Efflectum Memoria

Disclaimer: The HPverse does not belong to me (clearly). It's JKR's—you know that. Lyrics: The Used-Pieces Mended

Prologue

Being faced with what I'm faced with I feel
Like I can't rock
Like a rock hit my heart
Started to chain the day
And exploded into pieces

The funeral was small, private. Family, friends, co-workers—few others had been invited—even fewer had shown up. In the wake of recent events, nothing had quite gotten back to normal; most people were celebrating, some were in mourning, some were still waiting to hear from loved ones, checking St. Mungo's everyday, praying and hoping against hope. The wizarding world was in turmoil—but no longer in grave danger.

There was a young man sitting in the second row of chairs to thank for that. He kept his head of messy black hair down, his green eyes trained on the floor, his hands folded in his lap, thumbs bouncing uselessly off of one another. He looked as though he'd rather be anywhere but in that cemetery, listening as Arthur Weasley eulogized his son.

“I've been…so blessed, really, to have had my son for twenty-two years. I know that I'll be able to look back, when I need to, and remember him the way he was as a little boy—so curious about everything, as a schoolboy—so confident, so intelligent, and as a man—honest, driven, successful. I'll be able to remember that—to remember him—and be thankful that I've still got the rest of my family. One son hardly seems like much to lose when there are some people who've lost everything.” Arthur paused for a moment, swallowing hard. The sound of Molly's sobs, muffled in her handkerchief, filled the silence. “He was a good boy, our Percy,” Arthur continued hurriedly, “a good boy. I'll miss him. His mother, sister, and brothers will miss him too. Rest in peace, Perce. Or, if you can't do that, I'm sure they've got something to organize where you've gone.” The head of the Weasley family dropped his balding head in a little nod and returned to his seat beside his wife. She promptly collapsed against him, weeping inconsolably.

Harry shifted in his chair behind the Weasleys. He watched morosely as Bill, Charlie, Fred, George, and Ron surrounded the casket and lowered it slowly into the ground, each tossing upon it a handful of dirt. When it was Ron's turn, Harry was aware of Hermione's hand on top of his own. He glanced over and saw her cinnamon eyes glass over as she watched Ron mutter something under his breath and drop his dirt on top of his brother's casket. Harry draped an arm across her shoulders and pulled her against him, feeling her tears soak through his dark green shirt while her hands twisted between his.

“Sorry,” she whispered with a sniffle, pulling back and revealing the spot she'd left on his shirt.

Harry offered a sad smile, “Don't worry about it.”

The funeral was ended not long after that and the wake at the Burrow followed immediately. People filtered in all day; Ministry workers, old schoolmates, distant family members, members of the Order. They offered their condolences to Arthur and Molly, helped themselves to the food, asked one another about families and work, and discreetly shook hands with Harry when they got the chance. Some less discreet than others, Cormac McLaggen rushed immediately over to Harry and pumped his hand enthusiastically.

“Gosh, Harry—I've been meaning to thank you. We've all been meaning to thank you. Hope we can put all this business we had between us in school aside and become—,” he thankfully was not able to finish as Hermione pushed her way between the two of them.

“Oh, go away, McLaggen,” she snapped with a roll of her eyes. “What are you even doing here? You weren't friends with Percy.”

“Well,” McLaggen had the decency to look embarrassed, “we all went to school together. I heard about what had happened…just thought I'd drop by to offer my condolences….”

“Then why don't you offer them to his parents—over there.” She pointed across the room where the Weasleys were busy talking to Kingsley Shacklebolt.

McLaggen nodded slowly. “Right,” he said, returning his hands to his pockets. “Well, I should do that.”

“Yes, I'd say so,” Hermione agreed coolly.

“I'm sure I'll be seeing both of you…later. Harry—good talking to you.”

Harry, who had done no talking at all, simply nodded and offered a weak smile.

When McLaggen was out of earshot, Hermione turned to her best friend. “You looked like you could use a rescue.”

He smiled, “My hero.”

“Have you seen Ron?”

“Last I saw he was going outside with Fred and George.” Harry twisted his neck to peer through the window out to the garden. Sure enough, there sat three Weasley brothers, each swigging from a bottle of beer. “Let's go sit with them,” he suggested, placing his hand on her back and steering her through the guests out the backdoor.

“Hey guys,” Hermione greeted quietly, dropping down into one of the chairs surrounding the glass patio table.

“'Lo Hermione,” Ron replied, mindlessly loosening his tie.

“Here, Harry, crack one open,” Fred tossed him a bottle from the cooler.

“Thanks,” Harry twisted off the cap and sank into the chair between George and Hermione.

“Can you pass me one of those, please Fred?” Hermione asked politely, tucking her hair behind her ears.

“Sure thing,” he passed the icy bottle down the line and watched with slight amusement as Hermione mechanically handed her bottle back to Ron to be opened.

She took a long drink, her nose twitching as she brought the bottle from her lips to the table. “Long day,” she commented sadly.

“Yep,” George's long fingers grazed his cheek, noting that he needed to shave and probably should've done so that morning.

They sat in silence for a long time, not looking at each other or anything else in particular, drinking, each lost in his or her own thoughts. After awhile, things inside the house became quiet again and Arthur poked his head out the window.

“Everything all right out here?” he asked with a small smile.

The group turned, “Everything's fine, Mr. Weasley,” Harry reassured, matching his smile.

“Well, come inside whenever you get hungry. There's plenty of food.”

“Sure, Dad,” Fred nodded.

“Dad?” Ron asked, just as Arthur was about to close the window.

“Yes?”

“Is Mum okay?”

Arthur's expression—which had almost passed for pleasant—faltered. “She'll be fine, Ron.” Without another word, he pulled himself back indoors and shut the window.

That seemed to break the spell that had settled over the five of them. George wiped his hands on his pants and got to his feet. His twin followed suit, Harry, Ron and Hermione, however, did not move.

George held his bottle out to the center of the table. “To Percy—even though he was a pain in the ass. We'll still miss him.”

With half-hearted smiles, everyone knocked their bottles together. “To Percy,” they muttered, draining the last of their beverages.

The twins went inside, leaving three stony-faced friends on the patio.

“You all right, mate?” Harry asked sliding his bottle from one hand to the other.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” Ron answered distractedly. “I mean, I'll be fine.” He cleared his throat. “How're you doing, Hermione?”

She waved away his question, “I'm fine. I had my last check-up yesterday. The Healer says there's no damage.”

“No damage at all?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

“No, Harry,” she insisted, “no damage at all.”

“Must've been a dud curse,” Ron suggested amicably.

“Or a none-too-talented wizard,” Hermione offered with a shrug. “Regardless, I'm just grateful it didn't work.”

“Me too,” said Harry quickly, meeting her eyes briefly before looking away.

Ron smiled through closed lips, “Here's to better days,” he toasted, holding his bottle out in the style of his brother.

His friends clinked bottles, “To better days.”

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Chapter One

You worry me
I can see you've lost your pride
And I can't let it happen to you
I can't let it happen to you

It was more than a few weeks after Percy's funeral that things began to return to normal. The owls stopped arriving at the trio's flat every hour asking if You-Know-Who was really gone for good, if there was anything anyone could do to thank Harry, if he thought about writing a book on the War. The answers, of course, were always the same: `Yes, he's quite dead.' `No, I'm perfectly fine, but thank you for the offer and the lovely basket of fruit'; and `No, I'd rather not relive any of that, but it's certainly an idea for someone else.' By the time summer had ended, and both Ron and Harry's Auror training at the Ministry resumed, the owls had slowed to as few as five times a day.

A large brown barn owl pecked impatiently at the window. Hermione glanced up from her medical text and rolled her eyes.

Usually.

She got to her feet and pushed open the window. The owl hopped in and held out its leg, waiting for her to untie the message. “Thank you,” she told it, plucking a Knut from the money dish and dropping it into its sack. Satisfied, the owl hopped out of the window again and took off for the afternoon sky.

Checking the name on the letter—Harry, of course—Hermione tossed it onto the counter and had just taken a seat when she heard a familiar whoosh from the fireplace in the living room and her name being called.

Sighing heavily and placing her bookmark between the pages, she stood and was surprised at the sight of Harry' head in the fireplace. “Hey there,” she greeted pleasantly, kneeling before the green flames.

“Hey,” he offered a tired smile. “Are you busy?”

Hermione considered the chapter on common infection she'd been reading for fun and shrugged. “Not really, what's up?”

“Just thought I'd see what you were doing. I've got a few minutes before my next class.”

“I'm just reading, thinking about getting some lunch. You've got mail, by the way.”

“Anything that looks important?”

“Hardly. Have you seen Ron today?”

“No, but I will next class.”

“Mrs. Weasley wants us to come for dinner next week—make sure you tell him to get back to her.” Hermione suddenly felt a throbbing ache explode in her head. Uselessly clapping a hand to her forehead, she swore under her breath.

From the Ministry, Harry looked alarmed. “What's wrong?”

“Just a headache,” she said rubbing at her temples. “My potion must be wearing off.”

“How long have you had a headache?” Harry asked, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Just this morning, I guess.”

“Are you all right?”

She waved a hand in his direction, “I'll be fine—oh, jeez—I've just got to whip up another potion.”

Harry didn't look convinced. “Do you want me to come home?”

“Harry,” Hermione, ignoring the throbbing behind her eyes, fastened him with a signature glare. “Don't be stupid. It's a headache, not a tumor.”

“Just checking.”

“Go to class, you prat, I'll be fine.”

“Get some rest, you'll feel better.”

“Go!”

He smiled, finally, “Yeah, okay. See you tonight.”
“I might be cooking,” she said suddenly, remembering the recipe Mrs. Weasley had given her.
Harry faked a grimace. “On second thought, I might have to stay late.”

Hermione found herself laughing as he disappeared from the flames. Getting to her feet, however, the pain she'd been overlooking rushed back, nearly knocking her over.

With her fingers pinching the bridge of her nose, Hermione mixed herself another maximum strength headache cure and downed it in minutes. Feeling no different after a few moments, she went back to her text and tried to concentrate on the words that were swimming before her eyes.

Downtown, in the Diagon Alley branch of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, the youngest redheaded Weasley sat behind the counter, alternating between Witch Weekly and watching as her twin brothers tested their newest creation—Fugdy Familiars: Turn yourself-or your friends- into your favorite familiar for the afternoon!—on their associate, Lee Jordan, and occasionally on each other.

“Gin, do you think it's normal for Lee to be that particular shade of…what would you call that, Fred?” George consulted his twin, scratching his chin.

“I'd consider that a violet…though right now he looks positively lilac.”

“Lovely, really. Looks great with his eyes.”

Lee Jordan, who was indeed a bright shade of lilac didn't look impressed. “I was anticipating something along the lines of fur and whiskers, George. It would've been easier to explain.”

Fred shrugged, “Always room for improvement, that's what I always say, don't I Gin?”

Ginny didn't bother to look up from Witch Weekly. “Fred, you never say that.”

“Well, today seems like a great time to start. I'd suggest it as our new company slogan, but I feel it sends the wrong message.”

“I concur,” agreed his twin, with a nod.

“I'm still purple,” Lee reminded, sounding edgy.

“Lilac,” the three Weasleys corrected, though Ginny half-heartedly.

“Merlin, it's dead today,” Fred noticed, glancing around the near-empty store. “You'd think we'd be doing better for springtime.”

“Well, it's early yet,” George reminded as he and Lee returned to their corned beef sandwiches. “School isn't out and it's only Thursday. Wait for the weekend.”

“It's supposed to be lovely this weekend,” Ginny piped up, twirling a lock of her flaming hair around her finger.

“A good time to get a few things done,” a voice from the doorway said, making the quartet turn in surprise. Draco Malfoy pointed upward, “Your sign needs painting, Weasley,” he added in explanation.

Fred rolled his eyes, “Guess we'll let just anybody shop here.”

“So much for those Dark Wizard wards on the door,” George sighed. “Back to the drawing board, then.”

“I'm not here to shop,” Draco explained, sounding insulted, “I need to talk to your sister.” His silver eyes fell upon Lee. “Jordan, you've got a bit of—”

“Lilac, I know.”

“Well, that too—actually, I'd say it's more of an amethyst, really—but I was about to say a bit of sandwich on your chin. I assumed you knew about the…” he motioned uncomfortably to his own face.

“What do you want?” Ginny asked irritably crossing her arms over her chest.

“Just to talk to you,” he repeated, sounding careless. With a look around the room, he emphasized, “In private.”

“Get real,” scoffed the twins in unison.

Ginny glanced sideways at her brothers, “Can you just give us a minute?”

“You're mad if you think we're leaving,” Fred declared, his jaw set. George nodded in agreement.

She rolled her eyes, “Fine, fine.” Sliding off of her stool, she grabbed her yellow sweater and tugged it over the shoulders of her matching yellow sundress. Ginny brushed past Draco and out the door without another word. He followed, suppressing a grin, a moment later.

“That was rather anti-climactic, don't you agree?” Lee asked, glancing from one twin to the next.

“I'll be honest, I didn't see this happening that way,” George admitted, arms still crossed menacingly.

“One week off the Ministry's Most Wanted and Malfoy marches in like a sodding Maha-Raja—what's that about?” Fred sputtered angrily.

“No idea, but lovely use of alliteration,” George added helpfully.

“Thank you.”

Outside the shop, Ginny had stalked to the side of the building and spun on her heel, crossing her arms again. “What do you want?”

Draco's near grin had faded as he folded his arms lazily and leaned against the brick wall. “You never thanked me.”

Ginny blinked. “Excuse me?”

“For saving your life, you never thanked me.”

“You didn't save my life, Malfoy.”

He raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, “Goyle would've killed you.”

“Please,” she heckled, “he could've barely handled a proper Leg-Locker hex, let alone an Unforgivable. Don't kid yourself, I wasn't in any danger.”

Draco shrugged, “If that's what you want to believe.”

“It's what the truth is. That's why I believe it.”

“Fine.”

They stared at one another for a long moment before Ginny blinked, “Is that all you wanted? A little undeserved gratitude?”

“And to tell you that I was offered a teaching job.”

She nearly choked. “You? A teacher? Who on Earth would hire you?”

“Snape.”

“Oh, should've figured,” she scoffed. “You unscrupulous types tend to stick together.”

“Reading our thesaurus, are we?” he chided, making her blood boil.

“I don't have time for this,” she turned and began walking back to the store.

“You look nice today,” Draco said suddenly, making her stop. “Yellow's a good color for you.”

“Rot in Hell, Malfoy,” she said without turning around.

As she turned the corner, he heard a bell jingle, signaling her entrance to the shop. He smiled, “Someday, I'm sure.”

Ron Apparated into his flat to find his roommate and best friend on the couch with a cold rag pressed to her forehead. “What's wrong with you?” he asked, rather insensitively, shrugging out of his coat.

“Headache,” Hermione said in a voice that clearly stated it was obvious. “Is Harry with you?”

Pop!

“He is now,” Ron smiled at his other best friend and hung up both of their jackets.

“How're you feeling?” Harry asked, crossing the room to sit on the edge of the couch.

“Better, the reading was starting to make it a bit much.”

He looked around the apartment. “So you decided not to cook, I see.”

Hermione moved the icy compress away from her eyes and gave him a quizzical look. “I did?”

“You said earlier you were going to cook.”

“When?”

“When I talked to you at lunch time.”

She closed her eyes, “Lunch time…lunch time…oh…oh yes, I remember now.”

Harry offered her a concerned look. “Are you sure you're feeling all right?”

“I'm fine; it's just a little headache.”

“If you're sure.”

“I am,” she insisted firmly, fastening him with a severe look. “I'm also hungry.”

“Chinese?” Ron suggest from the kitchen where he was opening a bottle of beer.

“Sounds good,” Harry got to his feet and went about placing an order, trying not to worry about the young woman who was clearly not as fine as she'd been promising.

A/N: Same disclaimers. Lyrics- The Walker Brothers

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Chapter Two

-We All Fall Down-

So forgive me
Cause I don't know what to do
When you look at me
There can be no hesitation
There cannot be a close second to you

-Copeland

Hermione's headaches, it would turn out, did not get any better. In fact, as weeks passed and August faded quickly into September, they only became more frequent and more painful.

“Don't you think you should at least let the Healers look you over?” Harry asked, his patience running out one night toward the end of the month.

“No,” she insisted, not looking up from her book, “I don't.”

“Well, I do,” Ron argued from his place across the room.

She rolled her eyes, “Well thought, Ronald. Gripping argument.”

“We both think it would be a good idea, Hermione,” Harry put in, reaching down to untie his shoes.

“Do you?” Hermione got up from her place on the couch and went into the kitchen. “Harry, Ron,” she softened, leaning against the doorway, “I appreciate your concern, really, I do. But I'm fine.”

Her roommates exchanged looks, “Yeah, okay,” Ron relented with a shrug. “You're fine.”

“I am fine,” she insisted, turning back to the kitchen and breaking a banana off of the bunch. Harry followed her and grabbed her elbow, turning her to face him. “What?” she asked, irritably.

“You'll tell me if they get worse, won't you?” he asked quietly.

“Harry, you're being ridiculous.”

“Just promise me,” he persisted.

“Fine,” she conceded, “if they get worse—which they won't—I'll let you know.”

He let go of her elbow, “Thanks.”

“Harry, are we playing chess or what?” Ron called from the living room, sounding impatient. With one more look toward Hermione, Harry sighed, and left the room.

“More to the point,” Hermione began, following him out into the room and dropping onto the couch, “Don't you two have more important things to worry about?”

“No,” Ron answered honestly as Harry took a seat across from him.

“Nothing at school to trouble your mind?” she asked hopefully attempting to change the subject and opening her book again.

“Not that I can think of.”

“Now that you mention it,” Harry said thoughtfully, trying not to grin, “no, not a thing comes to mind.”

Ron, catching on, smiled as well. “Yeah, for the next few weeks it's just…boring day after boring day. Nothing important at all.”

“Well that's unfortunate,” she said, turning her eyes downward.

Harry looked confused. “Haven't you got anything important coming up, Hermione?”

She glanced up at him, “No, I don't think. I've got a nasty exam on Thursday, but that's it.”

“Nothing else on Thursday?” Ron prompted with raised eyebrows as a chess piece hollered, “Are you going to play or should I make the first move myself?!”

“Not that I know of…” Hermione offered a confused look. “You okay Ron? You look a little funny.”

“Uh, no.” He looked down at the chess board and began pondering a move.

She yawned and closed the medical text, “If you're just going to sit up and argue with your chess pieces, I think I'll go to bed.”

“G'night, Hermione,” Harry offered a little wave as she waved back and wandered into the bathroom.

“Night,” Ron called after her. He lowered his voice, “She's not really forgotten about her birthday, has she?”

Harry shrugged. “Not sure. It's not like her to forget things like that.”

“It's not like Hermione to forget anything, Harry.” Ron shook his head, “I'm worried about her.”

In the bathroom, Hermione locked the door and removed the prescription potion from its hiding place. Downing her dosage in one gulp, she winced as it burned her throat all the way down. Staring at herself in the mirror, she heard the Healer's voice in her ears.

“If these headaches persist, we're going to have to look into other forms of treatment, I hope you understand that,” he'd told her gravely.

“What do you think is causing them?” she'd asked, trying to sound careless.

“Right now, I'm not sure. There's not a trace of Dark magic in your veins so we're ruling out curses. Anything you can think of?”

There hadn't been anything that she could think of and so the Healer had let her go with her new, stronger prescription.

It hadn't been helping. The headaches were still there, more painful than ever. Sometimes with blinding flashes of light to accompany them or waves of dizziness that washed over her when going down flights of stairs or reading too long.

She splashed some water on her face and left the bathroom, not noticing that all talking in the living room had ceased the moment she'd done so.

***

“Mum!” Ginny called through the Burrow, dropping her purse onto the sofa. “I'm home!”

“In here!” Molly called from the kitchen where she stood over the stove, stirring a pot of meat for shepherd's pie.

Ginny wandered in and kissed her mother on the cheek. “Smells good,” she commented, automatically reaching into the cabinets for three plates.

“You've got mail, it's on the table.”

She set the plates on the counter and picked up the two envelopes addressed to her. The first was a letter from Witch Weekly, which Ginny promptly crumpled up and tossed into the trash.

“What was that, dear?” Molly asked, turning from the stove.

“Just a stupid thing from Witch Weekly.”

Her mother pointed her wand at the garbage can and summoned the crumpled letter to her, smoothing it out once it reached her hands. “Ginny, this is a job offer.”

“I know what it is, Mum,” she reached for the other letter.

“And you're just going to throw it away?”

“Obviously, that was my intention.”

“Don't get smart with me, Ginerva,” her daughter winced at the sound of her full name. “It says you'd have a bi-monthly column.”

“Yes, I can read…all that education wasn't for nothing.”

“All that education you seem perfectly all right with throwing away by working at your brothers' store for the rest of your life.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. She didn't want to fight. “Mum, I'm not going to spend the rest of my life there. It's just until I…I don't know…until I figure out my next move.”

Molly waved the letter, “And what do you call this?”

“A waste of talent!” Ginny shouted finally. “I don't want to write for Witch Weekly, follow around celebrities and talk about the best way to remove nasty potion stains and answer romance questions—it's not even close to what I want to do.”

“You're not going to get a million chances, Ginny. You'd better start jumping at opportunities when they arise.”

She rolled her eyes, “I don't have time for this. I'm going out.” Without another word, she Disapparated out of the house and onto Diagon Alley.

The street was busy, but not overly crowded as Ginny made her way through a small group of people and into Quality Quidditch Supplies. There was a shiny new broom, called a Torpedo, which had everyone entranced at the front of the story. Ginny slipped past them and into the back to check the prices on a new pair of pants.

There was a terribly familiar head of white blond hair visible over the top of the rack at which she was looking. Ginny rolled her eyes and prayed that she was either wrong or would suddenly become invisible.

“Well if it isn't the runt of the Weasley litter,” an overly bored voice drawled, pulling her out of the jersey rack she'd suddenly become fascinated with.

“Malfoy…”

He looked amused, “What?”

“Just…go away,” Ginny sighed, not having the will to argue with him. She turned and pushed her way through the store and onto the street again.

“That's it?” He called, following her quickly.

“I don't feel like fighting with you.”

“You usually don't get a choice. I insult you, you insult me…it's a lovely aspect of our trysts that I enjoy so much.”

She stopped walking and allowed him to catch up with her before she turned around. “First of all, don't refer to our unfortunate meetings as `trysts'. Secondly, stop following me, I want to be alone.”

“Fine,” Draco shrugged carelessly. “But I'd warn you, nothing you're worrying about is worth that wrinkle you're giving yourself right in the middle of that pretty brow of yours.” He tapped her forehead with his index finger and Disapparated before she could say another word.

She stood, confused for a moment, rubbing her brow where he'd touched her, before continuing into the Leaky Cauldron for a sandwich. As she ordered, she tried to shake off the odd feeling that had come over her.

Had Malfoy just called her pretty?

***

Hermione paused and scratched out a line on her essay, watching as the ink melted away her unneeded sentence and everything moved up a line on the parchment. She glanced over the last three paragraphs quickly and rolled up her parchments, dropping them onto the professor's desk on her way out of the class.

Feeling quite good about her exam, Hermione hitched her bag higher up on her shoulder and pushed through the double doors that led to the spiral staircase which would take her to the lounge for lunch.

She'd taken the first three steps down when her headache potion—which she'd carefully timed to get her through her exam—wore off. A bolt of throbbing pain shot through her skull, catching her off guard and sending her falling down the stairs. She lay at the bottom of the staircase for a long time before classes officially let out and someone came to her aid.

Hermione awoke at St. Mungo's feeling numb and tingly. Harry and Ron were seated on either side of her bed, each looking terribly upset. “Please don't start,” she said, her head feeling as though it weighed a ton.

“No, Hermione, I think we should start—what the bloody hell is wrong with you?” Ron asked angrily.

Harry motioned for him to calm down. “We deserve an explanation, at the very least.”

“I don't know what happened,” she heaved herself into a sitting position. “That's the truth!” she exclaimed upon seeing their faces. “I finished my exam early, left the class, and then I…don't know.”

“You don't know?” Harry asked skeptically.

“No,” she answered honestly, “I don't.”

“Someone said you fell down the stairs at the Ministry…did you?” Ron prompted.

“I…I don't remember. Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought,” she rubbed the back of her head, feeling a lump beginning to form.

“Ron,” Harry sighed, “why don't you go find a Healer—tell him she's awake.”

“Yeah,” Ron got to his feet, “sounds good.”

Once they were alone, Harry gave her a pointed look. “What?” she asked, “I honestly don't know what happened!”

“Hermione, what's today?”

“Thursday,” she answered automatically.

“What's the date?”

“It's the…” she pursed her lips, “it's the nineteenth.”

“Yeah, Hermione. September nineteenth.”

“I didn't forget my own birthday, Harry,” she scoffed. “I've just been busy lately…besides, nineteen is hardly an important one. I can't do anything this year I couldn't do last year.”

“I'm worried about you,” he persisted, seeing through her excuses. “Something's not right with you—you'll have to admit that at some point.”

“Harry, I'm perfectly—,”

“Don't tell me you're fine, Hermione. You're not fine. You're in the hospital.” He offered a pleading look, “Please let them run some more tests.”

“I don't need anymore tests,” she crossed her arms stubbornly and turned her head away from him.

Gently, he turned her face back to his, “Would it kill you to let someone take care of you for a change?”

She tried to set her jaw, “Maybe it would.”

“Please? For me? If there's nothing there…I won't bother you about it ever again.”

Hermione sighed, “Liar.”

“Please?” he asked again, fixing her with his emerald eyes.

Her resolve, which had been crumbling slowly, broke. “Fine, I'll let them do more tests. But I hope you know they won't find anything.”

Harry leaned and kissed her forehead, “Thank you,” he whispered, hoping that she was right.

A/N: Thank you for all the positive feedback! You have no idea how great it feels to hear such wonderful things…unless you're an author…then I guess you would know…wouldn't you? Anyway, thank you.

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Chapter Three

-Overlooked-

Come to me now

Lay you hands over me

Even it it's a lie

Say it will be all right

And I shall believe

It was the worst battle she'd ever seen; curses flying every which way, bodies strewn about the courtyard of 12 Grimmauld Place. Those of the Order who weren't knocked unconscious or dead were locked in battle with Death Eaters who seemed more numerous than ever before. Everyone was fighting. Everyone was in danger. Everyone was doing something about it.

Everyone but her.

She'd been hit with a flesh-wounding curse earlier which had not stopped bleeding. Bill had scooped her up quickly and carried her behind the statue. “Don't move,” he'd instructed gravely.

“I'm fine!” she'd promised.

“Don't move,” Bill had repeated, not looking at her dirty face, only concentrating on wrapping her arms in bandages which were bled through within moments. “I'll come back,” he promised as someone called for him. “Be here when I come back.”

“Bill—,”

“Damn it, Ginny. Stay here.” Without another word, her oldest brother had gotten to his feet and returned to the war.

That's what this was, she realized, this was war. What she'd only read about and heard about. War—where you could lose your friends or your brothers or your…Harry Potter without even realizing they were gone until the smoke cleared. War—where every single moment was life and death and if you stopped and thought about it for a moment too long you'd be the latter.

Her brown eyes scanned the terrible scene before her. Everyone was fighting. Everyone. Ron and Crabbe, Hermione and Dolohov, Fred and George were back to back in a circle of Death Eaters. Ginny's heart winced—she should be there. She should be out there fighting with everyone else. She should be helping Harry, whom she'd last seen locked in combat with both Malfoys. She searched the courtyard again—Harry, where was Harry now?

She found him in the thick of things, pushing Ron out of the line of a bright green beam of light from Crabbe. They got up quickly, unscathed; Ron went right to aid Bill and Tonks, and Harry, inside the house where her brother had pointed just before they'd parted ways. She'd seen the strange look pass between the two of them—the way Ron had held Harry's shoulder just a moment longer. Something heavy dropped in her stomach—Voldemort couldn't be here, could he? He couldn't have found out about his last Horcrux so quickly. As Ginny watched Harry race up the back steps, she knew. This was it—this was what he'd been born to do.

He must have taken care of Malfoy then. Her eyes darted back to the corner in which she'd seen them fighting before; to her surprise, Lucius Malfoy lay on the ground, face up, white blonde hair fanning out around him. In an instant, she knew he was dead. The surprise came seconds later, when she noticed a huddled lump beside the fallen Death Eater. Draco—his knees pulled up to his chest, white blonde head tilted into himself, shaking uncontrollably.

Something inside her snapped. What right did he have to fall to pieces like that? Didn't he know what had happened to Percy only a day before? Didn't he know that she wanted to curl into a ball and cry and dissolve into nothing too? But she kept fighting—everyone kept fighting. No one was allowed to let their guard down. Death Eater or Phoenix, no one got to take a time-out for grief.

“Sorry, Billy,” she muttered under her breath. Ignoring her blood-soaked bandages and the shooting pain that accompanied the curse, Ginny got to her feet and, darting behind statues and pillars, raced to the opposite side of the courtyard.

“Get up,” she demanded, pointing her wand at Draco. As close as she was, she could hear him crying, sobbing into his arms.

“Leave me.”

“Get up.” Ginny moved closer so that her wand was touching his forehead.

“Why?” Draco raised his tear-streaked face. “So you can kill me?”

“So you can try to kill me!” She was being ridiculous, but this side of Malfoy scared her more than his violent side. “You're a Malfoy, god-damnit! I'm a Weasley! You hate me! I hate you! We're in a war—you've got to do something!”

“Why?”

“Because you have to! Curse me! Insult me! Kill me, I don't care! Just get the fuck up!” Her rage boiling, Ginny pulled her leg back and kicked him hard in the ribs. He barely reacted. “You want it to end like this? Huh? Do you? Do you want to die, crying in the corner like the spoiled little bitch you are? Get up and fight.” Nothing was penetrating; she kicked him again. “You've got the war you always wanted, what you were preparing for your whole life—go fight in it!”

“I never wanted anything.”

Her eyes fell to the corpse of Lucius Malfoy. “You wanted him to love you,” she began cruelly, “You wanted him to be proud of you. Didn't you?” No response. “How proud do you think he'd be if he knew you were just going to give up like this?” Frustrated, and feeling as though she were running out of time and ideas, Ginny kicked him a third time, feeling something break in her shoe and pain shoot through her foot. “You're Draco Malfoy, god-damnit. You're the meanest boy in Hogwarts history. You've made me cry more times than I can remember, you're the biggest pain in the ass I've ever met. You're just going to let this get to you? You're just going to die?”

He looked expressionlessly at her, tears still pouring from his silver eyes. “Make it quick.”

“If I were going to kill you, Malfoy, it wouldn't be quick,” she snarled, “Now get up.”

And something amazing happened. He did. His eyes, which moments before had been empty and hollow, suddenly grew wide as he got to his feet and shoved her to the ground. Preparing herself for a curse, Ginny pushed back up to find herself witness to a very strange sight.

Draco and Goyle, wands drawn on one another, one staring menacingly at the other. “She's a blood traitor, Malfoy,” Goyle growled.

“You leave her for me,” Malfoy snarled back. “I'll take care of her.”

“Why not do it when you had the chance then?” his friend asked, circling him dangerously.

“You have other things to worry about, Goyle.”

“I think I'll worry about the Weasel right now if you don't mind,” he pointed his wand at Ginny, “AVADA—,”

“PETRIFICOUS TOTALUS!”

Before Ginny had a chance to blink, Goyle grew stiff and rigid, he dropped to the ground like a rock. Shocked, she looked at her own wand, wondering if she'd cast the spell on impulse. She hadn't. Her eyes rose to Draco who was looking just as surprised as she. “Did you..?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“And he was…?”

“Probably.”

“Why did you…?”

“No idea.”

Without another word, Draco Disapparated, leaving Ginny breathless and confused, her arms still bleeding, though not as profusely. All around her, it had gotten incredibly loud. Though the noise she was hearing wasn't what had been so deafening moments ago, curses and hexes, explosions and shrieks of pain. This was different—there was silence. Deafening silence.

She looked around, heart pounding, astonished to see that those who were standing were those she knew. Those she loved. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion; Bill was hugging Fleur tightly, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Moody shook hands, wagging their heads in disbelief, Tonks and Lupin were also embracing, Fred, George, and Ron were grinning at one another like idiots. Hermione, a hand to her chest, slid down the side of the stone wall, tears falling freely down her cheeks—her cinnamon eyes trained on one figure emerging from the shadows of the stone stairwell.

Harry looked exhausted. He was dirty and winced with every step—his scar had split open and the blood was dripping onto his glasses. But he was alive. And if he was alive, that could only mean that Voldemort was dead.

Ginny sat up in bed, nearly cracking her forehead open on the low beam which hung down. She put a hand to her racing heart and took a deep breath; her clock told her it was the middle of the night. Sliding into her slippers, Ginny grabbed her robe and went down to the kitchen where she quickly brewed a pot of tea.

Sipping her chamomile cautiously, Ginny perched on the window seat and stared blankly into the woods behind the Burrow. She'd been dreaming about the last battle for months now—never sure if it was a nightmare or a memory until she woke up. The scars on her arms promised that it was a memory, a very real memory which had happened exactly as she dreamt it, down the toe she'd broken on Malfoy's ribs.

Malfoy, who was suddenly an annoyingly present figure in her life.

Who told her she was pretty and came to visit her at work, though it may not appear that way.

Whom she'd found occupying her thoughts more and more lately since his name had been cleared by the Ministry.

A gnome ran across the garden and distracted her thoughts. She remembered suddenly what day it was and what she had to do in the morning. Draining her tea quickly, Ginny Apparated back to her room and got into bed, pushing all thoughts from her head.

***

Harry hated waiting. He'd always hated waiting. And waiting seemed to be all he'd been doing in the last two days. The Healers at St. Mungo's had been administering every test imaginable to Hermione and they'd all come back inconclusive. Virtually, it appeared, there was nothing wrong with his best friend, but for the crippling headaches she was experiencing and a memory that grew weaker with each passing day.

She'd been sleeping for most of the day when he walked in. A nurse had informed him that she'd only just woken up from the potion and would need a few moments to readjust. Harry opened the door to find her sitting up in bed, looking sleepy and pale, but otherwise fine.

She smiled when saw him, “The-Boy-Who-Never-Learned-to-Brush-His-Hair.”

Harry laughed and impulsively tried patting down his unruly locks. “How're you feeling?” he asked, pulling up the chair next to her bed.

Hermione yawned, “Tired,” she blinked a few times, “have they found out what's wrong with me yet?

“Not…not yet.”

“Maybe nothing's wrong with me,” she suggested hopefully, allowing him to move a few curls out of her eyes.

“Let's hope not.”

“Did you get my work like I asked?” Harry nodded and handed her messenger bag to her, loaded down with textbooks and rolls upon rolls of parchment. “I'll be so far behind in all of my courses if I don't get to work soon.” She was removing books and quills when Harry put a hand over hers. “What?”

“Hermione, we need to talk about what's happening to you.”

She sighed, “I don't want to talk about. What is there to say?”

“Do you have any idea what could be causing this?”

“No,” she insisted impatiently. “I have no idea!”

“Have you done anything differently in the past while?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, absolutely. I've been eating right, exercising, sleeping well…there's nothing else I'm supposed to do, is there?”

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don't know, Hermione. I really don't. When was the last time you went to a Healer…before all this started happening?”

She closed her eyes and thought, “Just before Percy's funeral…after Grimmauld Place. I'd had my last check-up just before the funeral. Don't you remember?”

Harry had an idea. “Yeah, I remember.”

“That's it. I got a clean bill of health then; I don't know what else to say.”

“Don't think about it right now,” Harry got to his feet, “I've got something I've got to take care of—you'll probably want to start working anyway.”

She smiled a wan smile, “You know me too well.”

“Feel better; Ron and I will come back for dinner, all right?”

“Mmm hmm.”

He waved again on his way out, but Hermione was already engrossed in her reading and did not look up.

Harry grabbed a hold of the first Healer he ran into. “Can I help you, Mr. Potter?” the young man asked pleasantly.

“It's about Hermione Granger,” he began nervously.

“Well yes, I had assumed. What can we do?”

“I think you may have overlooked something in her medical history…I was wondering if perhaps you could retrieve a memory of hers to try to trace a curse she may have received.”

***

Snape was in rare form that day, Draco noticed at lunch. He'd been snapping at his students, Slytherins included, deducting House points, and making first years cry. Draco had overheard two fifth years concocting a scheme to brew the Draft of the Living Dead and slip it into his goblet at dinner. Draco, remembering the icy encounter he'd had with his former professor that morning before breakfast, had pretended he hadn't heard anything. Though if Snape dropped over comatose, he'd probably have some explaining to do.

Some explaining to do, that was how Severus had approached him that morning before breakfast. Approached was a relative term, Draco reasoned in his mind, cornered him would have been a more appropriate term.

“Where do you think you're going, Draco?” his mentor had demanded as Draco passed him in the hall.

“I was planning on a light breakfast—watching my figure—and then off to teach my classes, Severus. Seems to be the done thing for teachers,” he'd answered without a thought.

Snape had put up a hand to stop him. “I'd like a word.”

“Sure, take a sentence if you feel so bold.”

His humor was lost as the older man folded his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow, “Weasley.”

“Word association, my favorite!” Draco rubbed his hands together in mock excitement, “Red hair?” Snape's face remained emotionless. “Freckles? Fertility?” He shrugged, “I'm running out of guesses, let's try another one.”

“Draco, I'm not certain from where this steak of good will is stemming, but you would do best to try and curb your enthusiasm for your recently clean record.”

“And you would do best to curb your enthusiasm for life in general,” Draco stopped and realized what Snape had just said. “Wait, what are you talking about?”

“I don't know what your recent infatuation is trying to prove, frankly I don't care. The point is you're creating a spectacle.”

“A spectacle, Severus?”

“Daily Prophet, page nine.” The Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had pressed the newspaper into his hands and stalked quickly away before his former student had a chance to say anything else. Late for breakfast, Draco had stuffed the paper into his shoulder bag and forgotten about it until lunch.

Now, however, he drew it from its resting place and spread it on the table in front of him. He flipped to page nine, silver eyes skimming the articles until he found what Snape had been talking about. Halfway down the page, in rather large letters was an article titled “Two Houses Both Alike In Dignity…Has Draco Malfoy Finally Found Love?” above a perfectly nauseating candid picture of his argument with Ginny Weasley the week before. The picture, however, (and damn those Prophet photographers) depicted none of their brief spat. In fact, they appeared rather romantic towards each other—she leaning in, he reaching a hand towards her face. Though, if he recalled correctly, Draco was certain he had been about to poke her in the forehead—arguably not one of his finest moments.

Well, that certainly explained Snape's annoyance, Draco thought, stuffing the paper back into his bag. The giggling amongst the girls in his classes made a bit more sense, as well as the disgusted stares he'd been receiving from the older Slytherins, most of whom he remembered from his days as a student.

“I suggest you be a bit more careful,” a voice hissed into his left ear, making him leap a mile.

He turned to face Snape, “Could you whistle, or make some kind of noise before you sneak up on someone like that?”

“Constant vigilance,” Snape replied, indifferent to his former student's jumpiness. “As I was saying, you'd do well to be a bit more cautious who you let take your picture.”

“Why should I?” Draco asked, feeling defiant. “I'm a free man, aren't I? Off the wanted list, cleared of all charges, aren't I?”

“You were never cleared of being a Malfoy,” Snape snapped, “There is still a certain…standard that most expect of you.”

“What do I care what they think?”

“Because, you stupid boy, these are powerful people of whom I am speaking—people whom may, in the coming months, be helpful to you, should you need them.”

Draco shrugged, “I don't need anyone's help, Sev. I think I'll be all right.” He patted Severus' arm amiably and got up from the Head Table before another word was said.

After classes had finished for the day, Draco considered heading down to Hogsmeade and taking a glimpse around for the night, but something stopped him. The writers of the Daily Prophet were morons, but they had brought up an interesting point. If they could see him harmlessly flirting with Ginny Weasley, then so could other people; people who could be very dangerous to him indeed.

Draco went to bed early that night, trying to ignore the dreams he was having of a yellow dress which kept falling into a perfectly lovely pile on the floor.

***

“Mr. Potter,” Harry's head shot out of the case study he'd been reading and at the medical intern who was practically running down the hall. “Mr. Potter!”

Standing, Harry tucked his parchment into his book and stood. “Yes?”

“We've—we've found something; something we may have overlooked,” the out of breath student explained, coming to a halt just before Hermione's doorway.

Harry, who'd been waiting for this for the last three days, all of sudden wasn't sure how to feel about any actual news coming into his possession. “Well let's have it then.”

“Upon removing the memory you suggested, we found something…rather odd,” the intern said nervously.

“What is it?”

The young man looked uncertain to go on, “Perhaps it'd be best if you were to come with me.”

“Yeah,” Harry slung his school bag over his shoulder, “fine then.”

“You'll have to forgive this oversight, Mr. Potter—if we'd had any idea…well, I'd suppose Healer Marcwith would rather tell you himself.”

Healer Marcwith had been the head Healer in Hermione's care. He was a kindly middle-aged man with laugh lines around his mouth and a gradually receding hairline. In general, Harry liked him—in the way he always carried lollipops in his pocket for his younger patients, the jokes he liked to share from the funny pages of the Daily Prophet, and the way he called Hermione `my dear,' as though he really meant it.

Marcwith was sitting behind a desk when Harry and the intern—whose name, Harry read on the front of his white jacket, was Lars—entered the office. “Harry,” he stood up and the two men shook hands before sitting back down, “good of you to come.”

“Anytime, can you tell me what's going on?”

“Yes, yes.” Marcwith set his hands on the table and pressed his fingertips together. “I trust Lars told you that we've stumbled upon something in our reading of Miss Granger's memory.”

“Yeah, he mentioned it.” Harry swallowed hard, “So what is it? What've you found?”

“It appears there is indeed Dark Magic present in Miss Granger's system. The curse in question, however, is one I've never come across in my years as a Healer. Nor, actually, has anyone at this hospital.”

“What is it?” The knot in Harry's stomach, which had formed when he'd had first entered the office, tightened severely.

“The wizard who cast it—Dolohov, if I'm not mistaken—used the words `Efflectum Memoria.' Any idea?”

Harry shook his head, “No, I'm sorry. Dolohov's dead anyhow—in Azkaban about three weeks ago—wouldn't you think that would break the curse?”

Marcwith considered this, “With most curses of this nature, I'd imagine so. However, this doesn't seem to be an average curse. It completely escaped identification for weeks.”

He continued explaining further research being done at that very moment to learn more about the curse but Harry wasn't listening. He was trying to imagine what to write to one of the only people he knew who could help them.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: A little lengthy, but I felt the flashback was necessary. Hope you enjoyed. As always, thank you for the amazing reviews. You're all so lovely.

Lyrics: Sheryl Crow

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Chapter Four

—Bad News—

I'd never lie to you

Unless I had to

I'll do what I got to

Unless I had to I'll do what I go to

Remus Lupin looked thoughtfully at the letter in his hands. Hedwig had tapped urgently on his kitchen window earlier that morning—the letter tied to her leg. He read it over again; Harry's messy handwriting had scribbled only a few words:

Lupin-

Hermione sick.

Healer says `Efflectum Memoria'

Can you help?

-Harry

He'd always known Harry to be a man of few words, but this was ridiculous. Three lines? Words of a spell he'd never heard of? Lupin sighed and rubbed his eyes, fighting back a yawn. He grabbed a quill and a fresh scrap of parchment and scribbled back:

Harry-

I'll help—any more information you can give me?

I'll start researching.

How sick?

-Lupin

A response came that afternoon just after lunch:

Lupin-

Sick.

Thanks.

-Harry

***

Harry had felt bad about being so short in his letters to Lupin, but truthfully, he'd had no time for lengthy correspondence. He'd spent the last four days researching the mystery curse with Ron, Ginny, Fred, George, and Hermione at home. She'd been released until the Healers could determine some sort of treatment and had insisted that they immediately get to work researching and learning all they could about Efflectum Memoria.

All they could, unfortunately, was a lot of nothing.

“Nothing, nothing, nothing, bloody nothing!” Ron slammed his sixth heavy Dark Magic book shut. “I can't find a damn thing and the pages of that book burn my fingers!”

“Really?” Ginny leaned over her brother's hand with interest. “Oh yeah…look, they're all red and swollen. Do you think they'd hurt to touch them?”

“Piss off, Gin,” Ron grumbled, stealing his hand back from his sister.

“Aw, ickle Ronnikins…” George shook his head, “is that mean book hurting your feelings?” He clucked his tongue and ruffled Ron's hair.

“Don't worry, Ron-Bon…we won't let those mean books hurt your delicate hands anymore,” Fred snatched the book away and tossed it unceremoniously into the discard pile.

Hermione, who had been growing more and more irritated with each passing moment, slammed down the book she'd been flipping through. “Fred!”

He looked up innocently, “What?”

“That book is over twelve centuries old!”

His twin and he shared a confused look, “So? It's not like I threw a new one.”

She groaned and put her aching head in her hands. “Are we getting anywhere?”

“No,” Ginny answered honestly, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. “We've been through every book we have on the subject.” She spun to begin stacking the discarded books properly, listing them as she did so. “Modern Curses of the Twentieth Century; Dark and Nasty Magic of the Northern Isles; Modern Curses of the Twenty-First Century—”

“That seems a bit premature, don't you think?” George interjected suddenly, “It's only just begun, after all.”

Ginny ignored him. “Boils and Sores: A History of Vulgar and Unfortunate Curses; and as we've just found out causes flesh to sizzle, De Bevrediging Van Kwaad Doet…which, I don't actually understand what that means…but it doesn't sound good and it wasn't helpful.”

“It's Dutch,” Hermione said passively, feeling her headache pain begin to increase as her potion wore off further.

“Oh,” Ginny studied the title again, “What's it mean?”

“It means…” Hermione thought for a moment. “Um…it's Dutch for…” She knew this. She knew she knew this—she remembered seeing the book in the Restricted Section and going to translate it straight away. “Means…”

“The Satisfaction of Evil Doing,” Harry reminded softly, not looking up from his book.

Hermione bit her lip, “Right, yeah. That's…that's what it means.”

He looked up apologetically, “I only remember because it was talked about in one of my classes.”

Ginny nodded slowly, taking in what was going on across the room. “Well, it's good that we all know.”

“Right, that's the important thing,” Hermione pretended to brush away some crumbs from the sandwich she'd barely touched and looked around for another book. “What else have we got?”

“A few books from Hogwarts, nothing too inspiring,” Ron looked at the dwindling pile.

“Can I make a suggestion?” Ginny asked, timidly. Everyone turned to her expectantly. “I don't think this is going to do much, our sitting around flipping through a bunch of books. I mean, who knows how sick Hermione might get before we even find a mention of this curse.”

“Quite right, Miss Weasley,” a familiar voice from the doorway made them all jump in surprise. They turned from their places scattered about the living room to see Lupin shutting the front door behind him. “Harry, you'll want to be better about locking you door—anyone could just walk right in.”

Harry had gotten to his feet and greeted the older man with a brotherly hug. “Thanks for coming, Professor.”

“Just Remus, Harry. We've been over this.”

“Come to help then, Just Remus?” Ron flipped his hair from his eyes but seemed quite relieved for a break in the tension.

“Come to do what I can, Ron. Only what I can.” Lupin set his coat over the back of the sofa. “What have we got so far?”

“Nothing,” Harry sighed, sitting back down.

“Nothing at all,” Ron added miserably.

“More nothing than that,” Ginny conceded, dropping her chin onto her hands.

“Well…” the news of so much nothing only knocked the wind from Remus' sails slightly. “No matter, we'll just have to be more thorough.”

“How'd you expect we do that, exactly, when all the books we have are written by good wizards for good wizards who wouldn't have the slightest clue what do with a curse like this?” Hermione asked, not bothering to mask her annoyance.

“Aha, Hermione—you of all people should know that the key to effective research is to know where to look.”

“And where do you suggest we look?” she asked, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Actually, it was more of a `whom' than a `where.'” Remus cleared his throat. “The trick to Dark Magic is being able to think like a Dark wizard.”

“So what are you suggesting, we take a field trip to Azkaban?” George looked at him incredulously.

“No, no, dear boy. I'm suggesting we tap into one of the few people we know who actually has thought like a Dark wizard and see what he knows.”

Harry's eyes got wide. “Oh no—if you're suggesting who I think you're suggesting…”

“He's our best hope, Harry.”

Hermione looked from one man to the other before realization dawned on her. “You've got to be kidding me.”

***

Snape's office, despite having moved from the dungeons to the upstairs of the castle, was still ice cold as Lupin and Harry waited impatiently inside.

The door opened suddenly and Severus swept in, pausing for a moment to take in the strange sight before him. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“Well, we know how you love a good joke,” Harry mumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Quite possibly the last two people I ever expected to see asking for my help.”

“We're not asking for your help!” Harry snapped, getting to his feet.

Remus grabbed his arm and forced him back into his chair. “We are, actually, Severus. We're asking for your help.” He gave Harry a glare which cleared said `control your temper.'

“Why, on this green and fertile earth would I have need to help you?”

“It's Hermione Granger.”

“Oh Lord,” Snape rolled his eyes and sat down behind his desk.

Harry's eyes flashed angrily and he made a move toward his former professor before Lupin restrained him again. “This isn't working; Harry—why don't you go and wait outside.”

With a grumble and a few muttered obscenities, Harry turned from the desk and out of the office, closing the door behind him. He stood uselessly in the hall for a few moments before deciding that a visit to McGonagall's wouldn't be a complete waste of time. He'd taken roughly five steps away from the door to Snape's office before crashing head-on into Malfoy.

“Let's keep that swollen head of yours up, eh Potter?” Malfoy muttered, pushing past.

“Piss off, Malfoy,” Harry agreed, continuing on his way.

After a moment, they both stopped and turned.

“What are you doing here?” they asked in unison.

“Me? What about you?”

Draco shook his head and waited a moment to see if Harry would say anything before he answered his own question. “I work here, Potter. What's your excuse?”

“Here to see someone.”

“Really.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry's brow furrowed, “you're working here?”

“Did I stutter?”

“Who the devil would hire you?”

“Not really much of your concern, is it Potter? You still haven't really answered my question.”

“It's none of your business why I'm here Malfoy—don't you have some students to be harassing?”

“Not at the moment, I just made a third year cry—it's been a full morning.”

“Lovely to see your ambition reaching such great heights,” Harry commented dryly.

Snape's door opened and both men immerged, looking grim. Severus' black eyes fell on the scene before him. “Malfoy, I'll need a word,” he ushered his colleague into his office and shut the door behind them.

“How'd that go?” Harry asked once they were alone.

“Better once you left,” Lupin answered honestly. “Harry, you've got to learn to control your temper. We're all concerned about Hermione and everyone is trying to do what they can to help—sometimes that means doing things you may not want to do.”

“Such as?”

“For starters, more research. Severus has given me—and consequently you—free reign over the Hogwarts library, Restricted Section included.”

“Fabulous.” Harry seemed less than excited.

“It's our best option at the moment—we'll take what we can back with us and start over again.”

Harry sighed, “Yeah, sure.”

***

“Guess what I found!” George exclaimed, hoisting a decrepit-looking book into the air.

“What?”

“More nothing than usual,” he dropped it back into his lap and began flipping through the pages again.

Hermione sighed. “Wonderful. At this rate I'll be found out before we dead anything.” She stopped for a moment. “I mean that the other way around.”

Ginny smiled pacifically, “We know you did.” She got to her feet and started toward the kitchen, “We're all just tired—I'm going to go make some tea.”

Ron smiled, “A Weasley reflex—whenever something is going badly, put on some tea.”

Harry smiled to himself and turned the page, finding it to nothing but a huge, dark, stain of blood. “This is helpful,” he muttered, looking up to see Hermione staring at him from across the room. “Hermione, are you sure you've never heard of this curse before? Nothing in your studies or in Hogwarts: A History?” The last part was meant to be a joke, but Hermione dropped her head to her hands and looked as though she were about to cry. Instantly, Harry was on his feet and at her side. “I was just kidding,” he said quickly, “if you say you've never heard of it, I believe you.”

She sniffled, “But I feel like I have heard of it. Or at least, I think I did. But everything is so jumbled up…it's all mixed up and none makes any sense anymore.”

He rubbed her back comfortingly. “It's okay, Hermione. No one expects you to know everything.”

“Maybe there's something we've overlooked—it's got to be somewhere,” Ginny said encouragingly passing her friend a fresh cup of tea.

“No, Weasley, actually it doesn't.” A voice from the door made them all jump and turn again. Malfoy stood leaning casually on the doorframe, his arms crossed lazily, looking incredibly bored.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” Ron asked, getting to his feet.

“Special assignment from Snape—Potter, honestly, I could've been Voldemort himself, you'll want to lock your door.”

“Believe me, I am kicking myself,” Harry informed him, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Ron asked again, not satisfied with the answer he'd been given.

“Snape sent me to help out your little justice league, Weasleby: claws in. I'm just here to pass on what he knows about this whole curse thing.”

“And here, I thought they had owls for that sort of thing,” Fred commented.

“Usually, yes. But I thought I'd brighten your day with a personal visit.”

“Could you all just shut up so he can tell us what he has to and go?” Ginny snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Thank you,” Draco took a few steps into the flat. “Efflectum Memoria, my friends, is not something you're going to find in a book.”

“We're hardly friends, Malfoy,” Ron grumbled.

“Weasley—you're throwing off my monologue. Pipe down.” He cleared his throat. “As I was saying, it's ancient, deep magic. Blood magic. Stuff that was around before they started writing and teaching it to each other. It's rare to find someone who knows what it is, let alone how to do it—it's apparently a very complicated spell.”

“Fine, Malfoy, we can't do a paper on it—why don't you tell us what it does?” Harry prompted impatiently.

“It's bad, Potter. Really bad.” He paused for dramatic effect. “It destroys the mind.”

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A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Review and continue to be the wonderful human beings you are!

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Chapter Five

Unexpected

You know you're the best thing ever

To come out of this place,

Hey I want you to know,

`Cause I wanna know

Draco's dramatic proclamation was met with seven pairs of blank eyes. “Any of you can blink whenever you feel like it,” he encouraged.

Harry's brow furrowed. “I thought you said you were here to help.”

“What do I look like, Potter?” Malfoy scoffed, “You? Does that sound like something I would burst in and say? And besides, who says that wasn't helpful?”

“I do,” Harry snapped, folding his arms. “`Efflectum Memoria destroys the mind'? Don't you think we've determined that much already?”

Draco rolled his silver eyes. “You've got no sense of timing, Potter. None whatsoever.”

“Why don't you skip the dramatics and just tell us what you know?” Ginny suggested, rubbing her hands over her face.

“Fine, fine. Efflectum Memoria is, as I've said, ancient blood magic. There are all sorts of requirements the victim has to meet—a connection between the caster and castee, a powerful force for good, fairly innocent…yada-yada-ya.” He noticed the looks he was receiving from his audience and continued quickly. “Anyway, here's how it works: starting from the outermost part of the brain and working its way down, the curse—more or less—obliterates the memory bit by bit.”

“What do you mean more or less?” Hermione, who had been silent since his arrival, asked suddenly, her voice hollow and her face void of emotion.

“It's different with everyone, I'd expect,” Draco shrugged. “No guarantee it's going to destroy all your memories…it might just warp them somehow. Point is: it's Dark. That's Dark with a capital D, mind you.” Harry rolled his eyes. “I realize you think I'm being repetitive, Potter, but let me make myself clear. In order to be able to perform this curse, you've got have the forces of Darkness themselves bestowed upon you.”

“Aren't you recovering from a little bout of that yourself, Malfoy?” Ron asked coolly, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh Weasel you great, blundering, moron. Any idiot can throw on some leather trousers, sum up all his anger and nasty feelings, wave a wand maliciously and call himself a Dark Wizard.”

“Exhibit A,” Fred whispered to his twin, motioning to Malfoy.

Draco ignored him. “This kind of evil is…advanced.”

“Advanced Evil? Did they offer that at Death Eater School?” George muttered back.

“Oh will you all just stop bickering?” Hermione exclaimed suddenly. “I'd like to get a handle on this curse before it's too late if you don't mind.”

“Sorry to upset you, Granger.” Draco apologized emotionlessly. “Advanced evil—not many people can do it—who was it who cursed you?”

“Dolohov,” Hermione said quietly, twisting a curl around her finger.

Draco seemed surprised, “That certainly doesn't fit his description,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Well, Sev wanted me to drop this stuff off for you and take back what you're not going to need.” With a sweep of his Malfoy's wand, the room—which had been cluttered with heavy tomes, quills, and parchment—was spotless. He took a few more steps in and dropped two large books and one roll of parchment on the coffee table. “That's all there is—best of luck.” With a POP he'd Disapparated into thin air.

“I just can't take him as…y'know…good,” Fred commented after a moment.

“I don't care what he is, as long as he's helpful,” Hermione reached for one of the books. She stopped in mid-reach and clapped her hands to her temples. “Bloody headaches…”

“You should take another potion,” Ron suggested.

“I don't want to…they make me drowsy,” she insisted stubbornly.

Lupin and Harry exchanged a quick glance. “I'm not so sure sleep wouldn't do you some good right now,” Lupin began kindly. “Actually, I think we all could use a break. I'll start going over this,” he motioned to the small pile Snape had sent, “Ginny, why don't you make some lunch?”

Without another word, Hermione got to her feet and stormed out of the room, the door to her bedroom slamming hard enough to shake the walls. Ron looked over at his best friend, “I'll flip you for it—loser goes in and deals with that.”

Harry found her pacing around her room, arms crossed angrily, muttering under her breath. “Hermione?” he asked tentatively.

She looked up, her agitated face softening only a little. “Come to order me about some more?”

Harry sighed, “I'm not trying order you about—I'm trying…I'm trying to…to take care of you.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you need taken care of!” He exclaimed as if it were obvious. Seconds after the words left his mouth, he wished he'd never spoken.

Hermione stopped pacing and dropped her arms. “Do you know how patronizing that sounds?” she asked heatedly, making Harry wish he'd said anything else. “I'm not a five year old with a `boo-boo', Harry. I'm a grown woman—I can take care of myself.”

“What if you can't?” He asked quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“Not now, I mean…now you're fine. But…what if…what if you just can't eventually? Then what?”

Hermione crossed her arms in front of her chest again. “I wish you'd just learn to say what it is you want to say, Harry. This reading between the lines of your stuttering is getting a little old.” A strange look came over her face, “Harry, I'm sorry,” she softened. “I don't know what's come over me.”

“It's…okay, Hermione.”

She sat down on the edge of her bed and twisted a curl around her finger. “I guess it's pretty bad, huh?”

He sat down next to her, “I don't know…Malfoy…you know how he gets.”

“He certainly has a flair for the dramatics,” she rolled her eyes.

“Yeah.” Harry reached over and squeezed her hand. “We're all in this together, Hermione, okay?”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered with a sniffle. “You're not the one who's cursed.”

I'm not so sure about that, Harry thought to himself. He swallowed hard, “I don't think you should go back to school,” he blurted, preparing himself for an explosion.

Hermione didn't say anything at first. She pursed her lips together and twitched her fingers against his. “You don't, do you?” she asked quietly.

“I just don't think it's a good idea, that's all. You need to focus on getting well.”

“And trying to continue on with my life, that's obviously something that would keep me from getting well.”

“I didn't mean that you shouldn't keep—” he stopped himself. That's exactly what he did mean and saying any different would only make her angrier. “I just…I don't know…I just think any more stress would do more harm than good.”

“What else am I supposed to do? Sit around and get sicker? No, thank you.” She stood up and away from him. “You don't think that sitting around, waiting for my memory to get weaker and my mind to deteriorate…you don't think that that would cause any stress? That watching all of you scuttle about, waiting on me hand and foot, walking on eggshells…that that won't cause any stress? That even just living in this flat, paying the bills and keeping up with the cleaning and laundry and all of it…that that isn't stressful enough? Even without school, Harry, just being your friend is stressful! I'm never going to get rid of stress, and trying to eliminate it from my life isn't going to miraculously make me well again!” She took a breath to calm herself. When she spoke again, her voice was at a normal level, “If nothing else, I want to take my mind off of what's happening.”

Harry didn't know what to say. He pushed his hair around on his head a few times. “Hermione…”

“What?”

“At least think about it, okay?” She shook her head stubbornly. “Please? You don't have to agree to anything right away…I just want you to think about making some changes that will help you in the future.”

“I can't.”

“Just think about it,” he implored, getting to his feet and taking her by the shoulders. “Please?”

When she looked up, her eyes were clouded over with tears. “I just can't, Harry…please don't make me.”

“Hermione…”

“If I don't go to school…if I stop learning and stop…taking things in…” she sniffled, “it'll be like accepting that something's really happening. I just…I can't do that.”

“Ignoring this isn't going to make it go away.”

She pulled away from him, “I'm not ignoring it! I'm fighting it! I have to fight it and this is the only way I know how.”

“You can fight it a different way!” he insisted, grasping at straws.

“No!” Hermione pounded her fist off of the bureau. “I'm Hermione Granger, for Merlin's sake! I work through things…I solved the potions riddle and got you into get the Sorcerer's stone, I figured out the basilisk, I…I helped you save Sirius and Buckbeak…and…and the Department of Mysteries…and the Attack on Hogwarts…I'm the smart one, Harry…I'm the brightest witch since Rowena Ravenclaw!” She seemed to be losing her speed. “I helped you defeat the most evil wizard in all of history! I'm…I'm better than some killer memory charm! Don't you understand? I'm not just going to sit back and let this thing rape my mind. I can't just let it kill me.”

“I know,” Harry gave a defeated sigh.

“What?”

“You're Hermione Granger…the brightest witch of our age. I know that if there's a way to figure something out, you'll find it.” With that, he bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead before leaving her alone in the room.

“How's the weather, mate?” Ron, who'd clearly been pacing when Harry came out, asked, raking a hand through his hair.

“Stormy,” he assessed, shaking his head. “She knows it's bad…she just doesn't know what to do about it.”

“Maybe I should go in and have a chat, what d'you think?”

Harry shook his head again, clapped a hand to his best friend's shoulder and led him away from the door. “Best to leave her alone—I suggested she not go back to school…don't think she's too fond of anyone right now.”

“Oh, brilliant, Harry,” Ron rolled his eyes.

“It seemed like a good idea at the time. Don't look at me like that, Ron, you were going to say the same thing if it had been you.”

“But I probably would've phrased it better.”

Harry decided not to say anything and keep at least one of his best friends speaking to him. They returned to the living room, where Ginny had set out soup and salads for lunch. Harry wasn't hungry; his stomach twisted every time he thought of Hermione's face when he'd suggested she leave school. She wouldn't do it, he knew, she'd stay in her Healer training until her mind was mush if it meant not giving in. When it came to taking care of herself, Hermione Granger was one of the most stubborn witches he'd ever encountered.

Which is why he, along with everyone else, was horribly shocked when she emerged from her room late that evening and made her announcement.

“From now on, the base of our operations will be at the Burrow—I received an invitation from Molly early this evening and have decided to take her up on her offer.” Everyone seemed surprised that Molly Weasley already knew of the events of the day, though no one seemed surprised at her invitation. “Once I'm well again,” she continued, “we can all return home.” She stopped in front of the fire place, “Unless the two of you would like to stay here, of course,” her attention turned to Ron and Harry, who glanced at one another and shook their heads.

“I'm fine,” Ron shrugged.

“Yeah, I'm good,” threw in Harry.

“Good, all settled then.” Hermione clapped her hands together and returned to her business-mode. “Now, Lupin, you said something about having sources somewhere?”

“Yes, I've got some people I've been contacting—shamans, a few people in South America…it may take some time, but I'm hopeful…”

Hermione nodded sat down on the floor in front of the open books. “What do we know so far?”

***

What they knew, and what they would continue to learn in the weeks that followed, would prove to be very little. The books and parchment Malfoy had dropped off proved to be helpful, but nothing near what they would need to get a firm grasp on what they were dealing with.

Things were better at the Burrow—having the Weasleys all together always seemed to lighten even the most dismal of moods and the most disappointing days of ill-discovery.

True to her word, Hermione returned to her Healer concentration with just as much fervor as school work had always inspired in her, but with fewer of the same results. She was no longer top of her class, her grades were slipping, and she seemed to be having a harder time keeping up with all of her course work. Ron noticed her struggling one night as they sat on opposite ends of the couch, each working on respective homework.

“All right, Hermione?” he asked gently, breaking her concentration.

“All right,” she answered with a shrug, “you?”

“Fine,” he shrugged as well. A silence passed over them before Ron swallowed hard and leaned across the sofa and pulled her text from under her eyes.

“What do you think you're doing?” she asked indignantly and pulled it back.

He sighed, “No one would think any less of you if you took a break, you know.”

Hermione pursed her lips, “I discussed this with Harry; I would think less of me.”

“Well, now you're discussing it with me, Hermione—and I think you need a break.”

Her chocolate eyes flashed angrily, “Oh that's just wonderful, Ronald. Order me about like I'm a first year again, why don't you?”

Ron rolled his eyes, “I'm not attacking you, for Merlin's sake! I'm trying to help you!”

“Well I don't need your help,” she gathered her things into her arms and got to her feet. “If I'm not mistaken, usually it's you who need my help—and I must say I'm much more comfortable with that situation.”

She stalked to the doorway and went to turn around once again to add her final word when she stopped. Ron's forehead crinkled as he watched her sway in place before finally, without any further warning, she crumpled like a tissue.

He leapt to his feet and caught her just before her head crashed to the floor. “Mum!” he called, feeling a panic rise in his voice. “Mum, come quick!” Molly was at his side in an instant and suggested he get her upstairs to Ginny's room.

Her eyelids fluttered open as Ron placed her gently under the covers of her bed. “What happened?” she asked—her voice was just above a whisper.

“You passed out,” he answered simply and tucked the blankets around her.

“I did?”

“We were having a row,” Ron reminded with a small smile. It faded as a look of confusion passed over her face. “You don't remember?”

Hermione shook her head, “I'm sorry…if I said anything dreadful.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, “No more dreadful than usual. Maybe you should get some rest.”

“Mmm hmm,” she murmured and rolled over, nearly asleep as it was.

Ron walked quickly down the stairs, not surprised to see Harry in the living room, looking concerned. “She fainted,” he informed his best friend. “She's upstairs asleep right now but Harry,” Ron looked around and lowered his voice, “she's getting worse…and fast. We've got to do something, mate.”

“I know,” Harry sighed as Ron sat down on the sofa. “Lupin's working `round the clock trying to figure something out. I'm just about to head over there now. Care to join me?”

Ron shook his head and motioned to his Auror training, “Loads to do. Let me know what happens, though.”

***

Lupin closed the door behind Harry. “I think you should sit down,” he began, running a hand through his thinning hair as he took a seat behind his desk.
Feeling quite thirteen, Harry sat obediently, his eyes narrowed. “What's wrong?” he asked instantly.
“Harry, you're not going to like what I have to tell you,” Lupin began, twisting his hand together nervously.
“Just tell me, then, Lupin. I can handle it.”
“I…I don't…I'm not sure I can cure Hermione.”
Harry swallowed hard. “You mean you can't cure her here.”
“No, Harry. I'm not sure there's a way to cure her…at all.”
“Lupin…don't tell me that. There's got to be something we can do...there's always something…anything.”
“I've been up all night trying to prove myself wrong. From everything I've been able to find—which hasn't been much—there is no cure for this curse. No counter-curse, no elixir, and there is no one to have ever survived it.”
Harry sighed grievously, “This is all my fault.”
“This by no accounts means I'm going to stop trying, Harry,” Lupin assured him, watching as the young man covered his face with his hands. “I'm saying that right now…things don't look good.” He paused, “there are still a few sources I haven't checked. I'm waiting on an owl from a friend in—,” Lupin was cut off as Harry hurled a glass figurine from the desk and shattered it against the wall. “Harry…”
The young man gave no evidence of hearing him as his green eyes flashed angrily. He got to his feet, kicking the chair behind him over and shoving a row of books off of the desk. Lupin watched helplessly as he stalked to the wall and attempt to bury his foot in the stone. With each kick, Harry let out a horrible sound of frustration. He sounded almost animal. “It's not,” he punched the wall, “fucking,” and again, “FAIR!” he hollered, fists dropping in dangerous fists at his sides.
It was when he set his sights on the bookshelf that Lupin leapt to his feet and grabbed Harry by the shoulders. “Dumbledore may have tolerated you smashing all of his possessions and throwing a tantrum, Harry, but I won't allow it. Sit down and calm yourself.”
Harry felt the anger draining from him; it was replaced with remorse as he looked around the office he'd just made a mess of. “Sorry,” he muttered, turning setting his chair right, “about this. And the glass…I didn't mean…”
“Not to worry. A gift from an old squeeze—nothing I'll miss too much.” With a flick of his wand, Lupin set the books right on the desk and had deposited the broken glass into the trash. They were quiet for a moment. “I quite agree with you, Harry, this isn't fair.” Harry looked up, “But thinking with your heart, being ruled by your emotions like this…it will do you no good. You can't keep reacting to every bit of bad news like this.”
“How can I not, Lupin? It's Hermione,” Harry insisted through gritted teeth and glassy eyes. “I'm the reason she's like this in the first place.”
“Blaming yourself isn't going to help matters either. You told her not come along and she did anyway. It doesn't matter why she was there—the point is, she was and now we've got to deal with the consequences.” Harry didn't say—or throw—anything, so Lupin continued. “I need your help, Harry. I want your help. But you're no good to me until you come to terms with the idea that this may be turning into a worst-case scenario.”
“I can't. I can't accept that. Maybe about anyone else—but not Hermione.” Harry kept his eyes on the ground but his voice sounded dangerously close to breaking at any moment.
“Harry, I know how much you care about her. I know this is hard for you…”
“I'm more afraid of her dying than she is,” Harry raised his frightened eyes to Lupin's. “What is that?”
Remus smiled sadly to himself, came around the side of the desk, and put a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. “I think you know what that is.”
“I can't lose her, Remus. I—I just can't.” They locked eyes. “Please help her.”
Lupin looked helpless. “Harry, I can't promise—”
“Please.”
The older man sighed, feeling very old indeed. “I'll do my best.”

A/N: So not a very happy chapter. But it's been a long time coming and I wanted to do it asap. Much love to anyone still interested!

Also, there's a bit of Angel quoting/interpretation here. So…if you caught it, great. If not, that's cool too.

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