostly
displaced, but his instinct to strike back instead of his historical numbed tolerance was telling.
He had been slowly learning how to use his anger all year, beginning with Vernon Dursley’s rampage
over the dragon’s fang and continuing on with his determination to get Voldemort out of his head
for good. He needed this.

Not to mention that there really was something kind of …well, *exciting* about Harry when
he finally got angry. She found herself grinning and breathing a little quicker, too. Oh, this was
not good. Not good at all.


<><><<><><><><><><><>><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Hermione laid down the ground rules.

“First, whatever we do, we don’t strike until after Christmas. Madam Pomphrey said you weren’t
supposed to get hit with any sort of spell at all for two weeks, Harry, and Snape’s already
*stupefied* you. We can’t take any more chances with that.”

“Listen to yourself, Hermione. Under medical orders NOT to be spelled and Snape hits him before
he can even finish his nice restorative pudding first night out of the Hospital Wing. All the more
reason to do it quickly, I’d say,” Ron said.

Harry nodded hopefully.

Hermione shook her head. “If you want my help, we wait at least the week. I’m leaning toward
something potion-based, anyway, less chance of Harry getting hit back with anything dangerous. A
potion will take a bit of time and research.”

“I still like the idea of piercing his enormous nose and setting a niffler loose on him myself.”
Ron volunteered.

“I think summoning a basilisk through the s-bend to his loo would be too good for him at this
point, but if Hermione can come up with something humiliating, disfiguring and untraceable I’d
guess it’d be well worth the wait,” reasoned Harry. “I feel a visit to the library coming on.”

“Follow me!” Hermione grinned, spinning and heading off, hair flying behind her.

“One of my most favorite places to be,” Harry said with satisfaction.

“What, the library? Have you gone mental?” Ron asked incredulously.

“No, idiot. Behind Hermione when she’s on a mission. Watch.”

Even Ron had to admit the swirl of Hermione’s brown locks and the determined sway of her
purposeful pace was kind of fetching from behind and well out of wands’ way.


<><><<><><><><><><><>><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

First they checked the syllabus to see if they were scheduled to make anything in class over the
next couple of weeks after Christmas that an extra ingredient here or a couple more stirs there
would render useful. They had proceeded from antidotes and healing potions on to potions for the
future auror. Unfortunately Veratiserum and Polyjuice potion and the like were unlikely to cause
Snape any lasting damage and the penalty for playing around with them was steep. Aurors had laws
governing what they could use on dark wizards that would seriously cramp their style.

“Hermione,” Harry said thoughtfully, resting his chin atop the enormous copy of *Perfect
Potions Potently Poured* he’d been searching through. “Does it *have* to be a potion?”

“Hmmm?” purred Hermione, happily perusing a tome of her own and not even looking up. “No. I just
thought it would be more fitting for him and safer for you. He’d never suspect you of being able to
brew something debilitating.”

“Thanks.”

She looked up then. “*He* wouldn’t Harry. I didn’t say *we* didn’t think you could.
There’s nothing wrong with you when it comes to potions except for the fact that Snape teaches
it.”

“I wonder what Snape’s worst fear is,” Harry pondered. “I’d love to get a look at *his*
boggart.”

“Easy. We get him to think he’s died and come back as a ghost and he’s doomed to teach Neville
and the Creavey brothers for all eternity,” Ron laughed.

“Don’t be cruel, Ron,” Hermione chided him. “Neville tries. And the Creavey brothers… well. Not
everyone can be a potions person.”

“Well, there’s one benefit of waiting until after Christmas,” Harry concluded. “We can pick the
twin’s brains as well. Bet they’ve got something in the shop that will give us a brilliant
idea.”

“Now that’s probably taking things a step too far!” Hermione laughed.

“Why?” Ron asked, bewildered. “The slimy git has gone out of his way to make Harry’s life a
misery for the last six years!”

“Because we want Harry to graduate and still have a chance at being an auror if he wants to,
even though he knows I’d like him to consider something less dangerous,**”** she told him
calmly.

“Harry! You’re not letting her talk you out of becoming an auror now, are you?”

“I haven’t decided anything. A week ago I was wondering if I’d see today. I’m not making any,
er, *many* long term plans at the moment,” Harry said, noticing the storm clouds building
behind Hermione’s eyes and hoping to distract them. “How about that hooked nose of his? Could we
make it sort of curve around on itself or something every time he takes points from
Gryffindor?”

“Or make his hair go all blond and girly-curly.” Ron suggested.

“Girly-curly?” Hermione shot back at him. “What exactly is *that* supposed to convey? How
embarrassing it is to be blond, or a girl?”

They glared at each other. Harry held up a hastily scrawled scrap of parchment that read: “Have
I mentioned that your participation in this venture is worth many, many snog points?” behind Ron’s
head.

Hermione refrained from hexing *Ron’s* hair then, but productivity to their cause had
already been seriously affected.

“Let’s call it a day and have a nice game of chess or snap or something er, soothing before
bed,” Harry suggested, eying his two compatriots warily. *And he had ever worried the two of them
might seriously get together? Romantically? Idiot.*

The Gryffindor common room was mostly empty, its few occupants working half-heartedly on
back-logged assignments to free themselves for the following days’ opportunity to Christmas shop in
Hogsmeade.

“Here’s a question,” Harry asked as he and Ron set out their chess pieces and Hermione
disappeared upstairs in search of a book. “What can I possibly get your sister for Christmas that
doesn’t say either ‘thanks for setting me up with the death eater’ or ‘don’t take this wrong, I
forgive you completely but please don’t ever love me again’ too unsubtly?”

“Damned if I know,” admitted Ron. “She’s still very moody about the whole thing; I never know
what to say around her anymore. What are you getting Hermione?”

“A secret,” said Harry, who hadn’t actually got a clue but knew that Ron couldn’t keep a secret
from Hermione to save his life. “What did you get her?”

Ron grinned. “I’m not totally stupid. I’ve never once managed to get her the right thing. This
year I thought I’d just make you go with me. You *are* technically her boyfriend; I thought
you could figure it out.”

“What are you getting Luna?”

“You are, technically, the actual boyfriend of a girl. Wouldn’t that work for Luna as well?”

“You want me to pick out your Christmas present for Luna?” Harry asked doubtfully. “That has bad
idea written all over it.”

“Why?” Ron’s bishop stuck a particularly savage blow at one of Harry’s pawns. The next pawn over
cringed and shook his fist at Harry, crying “Stick to Quidditch! Chess just isn’t your game!’

Harry moved the pawn in line to one of Ron’s knights. “Because it’s supposed to come from you,
it’s supposed to express your thoughts and feelings towards her. I think.”

“Yeah, but you already know all my thoughts and feelings about her.” Ron said, as his knight
made short work of the complaining pawn.

“Painfully true, but not exactly the point.” Harry informed him. “Look at it this way.
*You* are the one in line for the gratitude induced snog, henceforth *you* are the one
who should put the thought into the gift, other wise it’s like stealing a snog by false pretences
or something.”

“Did you just say *henceforth*?” Ron asked suspiciously.

Harry sighed. “Ron, take it from me, I’m without question the luckiest wizard who ever had a
curse scar and a couple of really unfortunate prophecies in regard to their future. I have no real
clue what I’m doing from minute to minute with Hermione, I just know that I love her because I
couldn’t face any of this without her. Maybe I had to know *now* because there won’t be that
much time, or maybe that’s just the way it was supposed to be, but I wouldn’t change it, any of it,
not for anything in the world if it meant she wasn’t there. Not the Dursley’s, not the scar, not
Voldemort’s mind games. She was always there, right in front of my eyes and I was too full of self
pity and doubt to let myself see her as anything but a friend. Don’t miss something so…
*amazing*, because you’ve got to go further out on your limb than you’d like. Don’t look down,
don’t look back, just go for it. Just the chance is worth it.”

“He’s far better at philosophy than chess,” commented Harry’s knight to Ron’s roving bishop
before being dashed aside.

“Wow,” said Ron slowly. “Your knight’s right. So you think I should…”

“I think I have NO idea,” Harry explained patiently. “I think that I’m telling you you’ll just
have to make it up as you go along as well. The only thing I know is that it’s worth anything you
have to give up.”

“All I have to say is that you REALLY are the luckiest wizard with a curse scar, because your
girlfriend’s been standing behind you while you poured your little heart out there and from the
look on her face I’m guessing you know your stuff.” Ron informed him at roughly the same time Harry
found himself engulfed from behind by Hermione.

“That was really, really *nice*, Harry,” Hermione told him softly. “I know I wasn’t
supposed to be listening and you weren’t telling it to me, but thanks.”

“Oh, sure, He’s *nice*. Unless you play bloody chess with him, in which case he’s a
menace!” shrieked Harry’s Queen from the board.

“Mind your manners, you,” Harry told her, “or Ron’s likely to get a new chess set for
Christmas.”


<><><<><><><><><><><>><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Harry began to change into his pajamas, reflecting on the events of the day. The down side of
facing Voldemort without actually doing him in yet again had come to Harry that afternoon before
dinner. Dumbledore had sent for him shortly after his release from the Hospital Wing, requesting
Harry’s presence in his office before their evening meal. Hermione’s name on the summons being
suspiciously absent, Harry reckoned he had a pretty good idea what the topic of conversation was
likely to be and dragged up the revolving staircase with a heavy heart.

Dumbledore had obviously been pacing; he had reached the furthest end of his well-worn path and
had his back to Harry when he entered.

“Harry. Good to see you up and about once again,” he said, without turning.

Setting the *‘I am an impressive Wizard who knows all; heed my words, young man,’* tone
straight off, then. Harry remained silent, waiting for whatever was to befall him yet again.

“Sit, Harry,” Dumbledore told him, turning and conjuring a chair. It was a cushiony wing chair;
Harry wondered whether he had earned it through his injuries or if he was about to be flattened by
some new bit of divined wisdom about his future. He hadn’t had a chance to examine the window yet,
passing it by for the first time on his way here. He’d reflexively ducked his head, not really
ready to know if there was something else he’d have to live up to – or die for.

Dumbledore conjured Harry’s chairs’ twin for himself and sat down as well. Perhaps he was just
in a wing chair kind of mood at the moment.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked, with the disarming concern in his bright blue eyes that
always made Harry feel somehow acknowledged, even cared for.

“Still a bit on the worn-out side, but fine, really. Thank you,” Harry responded politely,
hating the part of him that hung back from Dumbledore’s kindness but unable to push past it. It sat
there in his newly-roomy head, prodding him to stay alert, ready for something he couldn’t name. He
knew that his Headmaster truly cared for him, but he was also suspicious that Dumbledore had
traveled so much further down life’s road that perhaps nothing was inviolable at this point. Quite
likely including Harry.

“Not true, Harry,” the old Wizard said with a sigh.

Harry shifted uncomfortably and slammed closed his mind’s portals.

“My apologies.” Dumbledore inclined his head graciously. “Old habits die hard. You are not a
child any longer.”

“What would make us really any different from Voldemort,” Harry asked quietly, “if there is
nothing you won’t give up to defeat him?”

“It will never be *my* choice to give anything up,” Dumbledore replied. “That is my burden
in all of this Harry. I have spent a great deal of my life becoming a powerful wizard, yet in this
particular battle I am quite powerless. Oh, I can plot, make suggestions, manipulate circumstances,
but in the end I am utterly impotent to control anything at all. It has been quite the painful
lesson for me, I assure you. Perhaps part of fates’ retribution for my own taking of a life.”

“But…”

“You are right, Harry, in your assessment that I have made choices in my life to avoid making
others. There are indeed reasons Fawkes is my closest companion. You are wrong, however, when you
believe that I am in any way willing to sacrifice you to the cause of defeating Tom Riddle. I have
played a game with fate to guard you thus far, and I do not blame you for questioning my
choices.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and eyed Harry gravely. “Even if they had proved
consistently to be the right ones you would still find yourself having to do so to assert your
independence now. It is inevitable, a fact of life’s inexorable flow forward. The fact that some of
them have proved painful for you only exacerbates the need. Unfortunately for you, that same drive
for independence and autonomy that has awakened in you now will make the choices from here on your
own. I believe that you might ultimately…miss me, Harry.”

Harry had the same sensation he’d felt falling down the stairs toward Malfoy until Dumbledore’s
spell caught him; the short, sharply painful jerk of reaching the end of one’s tether. Only this
time the rope broke, and he was free. The feeling both exhilarated and saddened him. Terrified was
somewhere in the mix as well.

“But you…”

“I am handing you your own reins, Harry. Far too soon it will be up to you how you will go on.
If you wish to take Hermione and attempt to run from your fate, I will not stop you.”

The instinctive portion of Harry’s brain – that is to say the most powerful part – sniffed the
idea like a wild animal for several glorious moments, but ultimately rejected it. True freedom did
not lie that way. The rest of him groaned and threatened mutiny. He literally felt torn.

“It is not always…comfortable to have one’s fate handed back, is it Harry? You must take some
comfort in knowing that you have always truly held it, even when it has appeared otherwise. I do
not need to fall back on legilimency to understand the struggle you are feeling. The only advice I
can give you is to continue to listen closely to exactly that part of yourself we have all tried so
hard to tame. Hermione calls it your ‘saving people thing,’ Mr. Weasley thinks of it as bravery.
Mr. Malfoy has repeatedly informed you it is idiocy. Professor McGonagall, I believe termed it your
propensity for rewriting the rules. Professor Snape has used less, shall we say polite, terms for
it. Still, they are all identifying the same thing. That which makes *you* Harry James Potter
is that which Voldemort now must fear. ”

“Is this all from studying the window?” Harry asked, when he finally felt his voice wouldn’t
betray him.

“Oh, no,” Dumbledore said calmly. “I’ve made it all up myself. You’re not the only one with
instincts, Harry. It just gets harder to turn down the volume on your intellect and hear them when
you get old.”

Harry wished desperately for a bludger bat. He just wasn’t entirely sure which one of them he’d
use it on.

“While we’re on the topic of instincts…” Dumbledore continued meditatively.

*Making the choice so much easier…*

“I would think that your need for a dreamkeeper is nearing an end, wouldn’t you?”

“Why?” asked Harry cautiously.

“I should think it obvious. While we have learned that even excellent Occlumency skills will not
entirely close off the connection of your scar, we now know what will.”

“We do?” Harry had no idea where Dumbledore was going with this and was extremely reluctant to
follow him there. The thought of losing Hermione’s comforting nightly presence seemed almost
unbearable at the moment. He reasoned that they could continue to exercise *other* options in
the usual locations hidden throughout the castle that the upper years all seemed to find for
snog-related activity. What he would truly miss would be being able to whisper with her before
falling to sleep and waking under the watchful gaze of those warm brown eyes; the way she always
smiled when he first opened his own… No one had ever been truly pleased that he’d actually survived
another night before now. He kind of liked that, it had come to mean a lot.

“This part I am *not* making up,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle. “Of course, you haven’t
really had a chance to view your latest contribution to Hogwarts, have you? Come, Harry.”

Dumbledore rose and led the way from his office and through the corridors to the top of the
stairs down to the Entrance Hall. Across the wide expanse of the Hall the rose window gleamed
dully, the sun having long passed over the castle. The classroom corridors were quiet and the
stairs empty, although shortly they would be flooded with hungry students. Harry sensed rather than
truly heard a faint, vibratory hum that seemed to emanate from the window itself. As he stood,
watching, it slowly changed pitch several times. He was reminded of something he had seen on
television once when Dudley had not been around to jeer and change the channel; a program about the
songs of different kinds of whales.

“Ahh, you hear it,” Dumbledore said with satisfaction. “Not everyone does, it seems.”

Harry truly took in for the first time how changed the window was. It was as if a mask had been
lifted; it no longer looked like the picture Hermione had first shown he and Ron of the Muggle rose
window, although a faint resemblance was there. The center point was now revealed to be a single,
opalescent substance set in a collar of carved stone. It was slightly irregular in shape, not
perfectly round, nor perfectly smooth. Its surface seemed to pulse with color and life, like the
play of clouds across a slowly turning sky, and Harry would have sworn that the stone, or whatever
substance it was, turned slowly as well.

Eight circular medallions of what appeared to be stained or colored glass formed a chain around
the center, and sixteen long slender spokes of stone splayed out from their joining points to form
the long, narrow outlines of the petals of the rose. Each of the sixteen petals was composed of
what appeared to be innumerable pieces of leaded glass in a myriad of colors. What differentiated
this window most from the earlier one, however, was that in true wizard form the pictures in the
glass seemed to be moving, constantly reshaping an unending series of events. The rounded end of
each petal farthest from the center showed images in sharp focus, events unfolding, while the rest
of the shape seemed to contain records of the past.

One medallion and two petal forms that sprung beyond them were a dark, purplish black and devoid
of images, as if someone had simply removed all source of light. From the end of several lit petal
forms two more still sprung outward, so that if the pattern held true the next row would ultimately
contain thirty-two picture chapters, though more than half were still blank.

“From what I can ascertain so far, Harry, each of the eight medallions is a fully developed
world. Ours is but *one* of them. The two sets of images that spring from it reveal the best,
and the worst, of our history. The four that spring from those two occur when a marked change in
the balance of good and evil is imminent, and play out the history of those involved. Our world has
reached that point, and you, Harry, figure in that story. But look – you are not alone. There are
whole worlds where others struggle on, as well as ours. And worlds where the story has ended. See
the one where the light has been extinguished? *Then Aslan said, “Now make an end.”* * Think
of it all, Harry! See how *small* Voldemort really is. But most importantly, see the words
that encompass *all* the worlds.”

Harry squinted. Inscribed in a part of the outer frame were many symbols and runes, and several
words in English that read, “To Heal The Scar Evil Has Wrought In Time The Next Must First
Forgive.”

“You’ve *got* to be kidding me,” Harry said, outraged.

“Age old advice.” Dumbledore said calmly.

“I’d rather have Hermione be my dreamkeeper for the rest of my natural life, thanks. No matter
how long that may be. I’ll take my chances with Mr. Mindfu, er, Voldmort.”

“I’m not entirely sure that you have that choice, Harry. I think the point is that you can do it
now, and take the strength of knowing you have moved beyond his power over you into the final
battle, or you can continue to struggle with it for ages after he – or you – is dead and gone.”

“If I’m dead and gone, how can I struggle with it!” Harry forced through clenched teeth.

“Harry, death is but…”

“the next great adventure. Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you’re telling me that one way or another I have
to *forgive* Voldemort to be free of him even after he’s dead?”

“In a word, yes.”

Harry said a word he wasn’t supposed to in front of the Head Master, followed by “-ing
marvelous.”

“I knew that this was not an idea you would obviously embrace with an open mind just yet, Harry.
Remember that these are simply words, the magic lies in their interpretation and the meaning you
ultimately assign them. Just know them and be forearmed.”

“Did you forgive Grindelwald?”

“No, Harry. But you are not me, and you do not know enough about the price I have paid for that
to base any decision on it.”

Students began to stream out of classrooms and pass them going down the stairs to the Great
Hall. Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses hard. His brain
had been swimming before, but now… fate or philosophy had decidedly issued a loud flushing noise,
and he was going down.

“I… I’ll…”

“Why don’t you discuss things with Hermione, Harry. I’m sure she will have some insights for
you.” Dumbledore told him gently. “But first, dinner awaits us!”


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Of course Snape had stupefied him at dinner, and Harry had happily sublimated his feelings about
Dumbledore’s revelations in the flare of his anger at Snape. Now that he was resting in his own bed
waiting for Hermione, they rushed back into the forefront of his weary brain with a vengeance.

“You look like somebody snatched your snitch, mate,” Ron informed him upon his return from
brushing his teeth. “What’s wrong?”

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose again; it had never been quite
the same since Ron wailed on it that morning after he and Hermione had… “Dumbledore dumped a
bucketful of philosophical dragon dung on me this afternoon.”

“Hermione will figure it out for you,” Ron said confidently.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Harry admitted. “I’m fairly certain I’m not going to like any of
it. In fact, having every bone regrown with skele-gro sounds less painful.”

Ron appeared disconcerted and shook his head as he climbed into his own bed. “Or you could just
shut the hangings, throw up a silencing charm or four and do whatever you two do.”

Harry snorted. “Ron, you’ve grown. You’ve the emotional range of a soup spoon now.”

“Be happy for me. I’m still better off than you.”

“Your day will come,” said Harry confidently.

“Luna likes me this way,” Ron replied, stretching his considerable length. Professor McGonagall
was clearly going to have to issue an enlarging charm for someone’s bed next year.

“And she always will,” Hermione said, emerging from the invisibility cloak and climbing up
beside Harry. “Until it’s the wrong time of the month and her hormones are rampaging and you just
don’t understand the importance relinquishing your last chocolate frog. Then you’ll find out what
love is truly all about, Ronald Weasley.”

“I’m not sure what you’re on about with the wrong month, but I’d split my last chocolate frog
with Luna anytime.” Ron retorted.

“Trust me, Ron. Just give her the whole frog. You’ll live long enough to never regret it.” Harry
told him, while Hermione began closing the hangings.

Ron heard her say, “Harry James Potter. ..” but she didn’t sound angry, and the silence
thereafter was of the absolute, *silencio* variety. He grinned and drifted off to dreams of
his own.


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“So he didn’t actually say, he just sort of suggested it?” Hermione asked him carefully.

She’d known that something was wrong as soon as she’d closed the hangings; his face had given
nothing away but his eyes were wretched.

“What, that I was losing my dispensation to have you here with me, or that I had to bloody
forgive bloody effing bloody Voldemort?” came Harry’s miserable reply from face down in the
pillow.

“Er… both, I guess.”

He rolled over. “His exact words on you were something like, ‘I would think your need for a
dreamkeeper is nearing an end, wouldn’t you?’ The Voldemort thing was more along the lines of
knowing I wasn’t going to have an open mind and some rubbish I didn’t understand about assigning my
own meaning to the words and being forearmed with them. So no, he never actually said I *had*
to do either in so many words. But Hermione…”

“I know,” she told him. “I know.”

She lay down as close beside him as she could and felt him turn and gather her into his arms.
The feeling as she slid her own around him was fiercely protective and strong enough to bring tears
to her eyes. Stupid, really, when it wasn’t as if they were being separated or anything, but it
seemed so very hard to turn back from the comforting familiarity that had so quickly grown between
them.

It wasn’t so much the physical bit, although that was certainly addicting and she had no
intention of going without that part of him. She had found, though, that being with him had done
surprising things for her, as well. She felt calmer, stronger, more sure of herself in all that she
did. He made her laugh more. He knew when to distract her from her thoughts and when to leave her
alone with them. He was considerate and unwavering in his affection; he might not be hugely
demonstrative but she was quite certain that he was pleased with her and not thinking of anyone
else.

In short, he made her feel more herself than she had ever been, and she was actually quite proud
of the person she saw in the mirror for a change. If she had to pick a single word to describe it
she knew that she would be letting Lavender and Parvati down. It would have to be *content*.
She was happy, just not the wildly ecstatic happiness that inevitably seemed to give way to a slide
in the other direction that those two described as being in love. What she felt was deeply,
boringly content as if together they were settling in on the porch swing of familiarity. Rocking
along gently with him… and his little friend, the shadow of death.

He was right. If only Voldemort would get out of the bloody way.

“I *can’t* forgive him, Hermione.”

“Of course you can’t, Harry.” She stroked his cheek gently, watching those fathomless eyes as he
took in her words, waiting trustingly for her to explain it to him. If only she could. “I’m no
expert on the subject, but it seems to me there’s a lifetime’s worth of work there. Voldemort
changed your whole life with two words before you were even two years old. You’re not the sort of
person who honestly believes you could just say more words and expect them to change everything
back. It’s like what Bellatrix told you about the *cruciatus*; words or spells alone have no
power. You have to feel them, to believe in them for them to work. You can’t just arbitrarily
forgive Voldemort with words; you’ll have to fully understand what his influence on your life has
meant and be able to say you don’t hold it against him. If you could honestly manage it now you’d
even have to include forgiving him for the possibility of your own death. That’s a lot to ask of
yourself.”

“Then what the hell is Dumbledore asking me to do?” he asked, low and anguished.

It struck her how often he had let slip his ambivalence toward Dumbledore - respect and even
love constantly warring with his doubt over the Head Master’s intentions - yet even now he showed
no real sign of wavering in his ultimate loyalty.

“If I had to guess, Harry, I’d say it was more on the level of advice. That he feels like your
final confrontation is close and he knows that he can’t give you much more to go on with.”

“He told me today that he was giving me my reins, that if I wanted to take you and run away from
it he wouldn’t stop me.”

Hermione snorted and saw his eyes widen and a smile slowly start to form.

“Well, *that* was romantic. Do you always snort when someone offers to run away from likely
death with you?” he asked.

“He only said it because he knew you couldn’t, Harry. Not wouldn’t even, the instinct is so
over-developed in you that it’s truly *couldn’t.* He’s bloody lucky that way and he knows it.
If it was anyone other than you I’d jump at the chance to…” She stopped, stricken. “That didn’t
come out right at all.”

“He also told me to ‘listen closely’ to the part of myself that *you* think causes the
whole ‘saving people thing,’ so there.” he told her, and stuck out his tongue.

“Well, *that’s* mature. Tell me, do you always stick out your tongue when you’re trying to
convince someone you can actually defeat the Dark Lord and save magic itself?”

“Only when I already know they’re fond of it?” He was grinning his *special* grin, the one
that she had come to associate with so many enjoyable things. She could take him up on it, or yank
him back to reality to try to find their way further through the maze of words and ideas that only
led to Voldemort in the end.

Forget *that*.

“So you think I actually *like* that big slobbering thing in your mouth, do you?” she
asked, making a face.

“No, I think you actually *like* it in *yours*. Fifty points says so.” He was almost
smug. It was cute really.

“I can do a lot of damage with fifty points,” she warned him happily.

“Let’s make it seventy-five then. I’m in the mood for something catastrophic. It’s just not
going to be the same up on the Astronomy tower in January.”

“There’s always the nice warm Burrow at Christmas.”

“Er, I sleep in a curtainless bed less than a meter from Ron’s there, Hermione. And you bunk in
with *Ginny*.”

“*Now* what am I going to give you for Christmas?” she moaned softly, feigning
disappointment. She felt him stir a little at the sound, or maybe it was the whole idea. Either way
things were… looking up. And starting to get friendly, too.

“Don’t worry, Harry,” she murmured into his ear. “Don’t worry about any of it now. It’ll be
alright, I promise.” She had no idea how, but the softening of his lips beneath hers and a
compensatory hardening elsewhere were far more compelling at the moment. They’d deal with it all,
later.


<><><<><><><><><><><>><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

**From C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia: The Last Battle*

A/N: If anyone was keeping track, I combined chapters 26 and 27 into one, because of the funky
wraparound of Harry’s day. If it wasn’t clear, Harry met with Dumbledore earlier in the day BEFORE
Snape mistook him for being possessed again at dinner and stunned him. On the positive side, this
means that the new chapters will actually start next time with 27, because I realized the old
chapter 28 never got posted before. Hope you enjoy them.



27. Chapter 27
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

This chapter is dedicated to Sannihun of Sweden – who waited so long. Happy reading!

Here With Me

Chapter 27


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Not only was it a Hogsmeade weekend, but thanks very much to their seemingly endless detention
it was also their first one of the year. Ron had had little difficulty arranging for third or
fourth years to secure supplies for them in past weeks; they were all going to HoneyDukes anyway.
Extra incentives had had to be applied to lug books back for Hermione, but Ron was resourceful that
way, and they’d managed. Still, there was nothing like browsing for what you were spending your
money on, and Christmas was now less than a week away.

The air was sharp with the kind of cold that only abated with the first fall of snowflakes; so
chilled that snow seemed to warm it by comparison. The sky was grey but stubbornly holding back.
Madam Pomfrey had fussed at first about letting Harry go in such weather, but in the end even she
didn’t have the heart to make him miss his only chance to do some Christmas shopping. Harry’s
grumbled, ‘it was stunner, it’s not like I’ve got the flu or anything’ allowed her to vent her
feelings in a lengthy lecture on the extensive damage he’d put himself through since the year
began, which he sat through in silence but with noticeably rolled and crossed eyes at the
appropriate points. Having both played their roles to completion they went on their separate ways,
but Hermione noticed Madam Pomfrey’s subtle pat on his shoulder as she half pushed him off the
examining bed. A stand off had been achieved both sides could live with.

Bundled in their heaviest cloaks, scarves and mittens they set off with the general herd, but
shortly broke down into a smaller group that included Neville, Seamus, Dean, Parvati and Lavender
as the journey progressed. Quite soon after that Hermione noticed Ron seemed to have disappeared
from the general chatter and a covert glance over her shoulder found him several paces behind them,
walking along deep in conversation with Luna.

“Don’t look,” whispered Harry, “He hates it when he gets all red in front of her. I can’t wait
until he clues in that she could bloody care less. She’s perfectly norm…, well, reasonably normal
in other ways, but he just about walks on water for her at the moment.”

“Oh, and you’ve never enjoyed that feeling, have you?” she told him. “Let him alone.”

“I missed that phase, you know, and it’s likely to be deeply damaging to me mentally at some
point. I just went from annoying boy friend to annoying boyfriend.”

“I take offense at that Harry Potter,” she told him in mock outrage. “First of all, you’re
already so mental who could tell if there was any more damage, and secondly I think you might just
have been happy enough have been able to walk on water yourself recently. Very recently
indeed.”

“Erm,” said Harry, and shut up. Mental yes, *complete* idiot no longer.

Her hand snuck into his and both grinned companionably at each other.

“You two are truly getting nauseating,” Seamus observed. “Not to mention raising the bar
considerably for the rest of us blokes, Harry. You’re meant to be on our side you know.”

“Yeah, Harry,” echoed Dean “where’s the baiting each other and quibbling? The requisite spats?
You’re making us look bad.”

“Which side is that again?” Harry joked. “I like the view much better from over here, thanks.
You ought to give it a try.”

“Yes,” said Parvati feelingly. “More of you should. Pass the word, will you?”

“To whom,” Seamus asked her with a grin, “ought we be speaking? Give us a name, girl, and we’ll
let him know.”

Parvati rolled her lovely eyes, but Lavender perked up and named names. Harry reckoned Seamus
and Dean would have a busy time catching all of them.

They’d reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade by this point and Dean adroitly changed the subject by
asking who was heading where. They began to break up into pairs and singles, agreeing to meet up at
the Three Broomsticks for something warming before heading home. Hermione took off with Parvati and
Luna to search for her gifts, leaving Harry with Ron. Lavender was still bending Dean and Seamus’
ears, so they headed off in the opposite direction.

“Come up with any brilliant ideas for me?” Ron asked, hunching up his shoulders to warm his
reddening ears.

“What, for Hermione, or Luna?” Harry asked.

“Both, mate, and cheap.” Ron told him. “Its hell to be broke at Christmas.”

Harry reckoned it was, and not fair, either. For all his worries that was one he hadn’t had,
thanks to the forethought of his Mum and Dad. He didn’t want to be a total arse about it, but
thought it worth a try to make the offer anyway. He’d rather have had his parents then their money,
and Ron was awfully good about sharing his.

“Look, Ron,” he said, “I don’t want to put my foot in it or anything, but what if part of my
Christmas present to you this year was to fund whatever you want for Hermione and Luna? No worries
then; and it ought to make it lots easier to find something. It’s not as if you can’t do it or
anything, I just thought…”

“That’d be great, Harry,” Ron cut him off gruffly. “Make it the whole present and we’re square.
Big relief, that.”

Harry bumped him gently as they walked along. “Deal, then.”

“Deal.” Ron bumped him back, and Harry almost went flying through the window of Coriander’s
Cauldrons and Crucibles.

Hmm. *Cauldrons*. What about a curse on Snape’s cauldron? What if he could fix it so that
the slimy git’s potions went wrong every time for a while? Let him see how it felt. It would likely
be next to impossible, but that meant Hermione could still do it. The thought of the contents of
Snape’s cauldron roiling into the perfectly *wrong* color for once and exploding more
violently then Neville’s ever had filled Harry with a rush of simple joy. *Merry Christmas
indeed, you great pile of animated bat dung!*

Harry was so happy he thought he could break into song. His Christmas gift to Hogsmeade was that
he didn’t.


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For all that girls genuinely seemed to require a great deal more stuff than your average guy to
get through life; they were astonishingly hard to buy for. Ron and Harry were finding it so,
anyway.

Harry had never actually found it all that hard to shop for Hermione before; she was usually
quite pleased with a thoughtfully chosen book or something useful for school like an ever-sharp or
self-inking quill. This year, however, things were decidedly different between them and he felt the
stakes were upped a bit in terms of getting it right. His dilemma was deciding between a really,
*really* thoughtfully chosen book, or entering that other frightening end of the girl gift
spectrum, namely jewelry.

One of the things Harry liked best about Wizard shops as opposed to Muggle ones was their
individuality; Wizards frowned on mass production and preferred either ancient objects with a past
or ones designed to be singular or personalized by the user. Even by those standards, however, the
shabby little shop at the head of Frogsmarsh Lane in Hogsmeade was different; you never knew what
you were going to find in Serendipity’s Storehouse. It was an entirely useless place to shop if you
had something specific in mind before you went, but if you went in for a spot of browsing the
perfect thing had a way of appearing almost like… well, *magic*. It was there that he turned
now; and there that he dragged Ron as well.

The cheerful old witch who owned the place sat at her usual worn and stuffing-spewing chair
behind the ancient till, knitting and chatting away to a rather bedraggled looking parrot who had
the run of the place and liked to comment on potential purchases. ‘Don’t buy that! It’s poisonous!’
chirped in a disconcertingly perky voice, was a favorite remark, regardless of the item in
hand.

“Help yourselves dearies,” she said without looking up from her needles. “Best to think of the
person you’re looking for while you poke around. Never know what you’ll find in here.”

“There’s more stuff in here than the attics at Grimmauld Place,” Ron whispered to Harry as they
set off down one narrow aisle between piled shelves, “and that’s saying something.”

“Watch yourself,” Harry advised him. “I wasn’t paying attention once and it took me the rest of
the afternoon to find my way back out. Try what she said, though, and think of Luna while you walk
around. It’s worked for me before. I found that replacement bishop for your chess set here fourth
year, and we both thought that was impossible.”

They browsed about for twenty minutes, never straying far from each other, when Harry found it.
It was in a box of odds and ends that seemed to have been cleared out of someone’s sewing drawer;
there was a packet of needles, a variety of buttons and an ivory button hook, and a small silver
object in the shape of a book, not more than two and half centimeters square. He lifted it gingerly
with his fingers to find it was attached to an intricate silver chain. A small clasp kept it closed
and he wondered if he dared open it.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained; it looked as if it could be quite nice if it was cleaned up
and Hermione would love it. He just needed to make sure it didn’t have a picture of Hitabel the
Hideous pasted inside, or some disfiguring curse waiting for the next wearer. Wincing, he flicked
open the little clasp and the covers fell open.

Several seconds later when nothing untoward had happened he resumed breathing and opened his
eyes to examine it closer. There were tiny oval openings in both the interior front and back
covers, clearly fashioned to hold small photos like a locket, and a reef of real bound parchment
pages in between. The pages were so small Harry couldn’t imagine they were meant for anything but
to maintain the illusion of a book, but when he gently ruffled them with his finger he felt the
subtle electric tickle of magic and they fell free of the book onto the shelf below. There was the
briefest of hissing noises, and they enlarged to a notepad about the size of his extended palm. He
picked them up cautiously and thumbed through each one; the last bore the explanation he was
searching for.

It was a lover’s locket, meant for communication between a socially discouraged couple, small
enough to be passed back and forth and charmed so that it could only be open and read buy the two
whose pictures were kept inside the front and back covers.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the locket itself in his hand; it felt benign enough to
him, but he reckoned he could get Bill Weasley to check it for him Christmas Eve. He’d be without a
gift if it was cursed and Bill couldn’t break it, but he couldn’t help thinking that it was too
perfect for Hermione, too *exactly* what he wanted to give her to have anything really wrong
with it. It was more than a book, more than just jewelry, and just right for someone who was so
much more than just a girl. And Merlin know Voldemort had already used up his diary, so it couldn’t
be his!

He placed the too-large pages back between their covers and they shrunk back down to their
original miniature size to fit neatly back inside. He closed the little latch again, curling his
fingers around it with a grin and setting off in search of Ron.

He found him in the very next aisle of shelving over, staring with a perfectly incredulous
expression at the item before him. Harry moved cautiously closer and stared round his shoulder.

“Just what,” he asked, “*is* that…thing?”

It looked like a rock. Not a particularly attractive rock, either, but a sort of
wound-up-like-a-snake ugly rock. Only when Harry looked closer and poked it gingerly with his
outstretched finger he realized in wasn’t a rock at all. It was lighter and smoother and when
rocked on the shelf made a partially hollow sound.

Recognition dawned. “You were thinking about Luna when you found it, right?” he asked.

Ron nodded numbly. “And once I saw it, it was like I couldn’t look away. I kept trying to look
at other stuff, really I did. There were some nice hair thingies over there, she’s got gorgeous
hair, really, but it was like my eyes wouldn’t focus on anything else…”

Harry laughed. “You realize what you’ve found, Ron? I could be wrong, but knowing this place I
doubt it. I’ll bet you a year’s supply of chocolate frogs that *that,* my friend, is the horn
of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.”

Ron looked skeptical. “I thought Hermione said they weren’t real.”

Harry shrugged. “Maybe they just haven’t shown up in a book yet. Maybe they’re shy. Maybe
they’re extinct. Even if Luna’s father made them up completely, I’m still willing to bet he’d say
that’s what that is.”

“So you’re saying I should actually get it?” Ron said. “Are you daft?”

“It says you believe in her. It says you don’t think she’s loony Luna. It says you’re willing to
take a chance to make her happy.” Harry told him.

Ron wasn’t ready to be convinced just yet. “What if she thinks it’s awful, what if they killed
it for the horn or something?”

“What if two male Snorkacks locked horns fighting for a female Snorkack and it came off that
way? Sacrificed for love. That’s probably a very potent potion ingredient right there.”

“Harry, you need to come up for air more when you snog. It’s affecting your brain.” Ron laughed.
“It’s ugly as sin.”

“That’s the thing about Luna, though. The best thing. She doesn’t care what things look like,
she cares who or what they are. Do it, Ron. I have a very good feeling about this.” Harry told
him.

“Well, at least I can blame it completely on you if it goes wrong,” Ron conceded.

“And snog your way to glory without mentioning me once if it doesn’t. What’s there to lose?”

Ron picked it up and turned it over, examining it. “It *does* look sort of crumpled….”

“Come on, then.” Harry led the way to the front of the shop where the old witch was still
knitting away and chatting up the obviously bored parrot. Its beady black eye fixed on Harry and
Ron with the consuming interest of the sole survivor of a shipwreck marooned for months alone at
sea.

“Whatcha got? Whatcha got? Whatcha got?” it squawked, walking carefully along to the edge of its
perch.

The witch set her knitting on her chair and made her way to the counter. “Any luck then,
boys?”

“We’ll take these, please,” Harry told her, nodding to Ron to give her the horn and setting down
the locket. Ron groaned when he saw it.

“*That* looks normal enough,” he said. “How is it that you something like that, which
Hermione will love, by the way, and I end up with this?”

“If it’s lockets you want, young man, there’s plenty to be found. I’ve got a good lot of them
right here,” the old witch informed Ron kindly. She reached beneath the counter to remove a faded
velvet tray and set it before him. Lockets of every shape and size and material flashed and winked
at them, far outshining Harry’s little silver book. Ron appeared mesmerized. Some had gemstones set
in them; some were inscribed with initials or runes.

The witch’s twisted old fingers sorted through them, straightening their chains and setting them
apart from each other. Harry had just noticed something oddly familiar about a heavy-looking old
gold one with an elaborate *S* engraved on it when his scar burst into brilliant aching flames
of pain, the sharpest it had ever hurt since Voldemort had stolen his blood to reclaim a human
form. He reeled back from the counter, doubling over and trying rather desperately not to be
sick.

“Harry?” Ron crouched down beside him. “Mate? Is it…”

Harry nodded and scrabbled in his robes, handing Ron his money bag.

“Pay,” he gasped. “I’ll meet you outside. It’s okay. I don’t think it means he’s close.”

He stumbled through the door of the shop, the bell tinkling madly behind him. It had begun to
snow while they were inside, and he lifted his face up to the sky, half expecting to hear the snow
flakes hiss when they struck his scar. It was so much better out here; in fact it was almost…gone.
It *was* gone.

He wheeled around and pressed his face to the glass of the door, watching Ron counting out the
galleons and sickles as the witch wrapped their purchases in scrap paper and tied them off with
bits of string. The velvet tray was still on the counter and he could see the lockets displayed on
it. Where had he seen the one with the *S* before? It wasn’t recently; he didn’t seem to
remember anyone wearing it. It was very ornate and obviously old, not the sort of thing Hogwarts
girls wore at all, and he couldn’t really see a teacher in it either. It was hardly Professor
Sprouts’ style, and though Professor Sinistra’s name began with S as well Harry was sure he’d never
seen anything like it on the astronomy teacher. Of course, it *had* been dark most of the
time… No, he’d very definitely seen that somewhere before in the light of day.

He was fairly certain that something about that locket had set his scar aflame, and he wished
desperately that he knew what it was.

Ron emerged through the door, the cries of the parrot squawking “Nevermore! Nevermore!” like a
demented raven following him.

“Bloody bird. Are you all right, then?” Ron handed Harry his money bag and the smaller of the
two packages.

“Yeah. I don’t know… did any of those lockets look familiar to you?”

“Nope. They all looked like a better present than this stupid horn, though.”

“Did you ask her about it? The horn.”

“Looked at me like an idiot when I did. *‘It’s from a Crumple Horned Snorkack, of course!’*
she says. Came from Sweden and everything.”

“Well, there you are. Your Christmas snog is assured, so long so you don’t put your foot in it.
Now what in Hogsmeade can I possibly get your sister?


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They completed the rest of their shopping in significantly less time than it had taken to find
their first gifts. The twins were generally easy enough, Bill and Charlie undemanding, Mr. and Mrs.
Weasley fairly conventional in their desires. Harry split off from Ron for the last bit it so that
he could find something for him, promising to meet up again at the Three Broomsticks at the
appointed time.

The Quidditch supplies in Hogsmeade were usually slimmer pickings by far than Quality Quidditch
in Diagon Alley, but Harry found a book he’d never seen before, quite new from the look of it.
“*17 Spells to Supercharge the Older Model Broom: How to Get Firebolt Speed and Response from
Your Cleansweep 5 and Above*” had Ron written all over it; and his was even a Cleansweep 11. The
spells all made sense to Harry and looked as if they just might work if you got the combinations
right. At least Ron could have fun trying it out. He was amused at the thought of giving Ron the
book this year and Hermione something else altogether, but that was just the sort of year it was
turning out to be.

He bought Ginny a small, marble-sized glass ball that looked like a cross between Neville’s
Rememberall and Mad Eye Moody’s foe-glass and was meant to be just that, it was advertised as an
“Intention Indicator.” The spell sheet that went along with it explained that if you wore it
against your skin, it would change color from it’s natural green (which he thought would look
pretty enough for her to not mind wearing, very becoming to her coloring) to a stormy red if
someone directly in contact with you was harboring malign thoughts.

He hoped that she was done with Malfoy, but he’d seen the sort of helpless, moth-to-a-flame look
she’d had for him and remembered keenly her belief that there was something worth saving there.
Harry couldn’t agree less, but if she felt compelled to keep trying at least this would warn her
off if he was right. He was still desperately torn about what had happened and felt vaguely at
fault although he’d done nothing, as far as his mental reconstruction of the whole thing could
reveal, to encourage her feelings when it came to him in the first place. Except be an oblivious
git, which ought to have been off-putting rather than attracted her. Perhaps she really did have a
saving people thing too, and that was the connection she felt?

Harry shoved the whole thing mentally into a corner and speeded his steps back toward the
comfort of Hermione. He was battling the by now more determined snowflakes and dodging many a
shopped-out Hogwarts student along the lane to the Three Broomsticks when his eye caught just a
flash of something in a window and he slowed, then came to a halt.

It was an apothecary and potions supply shop, and at first he thought his weary brain had
obediently worked its way back to a convenient curse for Snape’s cauldron, but as he thought about
it he knew he’d still need Hermione’s help for that. They’d covered cauldron issues and how to
guard yourself from them early on this year at the NEWT level, and Harry, as was so often the case,
had simply been too preoccupied with some other pressing danger in his life at the time to pay
sufficient attention.

So what was he looking for, then?

There was a display of “Magically Useful and Most Potent Objects” in the window, bezoars and
fire-crab shells in a variety of sizes, great nuggets of amber, lumps of obsidian, stalagmites of
hand grown crystals in a wide range of colors and stages. His eye had caught a collection of small
geodes and nodules, though, none bigger than a snitch. The rocky exterior looked ordinary enough,
the sort of thing you’d kick along a path without a second look, but the ones that were split open
already revealed a remarkable variety of colors and types of crystals within. There were common
quartz, amethyst and calcite ones priced quite cheaply; and even Harry knew that they were called
for, ground and pulverized, in a variety of basic enough potions.

There was also a larger wooden crate in the back of the display, packed with straw and
containing much bigger whole ones, each labeled individually as to their provenance and predicted
contents. It was toward these Harry felt his attention inextricably drawn like a magnet. His face
pressed against the freezing glass, eyes searching amongst the spidery writing, for what he was not
sure. His heart seemed to be beating slightly faster and every instinct he had told him there was
something there he was meant to understand…

Agate Creek and Monto and Murgon in Queensland; Narrabri, Boggabri, Merriwah, Werris Creek and
Bellata in New South Wales. Some were from watery areas, some from mountains; but all were labeled
as “naturally created” and their uses limited to potions. The last two were different; one was
called a “thunder egg” and was said to have been created within volcanic rock, the other was called
“dragon’s breath” and explained to have been formed by an existing nodule being superheated while
lying in the path of a dragon’s flamestrike.

The thunder egg was already split to reveal a star-shaped interior filled with long crystalline
projections; beautiful, but not what Harry was looking for. Not that he *knew* what he was
looking for, mind you, so what was he thinking? The dragon’s breath nodule was still whole, and
Harry’s desire to know what its interior looked like was almost overwhelming. He reckoned that this
must be what most wizards felt like under the Imperius curse, and his helpful little voice didn’t
seem to be kicking in, either. He looked to the bottom of the tag beside it for the price and
almost cried.

*250 galleons?* *For a rock??*

He dragged himself away from the window, determined to find out what was so bloody special about
a Dragon’s Breath geode that would require one to fork over 250 galleons for it. Why he actually
really, *really* wanted to was going to be harder to address; he was unlikely to find that
answer in any book.

Thank goodness for Hermione, then. In so many, *many* ways.


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The trip home turned out to be great fun. A nice warm butterbeer or two had restored most of the
energy Christmas shopping had drained from them, and the snow was sticking now and layering itself
insistently ever deeper on the ground. There were snowball fights amongst the boys and a great deal
of snow shoved down warm necks under scarves for the girls. Harry learned Hermione could throw a
snow ball as well as any boy after he’d managed to get a bit down the actual neck of her cloak as
well, and hence in a nice cold drip down her spine.

“You are *so* in trouble, Harry Potter!” she warned him, biting her lip to hold back a
squeak as the wet back of her shirt touched skin again. “That was absolutely freezing.”

“That was the point,” he told her, and grinned.

“Speaking of points, then, that’s going to cost you,” she informed him primly. “I’m going to be
calling in, oh, at least *thirty* in retaliation,” she said in a much softer voice, for him
alone.

“Oh, I’m *so* scared,” he whispered back. “Anything but that! You’re too good to me,
Mistress.”

“Now *there’s* a thought,” was all she said.

Uh oh.


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Inspired, perhaps, by the snow settling over the castle and the knowledge that roughly half the
student population had spent the day in Hogsmeade Christmas shopping, the house elves outdid
themselves at dinner. There was hot soup and a warming lamb stew with fresh rolls for sopping up
their bowls, and warm apple cobbler for afters. Ron looked happy enough to sleep right there on the
bench at the Gryffindor table, and he was not alone. All across the Great Hall students (and not a
few teachers) gave happy sighs of complete satiation as they rose from their seats.

Harry was taking Dumbledore’s suggestion that he had outgrown his need of Hermione as dream
keeper as starting with the new week, meaning Monday. None of the boys knew one way or the other;
indeed, none of them seemed to mind her presence now in the slightest so he saw no reason to push
the issue. He’d expected some at least token resistance about following the *intent* if not
the word of the ruling from the ex-prefect in Hermione, but the fact that none was forthcoming when
he mentioned it to her was chuffing indeed. It was nice to know she was looking forward to their
imminent separation as little as he was.

They parted as always at the split landing of the stairs. Harry began heading up the stairs to
the boys’ dormitories behind Ron when he heard a distinct throat-clearing behind him. He turned to
find Hermione still on the landing.

“What?” he asked.

She motioned him down the steps, and he had to dodge two third year boys to make it.

“If we’re going to make this look legitimate to anyone else at all,” she whispered, “we’re going
to have to start acting like a normal couple would.”

Bloody hell, as Ron would have so aptly put it. What did that mean? What did normal couples at
Hogwarts do that they weren’t? He glanced out over the common room trying to look as if he’d
understood perfectly but was just checking if he’d left anything vital in a room he hadn’t
effectively been in at all in the last twelve hours. As he did, his eyes glanced (as quickly as
they could) off of Lavender Brown, lip locked with Cormac McLaggen of all people. *Ewwww*.

He glanced back at Hermione, but as he did, her meaning became clear. Cormac and Lavender were
hardly about to… nope. Go away! Merlin, his brain was repulsed at the mere thought of the two of
them *kissing*. Anything else was too deeply *blech* to consider. Mental spit.
*Anyway,* they weren’t likely going to see each other again once they went up stairs, as both
of them were essentially too lazy to go to the trouble of putting on an act for anyone else if they
were just going to sneak out later. That, and the fact that Lavender was on the vain side and like
to look her best; she wasn’t going to wash off her make up and put on pajamas warm enough to cope
with Hogwarts in winter in if she was due to be meeting someone. So they were kissing good night.
And Hermione thought it would look suspicious if *they* parted without kissing good night as
well!

*How did things get so complicated?* Harry thought, as three fourth year girls sidled past
them and continued on up the girls’ stairs. This must have been going on forever, year after year,
how come he’d never noticed a thing when he was in third or fourth or fifth? There was an unspoken
rule about minding your manners in front of the firsties and seconds, but the prefects left well
enough alone after that. The only apparent answer was he’d just been oblivious; it was a hard thing
to disprove given his general obliviousness to other even more obvious things. It was another of
those wand-pocket-in-the-curtains moment when Hermione explained the finer points of Hogwarts for
him.

There was, therefore, a healthy dose of gratitude mixed with his desire when he kissed her then,
and it must have showed. The fourth years broke out into wolf whistles from the top of the stairs.
Surprisingly good ones, considering they were girls. Harry felt himself blush, but kissed her once
more to cover it.

“See you later?” he whispered.

“Count on it,” was her reply.


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A/N: And that, beloved readers, was the first of the long overdue new chapters of this story. To
be quite honest, when HBP came out and I started MND, the attempted endings I wrote to this
reflected the angst of the times. The first was a sort of comedy, where Harry woke up with Hermione
by his side and realized all the events of Half Blood Prince were all just a very, very bad dream.
The others were equally reactionary. I’m really glad now that I waited until I finished MND to
update this, because I see things MUCH more calmly through my self-induced rose-colored glasses and
I can actually work my mental way back to where they were here. Now I can see more of this story
finishing out Harry’s sixth year in a happily AU universe where some things are the same, and
others (like the monster in Harry’s chest) just never happen. So that’s pretty much the scope of
things if you’re interested, and fair warning where this is going. It looks like this could well
cover the whole second half of Harry’s sixth year. Horcruxes will (obviously! Bad Mundungus
Fletcher! Naughty Aberforth Dumbledore! ) be discovered and come in to play, but the lessons of the
Rose Window are clearly not finished, especially where Harry is concerned and will play a large
part as well. Voldemort will re-exert his influence and new stuff will happen. Hope you enjoy if
you choose to stay and read. I am re-posting the original first three chapters to this story over
the next several days as well, if you’d care to read those. We’ll rejoin things up in the sixth
year boys dorm next time.

Thanks!



28. Chapter 28
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 28


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The following morning was quite thankfully a Sunday; and while Hermione had her usual strict
schedule of reading, revising and getting ahead on her homework planned, even *she* could
allow herself the rare luxury of a lie in with only one day of classes this week. They left for the
Burrow day after tomorrow, and Christmas was the next day. She poked her head out of the curtains
of Harry’s bed to find a silence so deep it seemed almost unnatural. Even Ron wasn’t honking away
in the next bed; he appeared too completely relaxed to snore. Or perhaps he was dreaming of Luna…
If that worked, Luna’d have won herself the undying admiration of four other boys as well. Outside
the window the snow fell on thickly, obscuring the sky.

She pulled the curtain closed again and snuggled back into the warm comfort that was Harry
behind her. He’d been spooned against her back when she moved; now as she settled herself into him
carefully, seeking out exactly the right alignment for maximum heat transfer, his arm closed around
her and he made a small, unconscious sound of relief. Hermione fitted her own arm over his, sealing
the bargain of their contentment.

*Bloody school rules*.

She could entirely see the reason for them if you were Lavender Brown and Cormac McLaggen and
the whole point of the exercise was figuring out who you could do it with and what you were
actually doing and what other people thought about it you doing it. She’d listened to enough of
Lavender’s end of things to know she was trying out as many boys as she could so that she wouldn’t
regret things when she settled down to just one. At least her *ultimate* goal was
semi-admirable, although it made Hermione’s head spin to think of doing it that way.

She felt very differently (and quite sure) about what she was doing with Harry, and she was
deeply regretting now the idea of returning to the more normal confines of a sixth year
relationship. She knew the logic of it, could hear exactly the words the adults in charge of them
might use if they were to speak of it (which she dearly hoped they weren’t, but felt had to have
been inevitable, at least between Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall. Her skin crept at
the thought.)

Was it normal, though, to be their age and to know such uncertainty about what the future held
for you? At least it was uncertainty on her part; Harry had the fairly inevitable shadow of
Voldemort’s hatred hanging over him still. She knew that he thought it inescapable and she felt
sure that knowledge still colored everything he did now. Part of her, the part that was now
settling her spine slightly more insinuatingly against his chest and allowing her hips to shift
back into his, was increasingly sure that they would have found themselves together like this one
way or another even without the opportunity being his dream keeper had afforded. A clock was
ticking ever more insistently over his head; it seemed only right somehow to drown out the sound
with something *more*.

His lips had come to slow life on the back of her neck and every nerve in her body was awaking
underneath them, running a relay race to tell each other that he was awake, that he was touching
her there, and there and *there*. She could feel the evidence of his wanting her both in every
touch and his steadily growing presence against the small of her back. As much as she loved the
wicked private humor that had sprung up between them, there were equally times like this when the
very idea of laughing at that sensation seemed irretrievably distant and juvenile now. It had begun
to strike her on such occasions as too incredibly precious to waste a moment of him even to
laughter, when the future might equally hold the eternal absence of him against her there, like
that.

She rolled over in his arms then and tried to tell him so, how singular and lovely and
irreplaceable every inch of skin, every thrum of pulse, every instinctual movement and sound he
made was to her. It was hell to think of losing him, ever; it would be heaven to be able to simply
give herself over to him without imagining the bitter taste of loss one day upon her lips. She
lived now to sense for that moment when the rest of his preoccupations all fell away from him as
they came together, when she managed to draw him so certainly into their private cocoon of touch
that the only thing he really cared about was where the next one would come and what it would feel
like and how he could mimic its sensation back for her.

Harry had proved surprisingly adept at that; she wondered if they were usual or not, if the
slow, slow dance they’d begun to favor lately to draw each other out was something that everyone
did, or not. She had nothing to compare it to, *wanted* nothing to compare it to, felt certain
nothing ever could. She knew somehow it would be held against her to think that way, chalked up to
her youth. She shoved violently away the knowledge of how she would be counseled to set those
memories aside if anything happened to him; to move on, accept what else life had to offer. How
could she? How could anyone? Would they tell Molly Weasley to do that if Arthur died now? Age was
an indicator of maturity in all but the heart; hers felt as if it had grown well past her numerical
years, stretched and full of him.

Had any part of Lily’s love left in Harry been born of the certain knowledge that James was
already dead? Had it been any different to give up her own life for her young son knowing that?
Hermione thought it diminished nothing from the gift of it but brought her suddenly closer to Lily
and the decision she had made, closer to understanding why exactly her love had been so destructive
to Voldemort as it suffused through Harry’s veins. Perhaps it was not after all the magic of her
love alone; a mother’s love for her child, but by extension the equally old magic that was a
family, love made flesh and whole.

It must have taken tremendous faith in magic itself to believe Harry would be protected without
her, and tremendous love for James for Lily to follow him even into death and in doing so leave
Harry to that precious protection. If any one of the parts of the triangle had been less strong,
might the magic have failed?

The thought brought a new, more electric urgency to her need to join with him somehow, her
imperative need for that sense of being whole he brought with him. And being Harry, her lovely
Harry; when her movements became almost blind and frantic against him with all her wild thoughts of
love and loss lurching around her brain, allowed his own mind shut down and instead of questioning
her simply took up his part in their coupling, stilling and soothing her with the strength and
weight and insistent movement she craved.

She had never felt quite this way before. She was neither truly the instigator nor the
aggressor, because both of those indicated a degree of self control she couldn’t begin to claim and
he was meeting her every move. There were vague, half-formed notions of claiming him, marking him
indelibly as her own before they were forced further apart, of burning herself into his memory so
that there were no possible questions left unanswered when it came to how she felt. She spurred him
on; pinned firmly against the bed by the desperately controlled rocking of his hips and caged by
the arms on which he balanced himself above her she could *still* manage the use of both her
lips and fingers. She touched and stroked every particularly responsive or sensitive stretch of
skin she knew or could find over and over, in tandem and then counterpoint to each other, lips and
fingers, fingers and lips until he was almost as far gone as she was, his breath coming in fast,
tender sobs against her neck.

He found his voice when she had thought it long gone, the sound of his words like the sweetest,
most perfect pressure placed with perfect rhythm in just the perfect place.

“Hermione,” he begged softly, his head hanging close to her ear. “please, what? Tell me… I want
to…anything… let me… tell me what… you need.”

“*That*,” she told him; bearing down to hold herself together just when everything inside
her gave way. “Just that,” she whispered back into his neck, feeling the pounding of his heart in
the vein beneath her lips. “You,” she said, and he was just as lost as she, and it was beyond
*everything* to be able to hold him safe while he fell too, because she knew it was never
going to be quite that way again.


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There were thankfully now only two more nights before they left for the Burrow, and only one
full day of classes. The nights were some of the loneliest of Harry’s life; endless, miserable
toss-and-turn affairs free of bad dreams mostly because they were free of sleep. He could not get
comfortable without Hermione. The bed was too big now, too cold; too empty by far and his pillow
still *smelled* like her. It was maddening. The day of classes was marginally better, mostly
because he slept though it.

Since it was something of a secret that Harry was being allowed to the Burrow for Christmas in
the first place he wasn’t allowed to join the other students in their leave taking or on the
Express. In the interest of not being entirely obvious about revealing his holiday location to the
Death Eaters, Ron and Ginny were to take the train and be picked up in Kings Cross, while Harry and
Hermione were set to portkey in that evening. This last was only because Harry had insisted on
Hermione remaining there with him; he’d had to point out that the two of them were a pretty well
known fact now amongst the Slytherins most likely to report home to Death Eater parents and they
could no longer act as thought it didn’t matter. She was as good a target alone without him now as
with; there was less safety in separation then ever before. He was significantly less forthcoming
about revealing his secondary reason, which was that he bloody well wasn’t going to spend the whole
day stuck here alone without her.

So it was that Ron made his good byes with a grin at the thought of what the two of them could
get up to in a day mostly alone in the castle, and joined the throng heading out into the still
falling snow to Hogsmeade with Luna and Ginny. It took Harry’s returned grin and Hermione’s subtle
thumbs up for him to realize his opportunities were almost as bright.

They turned together to climb the stairs, but their thoughts must have been a beacon entirely
too evident because they found Dumbledore before them with a face rather tired and serious for the
start of holidays and a request that they join him in his office.

Harry felt his cautious happiness pricked, and settled back to earth.

Once settled in Dumbledore’s rooms and having refused lemon drops and accepted hot cocoa, they
were treated to the issue at hand. It left them both reeling.

“I know it would be kinder to save this talk for after the holidays,” Dumbledore began, “but I
have had to learn some hard lessons these last few years, and one of them has proved to be that
much as it saddens me, it does not benefit either of us to be kind to you, Harry.”

“No,” said Harry, remembering the results of Dumbledore’s past kindnesses. “I reckon not.”

“I have spoken to both of you separately about the connection of the window awakening and the
second prophecy, but it is time, I think, for us all to put our heads together to good use. Have
you come to any conclusions, either of you, of what it is the prophecy refers to?”

Hermione, as was her nature, jumped to the challenge with a line by line exposition.

“’When the wheel of life spins once more a lion scarred by death itself will rise, who speaks
the language of snakes and bears the fangs of a dragon.’ That’s Harry, isn’t it? A Gryffindor for
the lion, and his scar coming from surviving the Avada Kedavra. He’s a parselmouth, and Charlie
sent him the dragon fang this summer.”

“It says fangs,” pointed out Harry hopefully, “and I’ve only got the one. Maybe it’s *not*
me.”

Dumbledore and Hermione both shot him a long look and he sighed, waving her on.

“‘He will follow its path to begin his journey and he will strike down an immortal evil where it
lies five times, but the sixth time he will find it within himself.’ ‘Its path’ must mean the
window, surely. It’s turning, slower than the earth butstill clearly moving with time, and the
riddle the sorting hat told us talked about how it was ‘Obscured from those who seek in wrath, But
waiting on the righteous path.’ I took that to mean it had been hidden from those who sought to use
the events unfolding there to do evil things, but if you went looking for honest reasons you’d find
it. Only, that didn’t happen. Or did it?”

Harry reckoned that Hermione confused was one of the world’s cuter things; the sheer rareness of
it and the little furrow between her eyes…

She kicked his ankle hard enough to put an end to *that* thought.

“*Ow*. How would I know?”

“You were just the one who *did it*, after all,” she told him.

“Well, I was more hacked off than anything the first time, and then it was just a window, wasn’t
it? It didn’t really show us anything until the spell hit it when we were fighting off
Voldemort.”

“And there was the difference, Harry,” Dumbledore pointed out. “The first time you were indeed
wrathful, although not without good intentions, and you weren’t actually seeking it. Clearly,
though, you or something about you was the trigger to uncovering it. The next time, you were using
a spell intended not to kill but to banish evil. Had Voldemort not been malicious, the spell you
choose would have been harmless. It was a righteous choice, and it connected and reacted with an
obscure timespell. We have accepted that this returned the window to *normal* but I wonder if
we aren’t making a rather large assumption. How do we know if the window ever revealed such secrets
before? Was it moving when it was hidden so long ago, or did you in fact actually set it
motion?”

Hermione’s eyes glowed; clearly that particular thought had not occurred to her before.

“It just says ‘He will follow its path to begin his journey.’ It might well not have been moving
at all before then! But what does that mean? And what about the part where ‘he will strike down an
immortal evil where it lies five times, but the sixth time he will find it within himself.’ Is
Voldemort an ‘immortal evil’ because he didn’t truly die when he tried to kill Harry? Do the five
times mean the five years he’s been here at Hogwarts, and the sixth this year when Voldemort
possessed him?”

It was here Dumbledore let out a sigh of his own.

“Alas, I wish it were, Hermione, but I have become increasingly certain it is not, tempting
though that explanation is. I’m afraid the answer is a far darker thing, and puts Harry back at the
beginning of his journey rather than nearing the end.”

Harry felt as if he’d been punched. One of Vernon’s particularly vicious sucker punches;
unexpected and below the belt. His stomach lurched, and his brain screamed *‘No way! I am NOT
starting this all over!’*”

“How?” was what he managed to get out. They both looked at him somewhat anxiously and
Dumbledore’s hand twitched, refilling his cocoa.

“The answer lies in the history and science of magic. It is not, as you know, simply wand waving
and wish fulfillment. There is a responsibility that comes with this greater gift we are allowed,
and without upholding that responsibility we are a long way from being any better than the Muggles
that so out number us; indeed we would be lower and baser by far,” he said thoughtfully. He sat
back in his ancient, creaking chair and steepled his fingers in his beard beneath his chin. Harry
got the feeling for a moment or two that he was seeing another room entirely, or recalling another
conversation. Or both.

“We have the capacity to do wonderful things, but I myself believe our numbers are shrinking and
our world is in turmoil because we have responded to the fear of those who do not understand us
with fear ourselves. Throughout history the witch hunts, the dunkings and beatings and burnings,
the outright killing of innocent witches and wizards because their abilities were either feared or
envied, has caused us not to seek to explain ourselves but to turn *inside* ourselves like
wounded children, to shut ourselves amongst our own kind and let the feelings fester. It is there
Grindelwald and Voldemort have found their footholds amongst us.”

*Holy hell*, thought Harry. That made frightening sense, even to him. He’d never associated
himself or his magic with that particular part of history. He’d learned it in Muggle school after
all; History of Magic at Hogwarts focused on magical uprisings, Goblin rebellions and the like. It
skirted the issues Dumbledore raised here entirely. To be hated, hunted, killed because you were
magical… he knew the Wizarding world hid itself because the Muggles feared and didn’t understand
magic, but he’d forgotten all about the history between them before the separation had occurred. It
made sense – sad, twisted sense, but sense none the less – of some of the pureblood hatred of
Muggles. Not just for the differences between them now, but the fear and mistrust of the past.

“I believe,” said Dumbledore, “that Voldemort long ago set out on a path so wicked and twisted
that were it left undiscovered and uncorrected, it would surely mean either the end of our world or
magic on earth as we know it. It took intelligence and power to uncover what he needed; and great
evil and resolve to carry out. And because of the prophecy that foretold the birth of one who could
put an end to it, you, Harry, became a part of it. I still maintain it could have just as well been
Neville or in fact could have meant another altogether, and it is important you understand that,
Harry. It was *not* the force of magic at work that night; it was the will and choice of a
magical man. There is a difference.”

Splitting hairs, as far as Harry was concerned. Greasy ones, since it was Snape that clued
Voldemort in to it.

“When Lord Voldemort descended on your parents’ house that night, Harry, he had not been Tom
Riddle in a very long while. He was no longer human, a precious gift we bear along with our magic.
He had cast that gift aside, rendered it along with his soul. He entered your house with only a
shred of his own soul left, and he meant to use killing you that night to ensure what he perceived
to be true immortality.”

Harry was lost. He saw that Hermione was rapt, but confused as well.

“There is a creation of dark magic so perverse you will not find its name in any book in
Hogwarts, Hermione. Not even in the restricted section. Much as they have with Voldemort himself,
wizards sought to deny its existence by refusing to acknowledge it or speak its name. And like all
attempts to hide from evil, it has come back to haunt us with a vengeance. It is called a horcrux,
and I fear Voldemort has made not just one, but six of them.”

“What is it then, some sort of weapon? And why does he need six of them?” Harry asked, uncertain
he actually wanted there to be an answer.

“And what sort of weapon,” mused Hermione, “ensures immortality? What kind of weapon can
*never* be turned on its creator?”

“The kind that is nothing less than its creator. A horcrux is a truly accursed object. The
wizard who creates it uses the premeditated evil of the murder of another to rip apart his own
soul. At the moment of separation, the torn portion is pulled from the body and implanted within a
prepared vessel. The hiding place can be anything; hollow or solid, large or small, valuable as
gold or apparently worthless as an old, used book.”

Harry stomach took another hit; he *knew.*

“That wasn’t a memory of Tom Riddle I fought with in the Chamber,” he choked out. “It was really
*him*.”

Dumbledore nodded grimly, but his eyes were watching Harry avidly now. “*Yes*. Exactly my
thought, Harry. I have been puzzling away at the magic of that for years now, and a horcrux is the
only true answer that accounts for it. A journal could be cursed, but a curse alone could not have
forced Miss Weasley to undertake all that she did, or brought you face to face with the young man
you fought. The way that you described him in such detail made me sure he was no mere memory. It
was more than likely the very first horcrux he made. Ginny Weasley was possessed by a portion of
the soul of Lord Voldemort as surely as you were, Harry, and he walked among us all that time
without our knowing.”

Harry felt cold and dizzy by turns as his mind tried to accept and integrate this new
information; Hermione’s warm hand creeping into his own amongst the folds of his robes was the only
thing that grounded him.

“But it was so different, with Ginny…”

“There are several important events that account for that difference, Harry. When you first met
Lord Voldemort in the back of Professor Quirrell’s head, what you saw there was a type of
possession as well. It was a parasitic relationship; Voldemort’s unembodied soul was living off
Professor Quirrell, and his one goal at that time was to regain a body of his own. He sought the
Philosopher’s Stone not for immortality, which he had already achieved, but to use it to regain his
strength and a corporeal body with it. Your touch was his undoing from his host, but his soul fled
unharmed.

What you met in the Chamber was indeed Lord Voldemort, Harry, but a different *portion* of
him. It was the true Lord Voldemort in Quirrell’s head; the portion of his soul that fled his
mortally wounded body the night the killing curse rebounded from you to him. It later took up
residence in Quirrell during his wanderings in Albania and came back here with him. What you saw in
the Chamber was a portion of his soul torn from himself years before and stored within the pages of
the diary. A horcruxed soul is *not* a true soul; it is nothing more than a portion of a true
soul’s essence.

It is possible for a mad and powerful wizard to make a cheat at Godliness by tearing his soul
through murder, but only love has been blessed by our creator as a source of true life; only two
souls coming together in the act of procreation can create a new soul amongst us. The hope and
intent of that, I am sure, was to nurture that soul’s creation in what is best about us, our one
true image of that creating force. Unselfish love for another. In violating that, Voldemort has set
all that created us against himself.

“But Harry destroyed it; the book and the image of Riddle that went with it,” Hermione said
slowly. “Was that a portion of Voldemort’s soul he destroyed?”

Dumbledore nodded gravely.

“You told me he had to do it six more times in the hospital wing. Face off with Voldemort. But
you just said he made six horcruxes; wouldn’t that mean five more soul pieces?”

“Voldemort has always respected power above all. I am just guessing, based on the fact that he
survived the destruction of the diary without further repercussions, that he made more than one. We
are tossing off numbers here as if they are just that; numbers. Ripping apart one’s very soul is a
terrible thing. In their limited history that we know of, no one has ever done it more than once.
Tom Riddle was never content to do just what had been done before. It is my suspicion, based in
part on Professor Forthecomb’s prophecy; that he sought to achieve the highly potent magical number
of seven.”

Harry tried to do the math on that and failed miserably. No matter what he did he was off by
one.

“I don’t…” he started, but Hermione squeaked and clasped his hand so tightly his fingers
numbed.

“*He* is the seventh, isn’t he? Voldemort himself! He had to start with something to split
*from*; if he wanted to end up with seven he had to tear off six pieces!” Her pleasure in
solving the problem turned abruptly to horror, however, after her mind took the next logical step.
“That means he killed six people, doesn’t it? For nothing more than…”

There was silence between the three of them for a moment as they each reflected on the waste of
six lives, six innocent souls lost for *that.*

“How does it…” Hermione’s voice trailed off, as though she found it almost too distasteful to
ask, and Harry knew then what she was asking.

Dumbledore knew as well. “I told you that no man can create a soul alone; nor can he recreate
one. It is what it is, what it was created to be. It wishes to be whole; it can not leave this
world for any other if it is not. Regardless of the judgment of good or wicked, which is never
truly ours to make, a soul must be whole to go on *anywhere*. A horcrux creates a false
immortality by insuring the horcruxed soul can not leave the bounds of this earth even if the body
it was born to is destroyed. It wanders, seeking to reunite with its missing piece. In Voldemort’s
case, the goal was never to unite the missing pieces, but to scatter them around widely to make
sure that no matter what happened to his body, there would always be a fragment of his soul left to
ensure Voldemort need not face death.”

He turned on Harry then, his blue eyes boring in without the intrusion of his magic behind them,
underscoring the obvious intention of the whole conversation. “Know this, Harry. Commit it to your
memory and never forget it. *That* is how badly the mighty Lord Voldemort fears death. Enough
to shred his soul to try and keep it at bay. *That* is why when you embraced death as
preferable to sharing your body with him in the Department of Mysteries you were able to drive him
from you. He is terrified of something you could accept with grace and equanimity because he was
*never* loved as you were, can *never* hope to be loved as you are now. You may be just a
boy, although I think we three know you to be more than that now, but you are far from defenseless
against him.”

“But if the prophecy he believes in says *‘and either must die at the hand of the other for
neither can live while the other survives,’*” Harry asked, “what does that have to do with
horcruxing himself? If he’s made himself immortal I *can’t* kill him, so what’s he so bloody
mad about? He’s had my blood, he’s got his body back, he can touch me… what more does he need? Why
can’t he live while I survive?”

“Because he is not truly immortal, Harry. It is but a corruption of life, and he knows it.
Horcruxes are nothing more than objects with fragments of soul hidden within. They are dark,
destructive things, but with only a pale imitation of their creator’s power. That is one reason why
Ginny’s experience of being possessed was more like a persistent imperius curse than the more
physical possession you knew.

Voldemort can still be defeated if each of his horcruxes, how ever many there truly are, are
destroyed first. I do not mean to make that sound easy; even if we knew where to find them
destroying them is not, as you discovered with the diary, an easy thing. You had the potent magic
of the basilisks’ fang to hand; without it the tale might have ended quite differently. But there
is a beautiful symmetry to being destroyed by the very beast he commanded, too. Never forget to
look for that circle closing around you, Harry, for that is where the magic lies. That’s the surest
sign you are acting with the power of both magic and creation itself behind you, and with it you
can not fail.”

“You mean I’m meant to find and destroy at least six horcruxes before I can finally confront
him?” Harry asked numbly.

“Five now, for I think that we have agreed here you have quite probably destroyed one, and he
himself is the seventh portion.”

“Professor,” Hermione questioned, “when the first prophecy says Harry will ‘strike down an
immortal evil where it lies five times, but the sixth time he will find it within himself.’ What
does that mean? It says ‘only if the lion can vanquish his own darkness will his seventh strike
save him. If he cannot, the pretender has won, and by all that is sacred in this world magic must
die.’”

“I believe it means just what you think it means, dear girl,” Dumbledore informed her. “And I
confess to being at a loss either to entirely explain it, or yet what to do about it. But I think
we have wrestled with enough of the worlds problems for the moment; the magic of this coming
holiday is the reminder that it is not ultimately up to us after all. We are but grains of sand in
a cosmic sea, loved and set adrift. If we remain true to our purpose and the eternal truths that
created us, all will be well in the end. We always have the choice to believe that our choices
matter.”

Harry’s head hurt, and none of this last was helping; he was less adrift in a cosmic sea than
drowning in it.

“Erm, thank you,” he said, because *‘thanks a bloody heap you raving great loon,’* just
seemed rude.

Dumbledore’s mercurial mood was seemingly blown in yet another direction by some gusty cosmic
breeze, and he smiled with an almost child-like glee.

“Before you go,” he informed them, “I confess that I thought it best that after our conversation
you two kept yourselves busy until it was time for your portkey. I thought some nice exercise might
do you both good and keep you out of, well keep you occupied, shall we say. So I have taken the
liberty of hiding your Christmas gifts somewhere inside the castle at the end of a trail of clues.
*Nothing* like a good treasure hunt, is there? You can work together, but I promise you it’s
not in any of the broom closets or supply stores. Off you go, then, Happy Christmas!”

“Happy Christmas,” they chorused dazedly, and made their way down the revolving staircase. They
made it as far as the staircase above the Entrance hall before they were both laughing so hard they
had to hold each other up, and sat instead on the top step across from the window.

“You would’ve thought we’d never find anything funny again after all that,” Hermione managed,
and Harry thought that her eyes were especially beautiful when she laughed, warm and brown and
inviting. “How does he do it?”

“By being a barmy great daft *totally mental* mad gormless twit,” he informed her, but he
was still grinning helplessly himself. “And not altogether bad in the legilmency department either,
I suppose.”

The thick snow outside gave the window an eerie, muffled sort of look, but its faint keening
sound still occasionally wailed on.

“D’you hear it?” he asked her, suddenly realizing they had never discussed that part of it. “It
spooks the hell out of me, that sound.”

“No,” she admitted, and he could see the faint hunger in her eyes that meant she wanted to know
something. “I haven’t yet. I’ve never been in the hall like this before when it was so quiet,
though. Do you hear it now?”

He nodded, and watched while she closed her eyes intently. He could see her begin to grow
frustrated after a bit, and her eyelids twitched restlessly. He thought she was about to give up
and searched quickly for a way to describe what to listen for, wondering if she’d know what he
meant by whale song. It struck him only another moment on what a totally mad, mentally deficient
twit HE was capable of being the other way round; just he never liked to do the whole legilmens
thing himself didn’t mean it couldn’t come in handy.

He gathered up the sound and pushed it at her, gently but insistently. Her eyes flew abruptly
open, wide and delighted.

“It says different things to different people!” she exclaimed.

That would make the *three* of them completely mental then. There must be something in the
pumpkin juice; he half wondered if the house elves were less happy than they let on and getting
even their own way.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “What did you hear?”

“When I was listening, it sounded like an old record player on the wrong speed, very slow and
haaaaarrrrrrddddd tooooooo understand,” she said, demonstrating. “It’s so soft and low it’s just on
the verge of being able to be heard at all, but it was still distinctly words or sounds meant to
have meaning, they didn’t feel random in the least. And there was more than one voice in mine, sort
of like you were in a room full of people with several conversations going on in the background.
But when you gave me your bit it all sounded different. Yours was just one sound, over and over. No
wonder it freaks you out. Absolutely fascinating. I wonder what it means?”

The stairs beneath them abruptly pulled a girls’ dorm maneuver and turned into a slide,
swooshing them down and dumping them breathlessly at the bottom before changing innocently
back.

“No idea,” Harry found himself laughing and light-hearted again, almost against his will. Bloody
Dumbledore. “But I reckon we’re meant to get on with our treasure hunt and *that* was our
first clue.”


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29. Chapter 29
--------------

**Official Fine Print:** Nope. Not mine. The brainchildren of the mighty pen of JK Rowling.
Just playing with them. Honest.

Here With Me

Chapter 29


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“So he made us do a sort of treasure hunt, with hidden clues and everything, to find them,”
Harry heard Hermione explaining to Ron as they made their way up the stairs at the Burrow.

“Seriously?” Ron asked not even pausing in his procession up the steps to grin at them over his
shoulder. “He must have really thought you were up to no good to sink that low to keep you
busy.”

The Burrow appeared to Harry to quite literally have been attacked by Christmas; every surface,
horizontal or vertical, bore some reminder of the season. Mrs. Weasley was in her element, Mr.
Weasley was hiding in his little closet of a study, the twins were home and at work stringing fairy
lights and charming them into Christmas colors (“Nothing like a dash of purple to really say
Christmas,” Fred had reminded them merrily.) Bill was due in later that evening, “and he’s bringing
Fleur Delacour,” Ron had told them, more than just a trace of wonder in his voice. Charlie was
coming in with his new girlfriend as well the following morning. The only Weasley country not heard
from was Percy. “Mum asked him of course,” Ron said stiffly, “but he didn’t even bother to owl her
back, the lousy git.”

Actually, Harry realized, he’d either subconsciously or willfully pushed Ginny from his mind in
that assessment. When Ron toed open her bedroom door to deposit Hermione’s stuff inside he could
see that she was sitting in her window seat writing something, clearly enjoying a moment alone. He
had a flash of sympathy; it couldn’t be easy to find time for yourself in the middle of a Weasley
Christmas. Hermione seemed to share his impression; she smiled and waved a greeting and told Ginny
she’d catch up with her later, and proceeded to follow after the boys.

“She’s not nearly as moody, actually,” Ron told them as they went. “She’s gone over all cheerful
about something since the train ride home. I expect that’s Father Christmas’s gift to us all.”

They reached Ron’s room at the top of the house and deposited Harry’s things at the foot of the
camp bed by the window. Ron flopped wearily on his bed. “We didn’t get home much before you; wish
they’d just Portkey us all for holidays.”

Harry reckoned Hermione was tired as well when she refrained from launching into a lengthy
explanation as to why the idea was impractical; that or she was re-immersed in thoughts on the
horcrux theory. They were going to have to explain it all to Ron but Harry was certain that now was
*not* the moment; there’d be plenty of time after Christmas day. He lay back on his camp bed
with a yawn then felt it sway precariously as Hermione crawled over him and settled down beside
him. He felt her pull out her wand and heard a series of murmured incantations. The cot widened
slightly, the mattress plumped and firmed beneath him and the legs stabilized. All the years he’d
slept on the stupid thing, and it had never occurred to him to do that. Oh yeah, he was a powerful
wizard in training. To be an *idiot*.

He turned to find her lying on her side facing him, her head propped on one arm and he leaned in
to give her a kiss. “Thanks.”

“None of that now, you two,” Ron cautioned. “You’re not going to get me grounded for Christmas
or anything.”

Hermione flared slightly then. “None of what, Ronald? You were expecting me to sit on the floor
perhaps? I’ve sat on Harry’s bed here hundreds of times.”

“You’ve never felt the need to enlarge it before,” he pointed out. “And I don’t remember you
lying down.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” she muttered and sat up again beside him. Resting her hands for balance
on his chest she drew both her black stockinged legs in and crossed them before leaning back
against the wall and smoothing her skirt. Harry wasn’t normally a huge fan of Hogwarts uniforms,
but they still had their moments.

“You didn’t have to touch him all the time then, either,” Ron pointed out. “Was that strictly
necessary?”

Harry winced; Hermione blew.

“You know what’s bothering you? It’s not that you truly think either of us is going to do
anything inappropriate in front of your family, because you *know* we won’t. It’s that you’re
finally starting to get it, what it means to care for someone else. You’re missing Luna, you wish
she was here because she makes you laugh and she makes everything seem new and different to you
because you’re seeing it through her eyes – and good lord what a view that must be. I highly doubt
we even make you the slightest bit uncomfortable anymore, except for the fact that every time
*I* touch Harry you’re wishing it was Luna touching *you*.”

Harry tried desperately not to grin, rolling in towards Hermione’s knee. The sight of Ron
gasping at her like an angry fish would surely do him in. She’d hit the nail on the head; Ron had
said as much to Harry in the dorms the night before vacation, but he knew that particular fact
wouldn’t change Ron’s discomfort with being pegged so accurately. Luna was coming over Christmas
day and Ron was fairly torn up about it; both excited to see her reaction to his gift and
apprehensive about his family’s reaction to what was going on. He was certain the twins would be
merciless and he was probably right. Harry thought it would probably be kinder if he and Hermione
went ahead and snogged for Britain in front of his entire family; at least they might get Ron off
the hook.

They were saved from further argument when Ginny burst through the door to announce dinner was
ready. She *did* seem a bit more her old self, fair erupting with energy. “Bill’s arrived!”
she informed them with a grin, “and Fleur is vair ‘ungry. She didn’t say if it was for you, Ron, or
dinner. You’d best go and find out.” Her eyes had made their way from Ron to Harry and Hermione
without dimming; Harry hoped that meant she was on to bigger and better things.

Ron followed her out, grumbling threats of retribution, to wash his hands. Harry spent several
highly enjoyable minutes helping Hermione off the cot to her feet and regretting he wasn’t going to
be helping her back into it later. He left her to the bathroom upstairs and proceeded down to the
pantry to wash his own hands, needing the moment of relative solitude to pull his ragged emotions
into something resembling himself. He could hear Bill and Fleur laughing with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley
in the kitchen. Fleur’s “but it is Ronald!” was followed by two kissing sounds too solid to be air
and when he stepped into the kitchen he saw twins spots of flame on Ron’s cheeks.

“And ’arry!” she squealed happily. He got the full body hug instead of the cheek treatment and a
gush of heartfelt, feverish French he understood about three words of. It shocked him to realize he
was mentally comparing the feel of her to Hermione; irresistible as her Veela charms were meant to
be she was very different against him and surprisingly not nearly as enticing as Hermione had
seemed only moments before. He heard footsteps on the stairs and pulled back, but not before
Hermione’s level brown gaze had found them. To his enormous relief she seemed utterly unperturbed
and move to join them without hesitation, greeting Fleur with a stream of what appeared to be
hospitable French and hugging Bill. The twins came in from fairy light duty, shaking snow
everywhere like dogs, and Molly began herding them to the table.

Harry spent most of his typically filling Weasley meal (Molly made sure he sat near her and kept
up a running commentary on his need to eat more) talking to Bill on his other side and watching
Hermione across the table between Ginny and Fred. It had been a productive year curse-breaking at
Gringott’s and Bill had got a bonus; he seemed buoyed and happy at once. During a particularly loud
moment when Molly was chastising the twins for some rather off color substitute lyrics to a
Christmas tune involving Percy, Mistletoe and the Minster for Magic’s unclothed bum, Bill managed
to ask Harry in an undertone if all was going well with Hermione and had he remembered his advice
during their DADA sessions. Harry indicated that it was and he had with an abashedly feral grin and
an eager nod, and found them both returned.

“Thought so,” Bill said. “She looks a happy woman, and she’s here. Knowing what chaos this place
can be at Christmas, that’s true love.”

“And Fleur?” Harry asked softly, rather startled by his own boldness.

“Oh, she’s a happy woman as well,” Bill told him, ducking his head closer to Harry’s. “And with
any luck she’ll be a happier one tomorrow. The Goblin’s couldn’t have done better with their timing
for me, took it right up the street in Diagon Alley.”

Harry realized after several moments (and was rather proud of himself when he did) that Bill had
likely bought Fleur a ring for Christmas and meant to propose.

“Brilliant,” he said. “Good luck, not that you’ll need it. And just so you know, I think you’ll
be Ron’s favorite brother this Christmas.”

Ron and Luna getting together would be small potatoes in Mrs. Weasley’s cooker after
*that*.

<o><o><o><o>

The Christmas tree had been erected in the front room but remained undecorated; the evening was
spent hanging more boisterously uncooperative fairy lights and a multitude of ornaments hand made
by various Weasley offspring over the years. There was a wide range: some were ancient nuts and
pinecones once obviously liberally spread with glue and glitter but now mostly having lost their
sparkle, others were intricate confections of folded gold and silver paper. Fred and George had the
previous year used their newly achieved status as wizards to concoct two cotton ball-and-pipe
cleaner snowmen charmed to hurl cotton ball snowballs at each other as they ranged round the tree;
they added two more this year “just to make things more interesting.” Harry found himself unable to
look away, never sure where one would pop up next.

Hermione helped Ginny make paper chains while Fleur concentrated on a perfectly accessorized
angel for the treetop that ended up looking very much –surprise! – like Fleur herself.

“She is perfect, non?” she asked, modeling her for all to approve. Harry found himself touched
how quickly Bill agreed, and amused how the twin’s gagging noises became *real* with only the
most subtle flicks of his wand.

Ron and Harry had been enlisted to hump all the boxes of decorations down from the attic, most
likely because Molly knew they’d have to do it by hand and didn’t trust any of the other boys with
it magically. It had taken a good deal of climbing, plus the effort required to actually
*find* the stuff amidst the detritus of generations jam packed from floor to rafter up there,
far more strenuous than carrying the boxes themselves. They’d moved what seemed half the contents
just to get to them, and then negotiated a total of eight trips on those stairs, four up and four
down. They were at present both collapsed in front of the fire, watching the others and hoping not
to be drafted for anything else.

“So what did Dumbledore give you?” Ron asked.

“Other than the pep talk from hell, which we’ll have to tell you about after Christmas in order
not to spoil it for you, I know you’ll be amazed to learn they actually weren’t books.”

Ron’s eyebrows raised. “Month’s worth of sherbet lemons? Meaning a two year supply for the two
of you, of course?” he guessed.

Harry grinned. “Close, but wrong kind.”

“Chocolate Frogs? Peppermint Toads? Licorice wands? Chocoballs? Ice Mice?” At each shake of
Harry’s head Ron became more intrigued. His list changed more to the types discouraged at school,
then. “Fizzing Whizbees? Pepper Imps? Canary Creams? Surely not exploding bon bons? I give up then,
what?”

In answer Harry pulled a wrapped piece from his pocket and handed it to Ron.

“Madam Puddifoots Marvelous Made-to-Share Mints – totally refreshing, tooth-flossing, tongue
tingling and terribly romantic. 100% Irresistible and Guaranteed to Please.” Ron read off the
wrapper. He looked at Harry. Harry looked back.

“Good gracious, Ron… are you choking?” asked Mrs. Weasley, and hastily applied a back-thumping
charm from across the room that sent him face first into the floor. It was several moments before
Ron removed his nose from the carpet.

“I have to reckon,” he managed to choke out, “that this is the first time he’s given
*those* to a student instead of taking them away. Only Dumbledore would keep you so busy
finding something to make what he’s trying to *stop* you from doing even more fun. What’s he
thinking? Never mind. I reckon McGonagall’s head would explode if she knew.”

“You have to wonder, anyway, unless that’s how he got them in the first place, off a student.
He’s a barmy old coot, but alright with it. Of course we felt we ought to try them out once we
found them, just to express our sincere gratitude, you know. They’re *really* interesting. And
seeing as you’re our best friend, Hermione and I shared ours out and stuck a supply in with your
present as well. It’s the irresistible part that’s so worth it, but just mind you don’t have
anything else going on at the time. You can’t think of anything else. *At all*.”

Ron’s mind seemed to melt at the thought; Harry was sure he didn’t need any help in that
department about now, anyway.

“Well that’s the tree done,” said Mrs. Weasley in satisfaction. One of the twin’s snowmen lobbed
a tiny snowball at her, but she rounded it back at him with her wand with nary a flinch. “Off to
bed then, you lot. The faster you go, the faster the day will be here.”

They trouped up the stairs; Harry and Hermione trailing carefully last. The twins and Bill
cooperatively headed on up to their own rooms with cheery good nights and wolf whistles after Bill
gave Fleur a chaste and gentlemanly goodnight kiss. Well, chaste if you were blind, and Harry was
sure it was only gentlemanly to make sure one’s potential life-mate’s tonsils were in working order
before sending them off to sleep alone. In a room full of now-envious younger girls. Ron moved
almost hastily on into the boy’s room, but Ginny hovered at the girl’s door as if somehow
determined to thwart Harry.

“Night,” he said regretfully, but Hermione resolutely ignored her room mate and gave him a swift
but thorough goodnight kiss. If she was going to listen to Fleur go on about Bill for hours into
the night, she wasn’t going to do it without memorizing Harry first. ‘Miss you,’ she whispered, and
disappeared into Ginny’s room. Harry’s eyes met Ginny’s as he moved past and she shut the door, and
he thought he recognized not animosity or loss but what almost appeared to be sympathy.

For a moment it warmed him, still stupid with the lingering feel of Hermione in his arms, and he
smiled at her. It was while he was putting on his pajamas that he realized Ginny even
*remotely* sympathizing with his situation wasn’t necessarily anything to smile about. Who was
she yearning for now?

As long as it wasn’t Draco Malfoy, he supposed, more power to her and good luck.


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Christmas dawned with no apparent difference than the day before. It was still snowing heavily,
the sky obscured by the relentless flurry of flakes. Breakfast was a cozy, rowdy affair; Harry
realized how blessed Wizards were when it came to the weather. The roads were likely impassable in
a car, but Lupin and Charlie and his new girlfriend still arrived to join them without a hitch. It
seemed at least fifty conversations were taking place at once; teasing, greeting, catching up. He
hadn’t spent Christmas at the Dursley’s since he was eleven, but he’d never been quite this glad
before. He let it all swirl around him like the warp and weft of a blanket, sinking warmly against
his skin. One more thing he might never be able to hold on to, but felt grateful none the less to
have known. He watched Hermione out of the corner of his eye talking to Charlie and caught her own
surreptitious glance at him.

Charlie’s girl was the exact opposite of Fleur in looks, her hair as black as Snape’s, her eyes
an almost indigo blue. She had something of Fleur’s allure, although Harry found that he had
difficulty focusing directly on why; his attention seemed to want drift somehow. She clearly doted
on Charlie and clung to his arm at every opportunity as if determined to out-charm Fleur with Mr.
and Mrs. Weasley. This turned out to be a golden opportunity for Harry and Hermione, as no one paid
the slightest bit of attention to any of them throughout breakfast while Fleur and Annika vied for
the role of perfect potential daughter-in-law. They sat side by side at the far end of the table
across from Ginny and Ron and managed to enjoy themselves thoroughly by trying to guess which girl
would be pranked by the twins first, and who would provide the most satisfactory response.

“Annika looks like she could be quite the squealer,” Ron commented, chasing the last of his eggs
with a toast crust. “Fleur’s at least forewarned. She knows what they’re like.”

“They’ve had time to plan for her, though. Sort of personalize their strategy. Annika will have
to be more of a shot in the dark. She might turn out to actually *like* exploding fruitcake or
having her teeth turned green or being attacked by charmed gift paper. You never actually know,”
Harry offered. “Either way, there’s less attention on you and…”

As if simply thinking her name had called her into being it was Luna who appeared behind the
knocking at the kitchen door. Her cheeks glowed pink and there were several inches of snow atop the
lumpy hand-knitted bobble hat atop her head. In honor of the day her earrings were actual Christmas
balls of red and green (or port and starboard as Fred and George instantly dubbed them.) Ron and
Ginny both hopped up at once then stared at each other awkwardly as if uncertain whose friend she
was meant to be now. Luna solved the problem by handing her coat to a bemused Mr. Weasley and
drifting to sit at the chair Mrs. Weasley popped between the two of them, eyes on Fleur and
Annika.

“Daddy says to wish you all a Happy Christmas,” she said, gazing round them and taking in the
newcomers. “He’s going to come by later himself, he went to take a fruitcake to the Diggorys.”

Harry felt the usual wash of misery that came with the very mention of Cedric’s name. The words
‘kill the spare,’ echoed through his head in Voldemort’s awful, high voice. He remembered vividly
the hideous thing he’d been, propped in Wormtail’s arms, and what Harry’s blood had helped him to
become.

He felt Hermione’s hand fall warm and reassuringly on his leg beneath the table.

Harry was fairly certain that Charlie must have been explaining Luna and the Diggorys to Annika,
because she suddenly gave him a very assessing look. He twitched his head to let his fringe fall
further into his eyes and slunk down a bit into his chair, unconsciously causing Hermione’s hand to
end up more or less in his lap. *Holy hell but that felt good*. He shot up straight again,
trying to breath normally.

“Then Ron’s friend Harry is *that* Harry?” she said, seemingly aghast. “Harry Potter? But
aren’t you all worried that…”

“No,” said Charlie quickly.

“We’re not,” finished Bill stoutly. “Far safer with him around. Harry’s been training hard all
year.”

“But he is just a *boy*, and we heard the Death Eaters were…” she began again, starting to
look almost ill.

“Really nasty blokes?” George asked.

“With no sense of humor.” Fred agreed.

“Nevair mind. *We* have ze Constant Vigilance,” Fleur told her with a superior smile.

It seemed *someone* had absorbed Mad Eye’s mantra. Harry bet she didn’t carry her wand in
her back pocket. Then again, if he had her bum, he probably wouldn’t risk it either.

Hermione’s hand began to slide gently up and down in what he was quite sure was intended to be a
soothing motion, and any passing thoughts of Fleur’s bum vanished entirely. Oh, but that was so…
*reassuring.* For instance, he was now absolutely *sure* that bits of him that would be
entirely useless fighting off Death Eaters were in perfect working order. Really quite positive,
thanks.

“They won’t strike until sometime in the New Year, at least according to Firenze. It’s lovely
having a Centaur for Divination, you learn the most fascinating stuff,” Luna continued, her baubles
bobbing beneath her large, pale eyes. Ron appeared utterly mesmerized by them. Or maybe, thought
Harry, (quite caught up in his own inappropriate thoughts) it was her medieval milkmaid sort of
dress, with its corset -ish thing and… uplifting effect. “Mars isn’t in the right quadrant for
violent uprising right now.”

“Time for presents, then,” Mrs. Weasley said decisively.


<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

It was endlessly surprising to Harry what a morning spent consuming an enormously satisfying
meal and followed up by exchanging gifts could do to one family. Bill’s ring and proposal to Fleur
had been Mrs. Weasley’s favorite Christmas gift by far, and the general mood of love in the air had
allowed Ron to feel himself somewhat under the Weasley radar with Luna. She had been quite beside
herself over the Snorkack horn, too, wordless for once in her delight. She’d even kissed him,
demurely but evidently with enough promise for later to leave him with a wide goofy grin of
happiness.

“She didn’t see *that* coming, then,” Hermione had said with some satisfaction.

From her reaction, Hermione hadn’t seen his either. He’d explained in her card the function of
the locket in slightly more… *intriguing* terms than the original. (Among its suggested uses
he’d put tallying their snog points and keeping track of what they proposed to use them for.) But
he’d also written -very quickly, before he could fuss too much about the wording or feel too sappy
and foolish- a little note in the very beginning she’d see as soon as she enlarged the pages.

Hermione ~ I know how much
you’ve always loved books.
I hope this one has room enough
to remind you in years to come:
How smart you are.
How hard we fought.
How we won - because we *will*.
How much I’ll always love you,
for everything you are and all you’ve done
no matter how, or when, our story together ends.
~ Harry

He hoped that tears in her eyes were a good thing. He was beginning to be able to tell the
difference and he was fairly sure it was a positive sign, but then again girls could be awfully
confusing and even thinking you understood them could well be inviting disaster.

“Harry, it’s *perfect*,” she whispered. “Help me put it on?”

She held the chain out to him and turned her back, scooping up her hair and presenting her bare
neck. He’d never been so glad of Goblin generosity and vowed to listen at least a *little* bit
more in History of Magic, because Mrs. Weasley was still ‘oh’ing and ‘ah’ing over Fleur’s ring and
paying not the slightest bit of attention to either Harry or Hermione. He pressed himself along her
back and nuzzled under her delicate earlobe under the guise of positioning the necklace around her
slender neck and pressed his lips gently against the back of it as he did up the catch.

One benefit of a locket a Snorkack horn didn’t have, he supposed. Although he wouldn’t put it
past Luna to find some use for the thing the way she was eyeing Ron.

Hermione’s fingers closed around it as she turned, and her eyes glowed with happiness. He tried
to slow time and preserve her image in his brain with fierce incantations to remember it no matter
what, always.

In turn she gave Harry two books.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she teased. “At least look at them.”

The first was book of photographs of stained glass windows entitled “The Magic of Light.” It
seemed to cover the history of Muggle stained glass and the evolution of the rose window with
picture after picture of various examples. “Very nice,” he said admiringly. The colors really were
beautiful, and the way the passage of light transfigured them was evocative even to Harry, who had
no religious experience whatsoever.

“If you leave it at that you’ll be missing a lot,” Hermione said both softly and urgently.
“There’s more to them than meets the eye. That book was written by a squib; a wizard’s mind without
the magic to back it up, but a wizard’s way of looking at things, still. I think the window at
Hogwarts has more to tell us than just what’s written around it, I think it makes the things just
suggested by some of the muggle ones *real*. It’s more than just to look at. I know you want
to run off and start looking for the horcruxes right away, but you really need to read this,
Harry.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “I will. I… *thanks*, Hermione.”

“Look at the other,” she told him, smiling.

It was called “Why You Fly: Quidditch and the Extraordinary Wizard.” It drew parallels between
the positions of Quidditch players and what those intrinsic skills might mark a wizard as
potentially better at magically and professionally in life. She’d bookmarked the bit where Seekers
were noted to make excellent Aurors due to the fact they were required to be patient, secretive,
have quick reflexes and not be put off by risk.

“I know I said I wished you’d consider something other than being an Auror, but I think you
should be whatever you really want. I just want you to want *something* because I think it
will give you strength, something to look forward to while you sort out this horcrux business. You
need to think about what happens after like there’s going to *be* an after, or…”

“There won’t be. I know. Hermione, *you’re* my after. The only future I care about is with
you. Truly.”

Unfortunately, this last happened to come out rather passionately and in the midst of a sudden
lull in the general conversation. Harry looked up in horror to find the entire Weasley clan staring
at him avidly.

“Erm,” he managed, and cleared his throat desperately. “I, I’m…”

“The word you’re looking for there, Harry, my boy, is…” Fred started, but Mrs. Weasley’s
silencing charms were nothing if not stealthy and powerful. She found them infinitely preferable to
the soap- in-the-mouth hexes for both simplicity of cleanup and generally keeping the peace. She
beamed at Harry and Hermione beatifically.

“Dumbledore keeps so many secrets he just can’t manage *all* of them. He told us about the
two of you getting closer this term before you came, and while you’re too young to be taking these
things seriously just yet we’re all *delighted* for you. You’ll make the loveliest couple
someday; I’ve always thought so.”

Harry felt both relieved and betrayed at once; relieved that the secret, such that it was, was
out; but betrayed that Dumbledore had felt it necessary to inform the Weasleys without telling
them. Honestly, was it such a bloody crime? Did he not trust them at all? It only made Harry want
to do exactly what he was meant *not* to whenever it happened. A glance at Hermione showed her
jaw set, a quite similar expression in her eyes. She’d never liked being told she couldn’t do
something, no matter what it was.

The twins looked as if they’d eaten something delicious, even the silent Fred. Mr. Weasley was
blushing furiously. Charlie was grinning, but swiftly pulled into a whispered conversation with
Annika, explaining it all, probably. Ron appeared sympathetically horrified; Luna was happily
oblivious, stroking her horn.

Lupin was smiling, *really* smiling, the likes of which Harry hadn’t seen since Sirius
died, and suddenly it all seemed ok because he was.

Bill winked and then said “So what’s your advice for the wedding then, Mum, ponytail, or down
loose? No, not Fleur, me. Fleur’s had hers all planned for ages, haven’t you, love.”

Mrs. Weasley’s attention was quickly diverted and conversation flowed on.

Harry felt himself start to breathe again.

“If you don’t meet me in the broomshed after dinner,” Hermione whispered lovingly, “I’ll
strangle you myself.”


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A/N: Okay, I know this is probably a tough place to be doing this, but I have to say that this
story is wrestling with me pretty hard right now. I am just very, very into both Fixing Harry and
an original piece of my own, and while I know just where this needs to go all my creative energy is
pretty tied up in those. I forced myself to work on this – I’d hoped it would be up Weds, sorry,
WileyCoyote! I apologize *profusely*. I been having some computer issues, and when Microgack
Word ate half this, without saving even to a recover file I had to recreate it. Yech – hate that.
Never seems as good the second time around, and it’s hard doing snow and Christmas when the lawn is
mocking me to go mow it out the window.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that please expect updates on this to be slower until I get
through the next big bit of Fixing Harry. I promise you the quality of both will be better if I do.
It’s hard to write two such different scenarios at the same time and not have things bleed over
where they shouldn’t. My OW is pretty absorbing right now too, but at least I can say *that*
won’t run into this! If I can just get through the next bit of Fixing Harry I think I can get back
on track to move this quickly, and I’ll try to post a couple of chapters at once. Sorry, and thanks
for your patience! ~ Lynney