Unofficial Portkey Archive

Wherein Pettigrew reports the end of the Fidelius protecting the graves of Harry's parents to Snape, Harry returns to the Hogwarts student body, is thrown a rather flat party, restarts the D.A., suffers a nightmare, has a midnight chat with his friends, goes to his first classes, is called out of class due to an emergency, meets the Muggle Prime Minister, escapes a Muggle attempt to arrest him, sits for an inquiry, learns that Hermione can receive visitors, has an emotional, but entirely onesided, conversation with Hermione, has a confrontation with Hermione's mother, and learns that Hermione has given him the power to direct her medical care.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes "fair use" as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 39 - Uncomfortably Numb

The constable shuddered as he turned up the collar of his summer-weight uniform against the chilly wind blowing off the oily River Irk. For over two weeks, the weather had been unseasonably cool and damp. It was dreary during the day, but even worse after dark - and darkness was rapidly setting in. The looming presence of the smokestack from the decrepit old textile mill was fading with the twilight. An unruly patch of green weeds sprouted from its summit, now no longer visible as anything but grey.

"Oh, blast it, where is that place, anyway?" the officer muttered as he stared at his notes. Several of the neighbours, apparently independently, had complained about strange obnoxious odours and odd looking visitors at the address he had scrawled out, Number 16 Spinner's End.

Finally he found it….

Nervously, the copper eyed the house from across the street. It seemed ordinary enough - two storeys of reddish brick barely visible under decades of caked-on soot and grime - chockablock against its equally ramshackle neighbours. He briefly thought about calling in backup, but the force was so depleted with all the shortfalls. The place seemed no more ominous in the gathering gloom than any of the surrounding units, but he had a bad feeling about this nonetheless. What if there were armed druggies inside? The nature of the citizen reports suggested a methamphetamine lab….

Yes, there was evidently somebody at home, which was more than could be said for many of these terraced houses. Heavy blankets had been nailed over the front windows. Only slivers of pale yellow light peeked around the edges.

Gathering his courage, the constable swiftly crossed the cobbled street, marched up to the door, and knocked loudly on its chipped and scored surface. Then - like a bolt out of the blue - he remembered he had urgent business back at the stationhouse, and the shift change was much sooner than he had realised. Without even waiting for anyone to answer the door, the officer scurried away into the gloaming.

"Who is it this time, rat?" an irritable voice called up the basement stairs.

A hunched over figure squinted through a hole in the curtain at the copper's retreating figure. "Nobody, apparently. Just some Muggle in a uniform, I think. He got closer than most of them do, though…."

"That's nobody - sir," the voice spat. "How many times have I instructed you about the proper way to address me and your other betters?"

The small man with pale, watery eyes winced at the all-too-familiar insult. He rubbed one hand, seemingly encased in a silvery glove, with his normal hand. He was worried. He had a request he needed to make - and he knew the imperious man he had been detailed to assist would not like it.

He gulped several times, his unnaturally long and pointy nose wiggling with each swallow. Finally, he scuttled down the stairs.

A much taller hooked-nosed man turned from the cauldron over which he had been toiling and confronted his unwanted visitor. "What are you doing here?" he said with a sneer as he brushed his stringy, oleaginous locks out of his face. "I've told you never to come here unless I call you. Many of these potions are quite delicate, and our Master would not be pleased if your bumbling caused any delays. But come to think of it, I am low on strangler fig ash. Why don't you obtain some for me?"

Although the smaller man cowered a little more with each hateful sentence, he did not move.

"Be off with you now. I haven't got all night to exchange pleasantries with the servants," the aggressor growled, turning back to the cauldrons.

"I-I-I'm not … your servant," the other man squealed in protest.

"The Dark Lord dispatched you here to serve me, and that's what you shall do," the tall one snarled. "Perhaps you require a more graphic reminder?" With an evil smirk on his face, he jabbed his wand at the cowering creature.

In the blink of an eye, the poor man's robes disappeared, replaced by a hideously tight black miniskirt with white lace frills and a frilly white apron. The now half-clad man shrieked, "NOOOO!!"

"No … what?" the other sneered.

"No, SIR!" the victimised one begged.

"Very well, Wormtail," the tall man leered lazily. "Perhaps not." With another wand motion, the French maid costume disappeared and the man's clothing returned to what passed for normal. "Now go."

Still the simpering figure remained.

"What is it, dammit? Can't you take a blasted hint? You're not wanted here."

"Severus … sir," the one called Wormtail stammered. "I-I-I need to see the Dark Lord…. I think I have very valuable information."

"Then why didn't you reveal it before you were banished here?" Severus Snape asked starkly.

"I-I-I didn't remember it until just a little while ago," Wormtail protested squeakily.

"Then how important could it be if you COULDN'T REMEMBER until now?" Snape sneered. "As I've told you, the Dark Lord is presently indisposed. He was gravely injured in the goblin attack. So I'm stuck here in this wretched place trying to brew potions day and night with what passes for your wretched help. It's impossible. Get out."

"No. No, it's not like that." Wormtail persisted. "It was an old-style Fidelius Charm, and it's just been broken. I know…. I now remember where James and Lily Potter are buried."

It took all of Severus Snape's Occlumency training not to betray his surprise. He, himself, did not know that - even though he had once tried to know everything there was to know about Lily Evans. It still rankled that Remus Lupin had insisted upon his exclusion from that funeral, and he had been too weak from his injuries to mount an effective protest.

"You do?" Snape asked with raised eyebrows. "And just where is that?"

"That's … That's for the Dark Lord to know in the first instance," Wormtail replied. "Only he can decide to whom it should be revealed."

Snape could not dispute that Peter Pettigrew, alias Wormtail, was correct. The Dark Lord had made his intent in this regard quite clear on more than one occasion. Powerful Necromancy might well be accomplished. "Very well, I shall take you to him…. But I warn you, he is quite ill. Only he, myself, and … Bellatrix Lestrange," Snape's countenance darkened even further, "escaped death the other day. You had best be right, because the Dark Lord is most unforgiving of failure."

"But he also rewards success," Pettigrew added.

"And you haven't had much lately," Snape spat back. "You failed to do away with the Granger girl, notwithstanding all the sacrifices made for that mission. And I needn't remind you how the attempt on Potter in that graveyard turned out, despite your pathetic best efforts. I'm frankly surprised he let you keep that hand."

"This will be worth the effort, I tell you," Wormtail maintained. "Dumbledore himself cast the charm that has somehow failed."

"Enough talk, then. We shall go," Snape grumbled, moving to place the brewing potions in fail-safe mode. "If you're wrong, I'll enjoy listening to you scream."

"I'm … I'm not wrong," Wormtail insisted. "This will succeed."

"For your sake, I should hope so," Snape said with a smirk. He grabbed a traveling cloak. "The only success I've seen lately is the return of all those prior failures - and that isn't the kind of success the Dark Lord intended."

* * * *

The impromptu scrum that followed the appearance of a rather harried looking Professor McGonagall in the Gryffindor Common Room with the long-lost Harry Potter in tow was entirely predictable. The ambiguous atmosphere that pervaded the rest of the evening was anything but.

What should have been a joyous occasion was not. Good cheer was on display, but it seemed forced, not spontaneous. The event was no means sad, let alone ugly, event. It just seemed … empty. The reason was unspoken - everyone knew Harry well enough to understand.

The emptiness radiated first and foremost from the man/boy of the hour. The Boy Who Lived - back from what many had thought was the dead - was virtually non-reactive. His dull eyes held half-there expressions. His lips stayed frozen in perpetual semi-smile, occasionally spilling over into something of a blank smirk. When Harry spoke, his voice was even and flat. His captivity, and its aftermath, left him wrung out and devoid of real emotion.

Nor did Harry have much to say about the events of the past fortnight. He stuck to safe subjects - like Quidditch, which he was presently discussing with Ron, Katie Bell, and a couple of others….

"Confess, Harry," Katie said playfully, "it's you, isn't it? Nobody else would name the whole thing after your father."

"Yeah," Ron agreed. "You might as well fess up. Won't be much longer now anyway - one way or the other."

"All right, all right," Harry muttered, finishing the last of a Chocolate Frog (fortunately, it had not contained his card). "Ron's got it right. It'll come out soon anyway…. I did it. Ever since last Term, it's bothered me that who has better brooms is getting more important than who has better players. When I learnt that Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were on the verge of dropping out altogether, I decided something had to be done, and there was something I could do."

"I told him about that possibility," Ron proudly pointed out.

"But forty Firebolts … that's a small fortune," Katie gasped.

"Probably," Harry admitted, "but I've found out I've considerably more than that…. Not that I care all that much."

"But you should care," Katie replied hotly. "Nobody thought of you that way before … at least not I knew. Now everything will change. Everybody's going to be interested in you…."

"Doesn't matter," said Harry emotionlessly. "There's been too much interest in me for quite a while. I've had more than my share of mentions in the ruddy Prophet."

"Oh silly," Katie giggled, whilst putting a hand on Harry's shoulder, "I don't mean that.… I mean interested interested. Why, there's even a bit of Chaser in me, you know…."

"Harry Potter, you ain't touched a drink all night!" broke in the saucy voice of Romilda Vane, an attractive if rather brazen Fourth Year. "Get juiced up and party a little bit," she urged, her dark eyes flashing. "Here, catch!" She tossed a bottle of oak-mulled mead to Harry.

Romilda made Harry uncomfortable, so he tried to ignore her. When the bottle came his way, his eyes went big as his face went pale. "N-N-No. No!" he protested. "N-N-Never again." His hands went up - and the bottle abruptly changed course in midair. It shot away from Harry towards the rear of the Common Room.

"Look out, Colin!" somebody shouted.

Colin Creevey, idly accessing the Internet through the D.A. Central Station, ducked just in time, his abrupt motion toppling him over backwards in his chair. The speeding bottle streaked through the space the boy's mousy, brown-haired head had occupied only moments before. With a crash, the bottle's trajectory came to an abrupt and messy end all over the oak-panelled wall just behind him. Several mead-splattered portraits grumbled.

"Wow, that was sweet, Harry," Ron commented. "Silent and wandless too. But a mite dangerous…."

Harry was no longer listening. Rather, he sprinted across the room to Colin. Colin's brother Dennis reached him from another direction at about the same time as Harry.

"Colin … you all right?" Harry panted, reaching out his hand to help the younger boy rise.

"Yeah, I think so," Colin answered whilst extracting himself from the fallen chair.

"I'm so sorry," Harry apologised. "I didn't think; I just reacted."

"That was some reaction," Dennis commented.

"I'm sorry, too," came Romilda's voice from behind. Harry turned to face her. "I just thought you badly needed to get a little wasted. It's such a relief that you're back…." She had her hands on her hips and looked him straight in the eye.

If he wanted her, he could have her.

Harry gave his head a couple of rapid shakes and took a deep breath to regather his wits. "That's … That's all right," he said slowly, not really believing his own words. "It's - It's just that I'm not interested in drinking that stuff … ever again. I can't afford to let myself get … well, to let my guard down, I guess…." Harry's voice trailed off.

"But it's fun," Romilda protested.

"Then maybe I'm not really interested in having fun," Harry responded glumly. Romilda shot him a stroppy look before walking away.

Harry did not even notice. His attention was drawn to the impressive apparatus on the table in front of him.

"Colin, what's all this?" Harry inquired.

"This.… This is the D.A. Central Station," Colin chirped - his close call entirely forgotten. "It's really cool. This is how we'll coordinate the D.A. now that it's no longer an illegal organisation. It's sort of like a Muggle computer."

"The D.A…." Harry said flatly, his voice leaving off as he contemplated it. Realising that both Creeveys were waiting for him to continue, he added, "Oh, when's the next meeting?"

"There hasn't been any meeting yet," Colin answered. "We were sort of … like, waiting - waiting for you, actually. All we've done so far is distribute some mirrors to last year's members from the other houses."

"Er … okay," Harry responded evenly. "Then I guess we need to meet. How about next Wednesday? I reckon that's enough time to get the word out."

"Can't, that's our Quidditch tryouts."

All three of them turned. Ron had walked up behind them to listen in. "Well, when then?" Harry asked his best friend.

"How about Friday?" Ron suggested. "That's when Slytherin has the Pitch. They've never come to the D.A. anyway. If not then, we'd have to wait until the weekend…."

"I know at least one Slytherin who's committed to coming, and we'll have open enrollment this year, that's settled," Harry declared, remembering his prior pledges to Daphne and her mother - and mindful of Hermione's advocacy as well.

Harry was almost immediately conscious that, once again, everyone looking expectantly to him. "Well, what?" he asked nobody and everybody at the same time.

Ron's face betrayed his disagreement, but seeing Harry's mind made up, he kept silent.

"Umm…. Well, okay." Colin started. "We were waiting for you to decide. You're the leader, after all."

Harry furrowed his brow. Colin was right. If this was going to happen, he had to make the decisions. Nor was there anybody to handle the details. `No,' Harry thought to himself. `Don't go there…. Make her proud, instead.'

Harry made the decisions.

"All right," he said in a businesslike tone, "Friday it is." He looked straight at Ron. "But any Slytherin who does come will be welcome. I don't want any hostility."

Now to draft a new second. Harry fixed his gaze on another onlooker. "Neville, can you get sign up sheets distributed to each house and also posted in the Great Hall?"

"I'm on it," Neville replied. He jumped up, grabbed some sheets, and headed for the Fat Lady.

Dennis chimed in, "Here, Harry, sit down. Since you're leader of the D.A., you really need to know how to work this contraption."

Harry accepted the invitation and slid into a second chair next to Colin. The Fifth Year, aided by his younger brother, began putting the magical machine through its paces and explaining how it worked. A few of their housemates hovered around for a while, but gradually filtered off. Everyone interested in contrivances of this sort had already seen a demonstration - since the Creeveys never tired of showing what their invention could do.

Harry's command performance went on for about a half an hour. Although he had become fairly familiar with Muggle computers, courtesy of his cousin, Harry had never expected to see anything of the sort at Hogwarts - powered by magic, no less.

"This is awesome," he complimented the Creevey brothers, as they finished showing him the link to his mirror. "You invented all this over the summer?"

"Well … sort of," Dennis answered hesitantly. "We built it, but we really didn't invent it. It was … it was….." The boy's explanation stopped abruptly, as his voice became a rather small gurgle. His brother glared at him.

Dennis Creevey had violated the evening's unspoken rule.

Harry glanced back and forth between the two of them. Colin looked angry, and Dennis looked stricken.

Harry answered his own question. "…This was Hermione's idea, wasn't it?"

Dennis gulped and slowly nodded his head.

Harry said nothing at first, realising that all of his friends had reached a not unreasonable conclusion - that he was so fragile, or emotional, or whatever, that mentioning Hermione's name in his presence was taboo. It also dawned on him that most other Gryffindors had had little, if any, contact with him since the last Term - when he had earned a reputation for throwing wobblies. Harry blushed at the thought. A lot of this he brought on himself.

"You shouldn't have tried to keep that from me," Harry finally replied in a deliberately flat tone of voice. "It's not like I wouldn't have figured it out on my own."

Dennis was still staring at him, both stricken and questioning. Colin likewise shot Harry a look of undisguised concern. Harry thought a bit, and it came to him what they were waiting for.

"Go ahead, dammit," Harry growled. "Say it."

There was a fair amount of foot shuffling, before Colin finally put into words what he and his brother both wanted to know.

"Umm … Hermione.… It's just … I mean … well … she will be all right, won't she?"

Harry knew how much he hated being kept in the dark. His housemates obviously had next to no information about Hermione's condition, and probably none at all about what had happened. Finally - something he could fix. He put one arm around each Creevey and gathered them to him conspiratorially.

"All right, I won't lie," Harry said, his voice uncertain and edgy. "No, she's not okay. Far from it, in fact. Nobody's sure exactly what happened or how to undo it. But at least we've got Dumbledore trying everything he can think of. And if it's worth anything, I will too. She'll be back, good as new … or I'll… I'll…." He stopped speaking. Harry realised he had no idea what he would do if worse came to worse. Maybe go out looking for Voldemort?

"Shite," he mumbled before falling silent again. Finally he rose to his feet, looking disgusted with himself. "I think I ought to go to bed." With that, he fled to the Sixth Year boys' dormitory.

The Creeveys watched him leave with some shock and more than a little pity. For once they had no desire to be the Boy Who Lived.

* * * *

Flames crackled all about him…. Heat seared his lungs. Breathing was becoming difficult. "Hermione!" he called. "Stay back! It's unsafe here.

She never answered, but he could hear her insistent footsteps … following him. She insisted on following him….

Finally, her faint reply. "I have to…. I can't just let you go."

The noise of the flames grew louder, threatening to drown out the sounds that told him she was still with him.

A loud crash boomed behind him, made by the collapse of something large overhead. A roaring noise followed. Hot wind whistled by.

"Hermione, if you won't go back, at least come where I can see you!" he yelled over the burgeoning flames.

She did not answer - suddenly there was a piercing scream. He knew her voice anywhere, but had no idea what had happened. "Hermione!" he bellowed over the bedlam. "Where are you? I can help!"

"No!" she pleaded in a voice racked with fear and desperation. "Harry, no! Don't be aaaaeeeiii…!" Her voice rose into another, more frightening scream. It was high, almost inhuman - then nothing.

"HERMIONE!!!"

Everything seemed to happen at once as Harry broke into a mad run. Violent vibrations, like an earthquake, buffeted him. With a drenching splash, a cold torrent of water struck him. The flames … indeed, the entire scene, began vanishing - slipping away like sand through his fingers….

"Harry! Wake up! You're going to bring the whole ruddy tower in here!"

"It's bloody over, Harry. Dammit, wake up! You're acting really scary…."

Harry's eyes shot open. He rolled over to come face-to-face with Ron and Neville, both of whom appeared quite worried - concern etched in their faces and highlighted by the uncertain wandlight illuminating them. They had just used a Dousing Hex on Harry after unsuccessfully trying to shake him awake.

Harry concentrated on calming himself down, mumbling a mantra Lao Kung had taught him months earlier. Gradually, the shadowy shapes of his other housemates melted away. Ron and Neville remained.

"Is it your scar?" Ron whispered.

Harry his hand to his forehead and felt - nothing - not a tingle. The scar was not even warm to the touch. Remarkably, it had not bothered him a bit since … that had happened. In one sense, that was excellent. But it also meant that this nightmare was entirely self-generated.

"No." Harry said in a low, gravelly voice.

"What about your scar?" Neville asked uncomprehendingly.

"Long story," Harry muttered.

"Well I'm not exactly sleepy at the moment," Neville replied sotto voce. "I think we ought to talk - about things."

Ron agreed. "He's right, mate. A lot of things have happened since we've last chatted."

"All right, get in here," Harry beckoned them into his canopied bed. As soon as his two friends had entered, he pulled the curtains shut and cast a Silencing Spell over them. Only after the spell was cast did Harry realise that he had neither wielded his wand nor uttered a single word.

"Damn, you're getting good," Ron commented breathlessly.

"Been practising all summer," Harry replied.

"Now what's this about your scar?" Neville repeated.

"It links me to Voldemort, or at least it did," Harry replied truthfully. Ron and Neville both shuddered at the name, but he ignored that. "It has for as long as I can remember. That's how he tricked me into going to the Ministry last term. I've been told that it's an affinity of some sort."

"You mean like you and Hermione?" Ron commented. That changed the subject abruptly and completely.

"You know about that, then?" Harry guardedly responded. Consciously, he damped down his emotions as the Headmaster had directed.

"We both do," Ron replied. "Hermione had us here for almost a fortnight trying to find you whilst the Death Eaters had you. She used it to try finding you."

"That's what Dumbledore told me," Harry answered evenly. "And she did, too. She did find me."

"I know," Neville mentioned softly. "I was there when it happened."

"So was I," Harry dejectedly admitted. "I'm afraid I did it."

"You…?" Neville blurted out, looking shocked. "How could you have done … that?"

"No bloody idea," Harry replied, maintaining his composure. "I was fighting for my life against a bunch of Death Eaters - and losing. Then, she sort of popped into my mind. I could feel it. Just knowing she was there, I found the strength to beat them off. But … but.…" Harry fell silent. Cursing his emotions, he resorted to the breathing exercises he had been taught.

"It was V-V-Voldemort, wasn't it?" Neville suggested.

"Umm … yeah. How'd you guess?" Harry answered somewhat sarcastically.

"It wasn't any guess," Neville protested. "I said I was there. Hermione mentioned him. It was almost the last thing she said."

"I-I-I was trying to protect her - blast it," Harry explained with some difficulty. "Dammit. Dammit. Dammit…."

"Bollixed that right up, I did. I let that bastard Voldemort into my head, too. He sure knew his way around. Couldn't keep her hidden from him. So I tried to expel him…. Tried as hard as anything I'd ever done. But something happened. I don't know what or how. It felt almost like a switch was turned on. The next thing I know, it was hours later, and I'm in some sort of goblin hospital."

"It was awful…," Neville began.

"And Hermione … oh, Merlin…."

For over an hour, the three of them sat on Harry's bed, filling each other in on things that happened during Harry's captivity.

But not everything.

Ron, sensing Harry's intense guilt over Hermione's condition (and truthfully a tad jealous), only mentioned in passing that Hermione had testified in the Malfoy will contest. Not wanting to set Harry off, Ron did not describe her Veritaserum-influenced confession of the depth of her feelings.

Neville, likewise not wishing to upset Harry after what he had just seen, omitted the incident involving "Goodbye Gryffindor."

"…So when are you going to tell us what we really want to know?" Ron said, yawning.

"Tell you what?" Harry replied quietly. "Don't expect me to guess at this hour of the night."

"I think he means, `where is Hermione now?'" Neville suggested. "We don't know squat about her except she's in a bad way. I know I'd like to see her, and I'm sure Ron feels the same."

"Right in one," Ron concurred.

"I'd - I'd like to tell you that you could," Harry answered haltingly. "But Dumbledore and the Healers are adamant. No visitors. Period. She's healing from being burnt … all over. There's an infection risk. I don't even know when they'll let me see her again. Besides, she's … she's not … decent … given how she's being treated."

"Not decent?" Ron looked askance at Harry. "It's not like you, mate, to bring up something like that at a time like this."

Harry inhaled deeply, willing himself to be calm. Finally, he answered. "I didn't start anything, Ron, you did. It's her condition. She was burnt. Her skin, and all - it needs healing - all right?"

At a stroke, the temperature inside Harry's canopied bed seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Well," Neville muttered a bit anxiously, "I think it's time to try for some kip. Good to have you back Harry. I can't tell you how good."

"Yeah, right," Ron agreed and he moved towards the curtains. "We've got Potions tomorrow, after all."

"You? Potions?" Harry asked incredulously. "I thought you'd dropped that course as a bad job."

"I tried, man. I truly did," Ron answered ruefully. "But that blinking McGonagall. She called me a slacker, she did…. She forced me to sign up when I got back here. Said I couldn't play Quidditch unless I upped myself academically. Potions fit, so I took that."

Harry drew cheer from Ron's grumpiness. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. I never thought I'd see the day when you volunteered for anything taught by Snape."

"Umm … Snape's not here any longer," Neville told Harry. Seeing his look of incomprehension, Neville continued, "I guess you don't know…. He did a runner. Left to join Voldemort shortly after you were taken." For the first time during their conversation Neville looked angry.

"Bloody traitor," Ron growled ominously.

Harry was confused. Then he recalled that Dumbledore had mentioned Snape briefly during their mountaintop conversation. Apparently, Snape's status as a spy was not known to either of his friends. Harry thought it best to keep it that way. "Then who's teaching Potions?" he asked.

"A new instructor named Slughorn," Ron replied. "My dad doesn't like him much. They were here at Hogwarts together for several years. Anyway, he's not at all happy that Dumbledore brought him back."

Slughorn. Harry recalled the obnoxious hale-fellow, well-met he had encountered at Neville's parents' funeral. "Ugh," he replied. "I don't like him either. He'll be as bad as Snape, but in exactly the opposite direction."

"How so?" Ron asked. "And how do you know him?"

"I met him at the funeral for - well, for your parents, Neville," Harry said, suddenly uncomfortable bringing up that subject in front someone who, like him, had lost so much. "I think he'll be trying to help me all the time because he thinks I'm bloody important."

"Well … you are," Neville observed.

* * * *

Ron thought he had gotten up bright and early - he allowed plenty of time to eat breakfast before his Wizard Government class. Idly, he popped the curtains on Harry's bed with the flat of his hand and called to his best mate. Nothing. Harry, it turned out, was nowhere to be found. Ron wandered downstairs to the Common Room and after a bit of looking came upon his friend closeted away in the corner behind the D.A. central station, his chair facing the wall and his nose deeply buried in The Joy of Potions.

"Bloody Hell, Harry how long have you been up?" Ron commented.

"About two and a half hours," Harry roughly estimated. "I set my alarm for five."

"Five?!? What's gotten into you?" Ron said, aghast. "It's like you're channeling Hermione or something."

Harry winced at that comment, which brought back memories of the affinity he shared with her over the summer - but no longer. "So what if I have?" he snorted as he slammed his Occlumency into place, blocking his urge to lash out. "There's worse things than that. I've promised myself to be more serious and to apply myself more."

"Why in bloody Hell would you want to do that?" Ron protested. "We're Sixth Years now, and we've earned the right to enjoy ourselves a bit. Especially with most of our major classes in the afternoon, we've finally got the chance to sleep in. We should take advantage of it, not study like N.E.W.T.s are around the corner."

"Do what you want, Ron," Harry said firmly. "I've decided to work harder on my studies, and that's how it'll be. It wouldn't be right not to. I'm not about to waste all the time and effort everyone spent training me this summer."

"Oh, Harry," Ron rasped in exasperation. "You don't have to play the martyr all the time. From everything I've seen and heard, you performed famously. You made the Prophet, remember? How much bleeding better do you have to do….?"

At that, Harry's Occlumency slipped, just a bit. Fixing Ron with narrowed eyes, he hissed, "I've got to be enough better to break a stupid Petrificus when someone's life depends on it!" He said nothing further. The otherworldly look in his eyes sufficed.

Ron stared back at Harry. His friend appeared rather stricken, his face pasty grey. Ron thought, for once, he knew what was happening.

"You're grieving, aren't you?" Ron stated as much as asked. "Some sort of penance?"

"And if I am, what's it to you?" Harry grumped in indirect confirmation. He avoided revealing any more. "Hermione carried us for years. She even got us practical birthday gifts, to keep us straight. We teased her for it. I can't count how many times I've revised from her notes."

"Me even more than you," Ron commented. "But what's your point? That you never want to again?"

"No, it's not that at all," Harry replied, shaking his head slowly.

"Well then, you better break it down for me, `cause I seem a bit thick this morning," Ron replied in the same vein.

"I'm planning to return the favour when she comes back," Harry declared, but he hardly met his friend's eyes.

Ron's head jerked back as if verbally slapped. Finally he said, "You do that, then," before moving off to breakfast muttering, "Helping Hermione with her studies. Talk about carrying coals to Newcastle…."

Harry's first class, Magical Creatures, was uneventful, except for getting there. Tired of being pointed at and talked about behind his back, Harry resorted to moving about the Castle under his Invisibility Cloak. Most of the Sixth and Seventh Years taking Creatures admitted they has signed up because Hagrid was reputed to be a "soft touch" in awarding marks.

Once again, Harry was the odd man out - his choice driven by appreciation of his ignorance. He had no conception of the marvelous characteristics of Thestrals before that fateful day last June. A magical creature might some day save his life. He could no longer afford the luxury of nescience. In his life, with his challenges, there was no such thing as a soft touch.

Creatures ended at ten. With a light Friday schedule, Harry retreated to a musty, out-of-the-way corner of the library. A couple of years earlier, he had learnt that was Hermione's favorite study spot. If they could not be together, at least he could be alone with swotty memories of her.

More than that, as Hermione had appreciated, this hideaway was a perfect place for serious revising … in Harry's case, for Potions. His captivity had left him right well behind in his summer reading. Even though having no real use for Slughorn, Harry did not fancy embarrassing himself in public. So he went for a swot.

Dobby found Harry a couple of hours later, and happily conjured him food from the kitchen. Whilst Harry tried to convince himself he was not hungry - unfortunately (or so he felt) he was, and ravenously so. He had been fasting to avoid exposing himself to more gawking and finger pointing in the Great Hall.

His attempt at lunch in the bowels of the library earned Harry a well-deserved ejection courtesy of Madam Pince, who loosed at him a torrent of insults for threatening to defile her beloved books with food rubbish. With "vermin begets vermin" ringing in his ears, Harry hastily departed.

With nowhere else he particularly fancied going, Harry plopped down early in the considerably less-gloomy-than-usual dungeon that served as the Potions classroom. He intended once again to lose himself in revision, but found the dungeon awash in vapours and odd smelling smoke. Several large cauldrons bubbled away of their own accord.

Harry pulled out his book and started turning pages, but the odour from the leftmost cauldron, which gleamed like solid gold, was one of the most bewitching smells he had ever encountered. It combined the delightful mustiness of his morning hideout with something fresh and clean, as if he had just emerged thoroughly scrubbed from a shower. Mixed in were the sweet aromas of fruity strawberry and sugary rhubarb.

Under that influence, serious study proved impossible. For the first time in recent memory, Harry felt content and happy. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply and slowly, letting the beguiling fragrances waft through his nostrils. He closed his eyes and tried focussing on nothing but the enchanting combination….

Lost in his thoughts in the isolated locale of the deserted dungeon, Harry missed the faint bell calling the students to their next class. His reverie lasted until an adjacent chair scraped roughly across the floor, and Ron flopped himself heavily into the seat next to Harry. The redhead looked furious.

"I swear," he grumbled angrily to Harry. "Can't take a joke he can't…. Give some people a badge and it goes straight to their heads. Think's he's bloody Mad-Eye Moody now…. I didn't mean anything by it, but I'd never had one of those in my life. Even if I was out of line, he didn't have to set the thing on me like that." Ron showed Harry his right forearm. It bore a wound wrapped rather sloppily in a strip of cloth that must have been torn from the inner lining of Ron's robes.

"What in Merlin's name happened to you?" Harry asked, startled by his friend's appearance.

"Neville, that's what," Ron spluttered. "He's really let that Prefect business turn his head … as if he could ever be a real Prefect."

"Calm down, Ron," Harry said evenly. "Now, let me fix you up a bit. I learnt some field healing over the summer." He passed his wand over Ron's arm with a couple of twists, and a much more professionally wrapped sticky plaster appeared. "Now, what exactly happened?"

"He sicced a ruddy Fanged Frisbee on me, that's what," Ron spat. "And docked me ten points for my trouble."

"There's got to be more to it than that," Harry said, knowing Ron. "That doesn't sound at all like the Neville to me - unless he was provoked."

"Provoked," echoed Ron, with his eyebrows raised. "What are you getting at?"

"Well, it's just…," Harry tried to explain.

"All right," Ron confessed with noticeable lack of good grace. "True, he had confiscated the thing from some poor Third Year. Well, I'd never had one, so I sort of took it from him. But then…."

Ron stifled himself as Professor Slughorn waddled into the classroom, his ample waistline announcing his presence.

"Well, well, good to see you all," the instructor said, barely visible at times through the clouds of steam and smoke rising from the bubbling cauldrons. "Harry, m'boy … glad to have you back with us. Gave us quite a scare. Blaise … checking the roster this morning, I was certainly pleased to discover that you are continuing with Potions."

He gave Harry a smile that sickeningly reminded him of Umbridge.

"Let's begin then. Everyone take out your scales, Potions kits and turn to page 37."

Ron hesitantly raised his hand. "Sir…?" he asked.

"And you are?" Professor Slughorn replied haughtily.

"Er…. Ron Weasley, sir. I'm a late addition," he explained. "I haven't a book, or any supplies. I didn't realise I'd qualify for the N.E.W.T., you see."

Slughorn looked down his nose at the importuning student. "A Weasley…. Yes, I see. I do believe Professor McGonagall did speak to me about that." He pointed to an oaken wall cupboard with his wand. The door sprung open. "Everything you will need for today's lesson, including some used textbooks you can borrow, is in there. Just be quick about it. I'm sure if you can't afford it, your friend Harry here will be happy to lend you enough to purchase a new one at Flourish and Blotts."

Furiously blushing, Ron protested, "That won't be necessary, not with the reward money…."

"Quite," Slughorn responded, looking vaguely bored.

Ron hastened to the cupboard, and returned to his seat next to Harry in short order, fully equipped with old, dog-eared copies of The Emerald Tablet and The Joy of Potions, as well some battered-looking scales and a Potions kit that obviously had seen better days.

Professor Slughorn studiously ignored Ron and continued with his lesson, "To start us off, I've prepared a few potions of especial interest. I do all my own work, you know. Now, you're all N.E.W.T.-level students. These are the kinds of potions.… Well, not all of them, actually…. Just kinds that you ought to be able to prepare - assuming you successfully complete the course of study. You've probably heard of these, even if you haven't made them yourselves."

Slughorn strode to the cauldron on Harry's far left, bring with him a silver ladle and clear phial. He ladled full the phial with a liquid the colour of distilled water. "Who can tell me what this one is? Mister Zabini?"

Blaise's head bobbed up, and he looked clueless. "Umm…. Looks like plain water. Maybe a martini?"

Slughorn frowned at him. "No, that's not it. You could, of course, smell alcohol. Colourless, odourless…. Any takers? Is nobody here planning to try for Auror?"

Harry could hear the shuffling as Ron frantically leafed through unfamiliar books. Here was one of many reasons, albeit of lesser import, that he missed Hermione. Harry had a thought, though. His wavering hand cautiously snaked into the air.

Spotting it, Slughorn looked pleased. "Ah, yes, Harry m'boy, your guess."

"It looks like - like Veritaserum, sir," Harry offered. "It makes the drinker answer any question truthfully." Harry had seen this potion used in Fourth Year, and knew it was a Ministry standard.

"Excellent … excellent. Five points to Gryffindor," Slughorn replied happily. "I think you'll be quite the brewer after all. Hardly like the notes I received."

He made his way to the next cauldron, and scooped up some gooey, brownish-yellow sludge that he half-poured and half-slid into a pewter bowl. "And what do we have in cauldron number two? It's another rather notorious potion. Been in a few Ministry pronouncements lately."

Both Harry and Ron raised their hands, but Slughorn looked elsewhere. "Yes, yes…. Mister Malfoy?"

Harry bristled at the name of his worst student enemy. Ron and Neville had mentioned that, for a while, Malfoy had left Hogwarts for Durmstrang. Harry cursed the arrogant Slytherin's change of heart.

"That's easy," Malfoy drawled. "It's Polyjuice Potion, sir." He smirked at Harry whilst providing a description. "It disguises the user as somebody else." When done, the Slytherin gave Harry a dismissive, hate-filled look.

"Five points, to my own House, then," chortled Slughorn. "Excellent…. Well done…." He waddled to the final cauldron, closest to Harry and Ron.

The golden cauldron contained a crystal ladle, resembling what one Harry's Aunt Petunia reserved for her party punchbowl. The professor carefully skimmed the ladle across the surface of the last mystery potion and withdrew a pink substance so very light that barely seemed liquid. It glistened with a white, iridescent sheen and emitted spiral vapour tendrils.

"All right, this one's a bit harder," Slughorn declared. He poured the contents into a shallow alabaster bowl next to the cauldron. "Still, it's quite notorious in the literature. Anyone…?"

Harry was completely befuddled by this one. He was sure he had never seen it before. Ron had switched from his green-covered book to The Joy of Potions, through which he was paging - although much more slowly than before.

"Anyone at all? I'll give double points for this one," Professor Slughorn said as he scanned the room. Not a hand was visible. "Oh, come on," the professor hectored as he turned away from the class, and paced to the other side of the room. "Mother-of-pearl highlights…. Curlicue vapours…. None of you ladies? I'm surprised. Doesn't anyone here read Johanna Lindsey?"

"Wicked," Harry heard Ron mutter softly as Slughorn droned on.

"Zat ees zee Amortentia Potion," announced a voice from the dungeon's rear doorway. Harry's head turned towards the sound like everyone else's. "Really mon professeur, I'm surprised at you, since zees potion c'est tres dangereux. Eet ees zee strongest love potion in zee world, and eet generates zee obsessive love. Known een some of our less fine literature…. Eet smells differently to everyone, for example I now detect a slightly burnt odour, not unpleasant, togezzer with l'eau du lac…."

As she lectured, Fleur Delacour pranced towards the front of the classroom. Beside Harry, Ron started drooling slightly. He was not alone. Professor Slughorn also looked virtually transfixed.

"Can I help you, Miss Delacour?" he answered in a rather dazed voice. "Do you need assistance with something for the Beauxbatons liaison?"

"Non, mer … er … thank you," Fleur smiled. Harry noticed she was carrying a parchment roll tied with a purple ribbon - and she was headed straight for him. He gulped. "I `ave a mezzage for `Arry Potter from zee `Eadmaster."

She handed him the parchment. The tips of their fingers touched, and Harry felt something akin to an electric shock. He sniffed the air, half expecting to smell ozone. Instead, his nostrils detected her exotic flowery perfume.

Fleur was already turning to leave. Over her shoulder she cooed. "À bientôt `Arry."

Harry gawked after Fleur's swishing hips and almost platinum blonde hair as she exited - the parchment grasped forgotten in his hand. For a moment the Amortentia Potion's enticing odours smelled different … French fries, French bread, French kissing, French ticklers….

Ron poked him in the shoulder. "Come on, snap out of it. I swear some blokes…. What do you have there?"

Harry shook his head rapidly to clear it, and took several deep breaths. Ron was right - he had just been Veelaed again. Intentional or not, he should have used his Occlumency to prevent it.

Constant vigilance.

He opened the parchment. It was a note from Dumbledore, all right. It requested his immediate presence.

The odour in the room returned to normal - normal for that day, anyway. Harry felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe the Headmaster had good news for him about Hermione….

"Professor, I need to be excused," Harry announced. "Headmaster Dumbledore's asking to see me … right away."

Slughorn looked a bit peeved, but readily excused Harry.

As fast as his feet could carry him, the boy sped through the almost deserted Hogwarts hallways towards the Headmaster's office. When he arrived, he encountered something of a crowd. Dumbledore was present, of course, along with the Deputy-Headmistress; his guardian, Mad-Eye Moody; his lawyer, Blackie Howe; and a goblin wearing a general officer's uniform. Confronted with this assemblage, Harry brought himself up quite short. Any hope for progress in curing Hermione vanished in a stroke.

Dumbledore explained the reason for the gathering.

"Mister Potter, I wish I could postpone this, but I cannot. The Muggles are insisting, and Scrimgeour is in no position to put them off any longer. You are being required to sit for interrogation tomorrow in the Muggle inquiry into the London fire disaster. The Prime Minister himself will conduct the inquiry. The only concession could extract is that the inquiry will not itself take place in London."

Gently, but firmly, Mad-Eye took Harry by the arm and walked him to Blackie Howe, saying "Harry, sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

"All right," replied Harry grimly, "but first I need to speak with my lawyer - privately."

"Very well, Harry," Mr. Howe addressed him as the others shuffled out. "Do you have anything in particular in mind?"

"You should know better by now than to ask that," Harry answered.

"Quite," a chastened Mr. Howe agreed with his client. "So what do you have in mind?"

"I've got to keep all my hoops covered," Harry said, a smile slowly forming as he thought quite Hermione-ish thoughts. "If … if Hermione does revive soon, she has a birthday - and a do over O.W.L. - coming up. I intend to get her a most practical present. I need you to make it happen…."

* * * *

The magical contingent accompanying Harry was small - frightfully tiny in comparison to the horde of Muggles undoubtedly awaiting them. After a prep session lasting through the night, and a few hours of precious sleep courtesy of the same Time-Turner Hermione had used, the party Apparated to what seemed to be the middle of nowhere.

"Where are we?" Harry asked after a brief recovery period.

"Buckinghamshire," Dumbledore answered. "Those are the Chiltern Hills."

Beside him Blackie Howe rang up someone on his mobile. A few moments later he told the group. "They'll be along shortly."

"We had best prepare ourselves," Dumbledore advised. "Is everyone ready?"

With grunts and nods of the head, Mad-Eye and Harry assented and pulled out their wands.

"Very well. With me, then," Dumbledore commanded.

"Incognitus," all three incanted together. The Disguising Spell provided best results when audibly spoken, and for this meeting good results were important.

Dumbledore favored the tweedy look - earth tones with leather elbow patches. His white beard and hair receded, becoming neatly trimmed. An unlit pipe in one hand completed his accessorising. All in all, he resembled a distinguished retiree.

Nothing could clean up Mad-Eye to that degree, even had he been inclined. He chose a relatively well-fitting navy jacket with brass buttons over khaki slacks. He was present, he hoped mostly to serve as supportive guardian - but his magical eye could come handy in a pinch.

Harry - the witness - had to be comfortable. All agreed that his tailored suit would overdo things, and attract unwanted attention. He settled for a grey herringbone sport coat over navy slacks, a slightly too-large light blue shirt, and a nondescript red tie.

Only Blackie Howe did not use an Incognitus Charm. He was a senior partner at a white-shoed Magic Circle law firm, and he fully looked the part.

Mad-Eye's magical eye whizzed around and around, taking in the surroundings. "Yer little friends are already here," he pronounced in a satisfied tone. With difficulty, he crouched next to Harry. "Let me show yeh a bit," he almost whispered.

Mad-Eye covertly flicked his wand. A seemingly deserted stretch of beech forest in the distance shimmered in the early morning sun. Briefly the illusion lifted, and Harry caught a glimpse of a well-armed goblin contingent expectantly watching. As soon as he was sure Harry had seen them, Moody restored the scene to deserted, bucolic splendor.

"Yer friends'll be waiting outside - just in case the Muggles try ta pull any funny business," Mad-Eye explained. "Thought yeh ought know we're not alone."

Presently, a motorcade of six black Bentleys, shepherded by several police Range Rovers, high-powered cars (Harry noted a sleek BMW - the kind his cousin would drool over), and motorcycles, pulled up beside them. Mad-Eye sized up the Muggles inside the vehicles. Dumbledore conversed briefly with a woman in a black chief superintendent's uniform. She seemed in charge of the Muggles. When finished, the Headmaster gestured to Harry, Mad-Eye, and Blackie Howe to enter the second motorcar.

Harry heard Mad-Eye mutter, "Something's off," as he got in. "Can't put my bloody finger on it."

The Headmaster, with some effort, climbed into the first motorcar with the chief superintendent.

Almost as soon as they were seated, the motorcade took off at a high rate of speed down a winding but well-paved country road.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked out loud as the motorcar left the tree-lined road, passed through a guard gate cut through an ancient, ivy-choked stone wall, and entered the curtilage of some great estate. The question had barely left his lips when the many gables and chimneys of a sprawling three storey brick country house came into view from behind the trees.

"Mister Potter, welcome to Chequers," the Muggle driver announced.

* * * *

John Major, the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and honorific First Lord of the Treasury, paced nervously about the elegant, wood-panelled conference room. He rehearsed for the final time what he would do and when. In a nearby corner, the Prime Minister's Military Attaché leaned back unobtrusively, his ear glued to a secure mobile telephone - watching the PM intently.

Several harassed-looking aides trailed behind, occasionally offering suggestions. At the large, oaken table, the Attorney General, other high-ranking law officers, and members of chambers made last-minute modifications to their prepared outline of enquiry. Only a trusted few knew exactly what was planned.

If anyone had told the Right Honourable Gentleman a month earlier that he would actually request - no, demand - a meeting with any wizards, that person would have been summarily sacked. Previously, the last thing the Prime Minister had wanted to do was speak to anyone in that weird hidden world. So it had been ever since his first celebratory evening at the helm of state had been ruined by a conversation initiated by, of all things, an appallingly poorly done portrait of his long-ago Tory predecessor, Benjamin D'Israeli.

Those magicals always came to him. And when they did, far more often than not, it meant trouble.

But last month was before a terrible aeroplane crash set a large part of London alight. A month ago was before the technical inquiry into that crash had yielded bizarre and unlikely findings: The unfortunate aeroplane had simultaneously lost two engines. No signs of metal fatigue were evident. Instead, the engine supports were neatly severed. The two engines had fallen to earth in radically different and aerodynamically impossible paths.

One of the engines had struck and killed a woman near Westminster. That woman, Amelia Bones, turned out to be a highly placed member of the magical shadow government. The other engine had struck a block of flats that just happened to be the last known location of … Harry Potter.

There was that blasted name again, Harry Potter. Potter's name had surfaced at least twice in previous meetings with that Minister Fudge, his faintly dodgy wizard counterpart. The first had been three years past when the Other Minister had sought help in connection with the escape of a crazed murderer from some improbably-named wizard prison. Potter had been that man's target.

This Potter person was involved the following year in more disturbing events - the reincarnation (so he had been told) of some evil wizard who called himself Lord Voldemort. That wizard was so terrible that even Fudge was too frightened to say his name. Potter was also that man's target. Whoever this Potter was, he certainly had a knack for attracting enemies of the most nasty sort.

Thus, when a member of the Scotland Yard team investigating the crash had mentioned that one "Harry Potter" was missing and presumed dead in the destruction wrought by that falling engine, the Premier had instantly known what he must do. Potter evidently had attracted another nasty enemy - and this time things had gotten entirely out of hand. Everything pointed to the involvement of one or more of … them.

The politics, as well, were complicated. His pollsters told him the country wanted a grand gesture of sorts, so he gave them one. Not twenty-four hours prior to Potter's name surfacing, the Prime Minister had told the entire Nation during Question Time that he, personally, was assuming command of the aeroplane crash inquiry. It was irregular, to be sure, but things seemed to be working out. What better way to demonstrate his effectiveness to the electorate than bagging a trophy like Mr. Potter?

Needing to initiate contact with his magical counterpart and ability to do so were, however, two quite different things. After all, he could hardly summon his new, hyper-efficient secretary, Hestia Jones, and just instruct her to ring up the Minister of Magic for a meeting. Such absurdity was the most basic problem of all - the very existence of the Other Minister was so very hush-hush. If anyone not in the know got wind of this, the Opposition would have a field day, his government would fall, and everyone would think him utterly daft.

The intense political pressure worsened when the aeroplane crash was followed almost immediately by miserably foul weather all over the country. All of a sudden, everything seemed so dark, dreary, and cold - the worst summer since 1816.

And more - there followed a rash of mysterious and untoward deaths, injuries, and generally bizarre goings on. They had in common encounters with unknown people (at least he had assumed they were people) in robes. Again, everything pointed to the involvement of … them….

Finally, frustrated at his inability to do anything but passively await the Other Minister's beck and call, Prime Minister Major had snapped - and put a fist in the face of what to symbolised all of his troubles - the aforementioned D'Israeli portrait.

"Oh bloody Hell! Why didn't I think to ask - just once - how I could contact them?!"

WHAM!!

"Ouch!" the portrait squealed. "Do that again and you'll get yourself hexed right proper, even if you are the sitting Premier…. That was uncalled for."

"What? You're…. You're.… You're bloody here?" the Prime Minister dumbly asked.

"Of course I'm here," the portrait spat, its left cheek swelling. "You certainly saw me well enough to give me the old one-two. Even Gladstone never stooped so low! Now what prompted this assault?"

"Umm…. Yes. I need to speak to Minister Fudge immediately," the Prime Minister said, quickly recovering his poise. "It's a matter of utmost gravity. This is not a request. This is a summons. My capital has been attacked, and I have reason to believe some magical person or persons are behind it."

"Oh, my," the D'Israeli portrait replied. "Let me see what I can do. Don't go anywhere." The image of the nineteenth-century Prime Minister promptly fled, leaving his muddy brown background behind.

Less than half an hour later, the fireplace flared of its own accord; the flames turned green, and out whirled a powerfully built, craggy-faced gentleman whose most noticeable features were a wild mane of russet hair and matching eyebrows.

"You're…. You're not Cornelius Fudge," the Prime Minister had remarked, upon seeing him.

"Very good," the man stated. "Your powers of observation are every bit as acute as they're reputed."

In his urgency, the Premier let the comment go by. "I need to speak to Fudge right away then. This matter must be handled on the ministerial level."

"I am Rufus Scrimgeour, the current Minister of Magic," the man answered testily. "Mister Fudge, I regret to say, suffered a vote of no confidence the other day. I'm his successor."

That news was unexpected. This new Other Minister seemed to be of much sterner stuff than his predecessor. Still, Prime Minister Major plunged ahead - he had a sense his own ministry might turn on this. "I have reason to believe that the aeroplane crash that recently devastated London was not due to natural causes, but rather had something to do with that … that … that magical stuff you people do. My investigators have come across … Harry Potter…."

"Congratulations, then. That's a fair bit more than our own investigators have been able to accomplish," Scrimgeour replied sarcastically. "Potter was, in all likelihood, the target of that attack. He's missing, and most of us think him dead. Still, your summons is propitious. I've been coming to a similar conclusion. It's time that the proper Muggle - that is, non-magical - authorities knew more about what we think is going on."

With that, a long, sordid story poured out. For the first time the PM appreciated how much of a threat this … this unmentionable Voldemort person … was to his own society. That Potter chap, on the other hand, seemed in turn to be something of a threat to Voldemort - for mostly unexplained reasons.

A joint investigating task force of sorts resulted. The Minister was shocked to learn that his side's contacts with the magicals were far more extensive than he had known. Back channels existed in the military, the police, MI-5, and even the Palace itself. Insights from those channels into that other world proved invaluable in planning today's event. Still, the extent of the ongoing, secret interrelationships had been disturbing. He and other members of his cabinet were quite disturbed.

Something had to be done.

What that something should be, was only recently decided upon. His closest Tory advisors were divided. But the Premier's vague sense of urgency deepened and sharpened in the following weeks. Events seemed to be spinning out of control. Fleet Street reported these events as an underworld gang war. That sold plenty of newspapers, but the Prime Minister knew better. This Dark Wizard seemed to be conducting some sort of purge. Both the magical and his own law enforcement agencies were quite evidently powerless even to prevent those attacks. The only positive thing that could be said of the situation was that relatively few of his own kind were being caught in the crossfire.

On top of all that was the bizarre, depressing weather…. The very elements seemed to conspire against him.

And then, everything suddenly gelled. A huge mysterious explosion of some sort erupted in Scotland. For a brief, terrifying moment, the Americans had informed him that someone - the Yanks confidently fingered international terrorists - had detonated a nuclear device. That particular scare went by the boards, like so many Yank paranoid obsessions, when no radiation was detected. Nevertheless, within hours of the explosion the Prime Minister had received word that Potter had been located. This was altogether too much of a coincidence.

Nobody knew what caused the explosion, most worrisome, given its apparent power. The Minister of Magic attributed it to a bit of a comet impacting the earth, but did not sound like he believed his own excuse. This uncertainty - and those damnable mad cows - contributed to an overall impression in the electorate that his government was weak and ineffectual. The Premier sent out practically everyone save the Chancellor of the Exchequer with instructions to determine what had happened, but for one reason or another nobody could obtain actual, physical access to the site.

The opposition were in full hue and cry about what they increasingly called a cover up.

Prime Minister Major was increasingly convinced that this Potter person had something to do with whatever great force unleashed that explosion. Either he had a hand in it, or somebody had aimed it at him, or at least he might know what was going on.

Whatever that force was, the Premier needed to understand it. These happenings had progressed to something much worse than a nuisance - or even an embarrassment. They had become a clear and present threat to national security.

The Prime Minister needed Potter. Hence his recent ultimatum to the Other Minister - backed by an explicit threat to interdict all commerce between the two Britains - to produce that person without delay for interrogation on Mug… his own … terms and territory.

And now, that moment - and all that it would entail - had arrived.

* * * *

The Muggle manor house called Chequers was huge, and every bit was immaculately maintained … a far cry from the dusty alcoves and disused dungeons that abounded at Hogwarts Castle. Parts of it even looked rather like Hogwarts - except none of the occupants of the many pictures dotting the walls was moving. At least Harry did not think any were, but he had next to no time to look as the tiny magical party consisting only of himself, Dumbledore, Mad-Eye, and Blackie Howe were briskly shepherded through the long hallways.

Shortly, they were ushered into a large conference room, with massive dark, wooden walls surrounding an equally massive dark, wooden table. All of it - the walls, the tables, the floor, the ceiling and the windowpanes - was polished to a high sheen. The place was full of Muggles, but once Harry's small group entered, most of the Muggles left, except for the PM, the lawyers, and the security people.

The room seemed rather dark, notwithstanding the seemingly less-than-best efforts of the electric lights. The numerous windows all had heavy velvet drapes drawn across them.

Harry recognised Prime Minister Major immediately. He had seen his likeness on the telly at his relatives' house often enough. Not only that, his Uncle Vernon had received so many items through the post with the PM's picture on it that the man practically seemed part of the family.

For his part, the Prime Minister looked agitated, but unsuccessfully tried not to show it. He did not immediately greet the magical party upon arrival, but ostentatiously finished a rather overlong conversation with an aide. Only after he taking his time and seeing to it that his guests thoroughly cooled their heels, did the Premier cease his calculated rudeness and give them a looking over. Then he squared his shoulders, determinedly walked up to Blackie Howe, extended his hand, and said….

"Mister Harry Potter, I presume," the Prime Minister greeted Harry's solicitor with his artificially cheery politician's voice.

Blackie Howe did not embarrass easily, but this moment was an exception. "Er … no, I'm sorry to say. I'm Blackstone Howe, Esquire, Mister Potter's counsellor for the inquiry. Allow me to introduce you to my client."

Diplomatically, Mr. Howe steered the PM in Harry's direction. The Premier's eyes went large with comprehension.

"But … but he doesn't look like he's even old enough to vote…," the Prime Minister protested.

"Quite right," Mr. Howe responded dryly. "But you summoned Mister Potter for this audience, not vice versa."

"Very well," Prime Minister Major answered peevishly. Quickly he regained at least a façade of composure. Callowness of youth might make things easier. "Let's take our seats, then. Shall we? Mister Potter, Mister Howe, you shall have the seats of honour over here next to the transcriptionist. The rest of the magical party can park themselves over there, where I'm sure my aides can make you quite comfortable." He gestured to some upholstered chairs near the opposite wall, where his own Muggle bodyguards were already seated.

"About the procedure," Mr. Howe quietly but firmly inquired, "my client is willing to submit to questioning under Veritaserum but…."

"That's quite all right," the Prime Minister interrupted. "This is a formal governmental inquiry and it will be conducted subject to the usual procedures. There's no need for any of that folderol. We'll be proceeding with questioning under oath, subject to the ordinary penalties for perjury."

Theatrically the Right Honourable Gentleman whipped his notes of inquiry from his red box open on a side table, indicating his readiness to proceed.

"Very well," Mr. Howe acceded. He feigned resignation, but was inwardly elated. He had instructed Harry never to lie, but that he should avoid uncomfortably personal topics - chiefly Hermione and Eliza - wherever he could. That would be so much easier to accomplish without Veritaserum.

Harry watched as the Prime Minister called the notary forward to administer the oath. The PM's eyes were shifty, and he had his hands behind his back - as if he were….

When things started happening, they did so in rapid fire succession.

"Oh no yeh don't…. Accio weapons!" Moody shrieked. His magical eye veered wildly and had a far-away look about it.

Dumbledore, in what could only be described as a towering rage, stood abruptly and flung his arms apart in a motion Harry had seen only once before. Wisely, Harry dove for the floor.

Dazzling silver light illuminated the room so brightly that it was painful to the eyes, and vanished as quickly as it came. A loud pop accompanied the flash, like a lorry backfiring. A swooshing sort of noise followed. Harry kept his head down on the heaving floor. The furniture bounced. Dust and papers filled the air. Harry heard the dull thuds of bodies hitting the floor.

Dumbledore had just stunned every Muggle in the room.

The next instant brought a crash of breaking glass as three of the windows exploded inwards. Harry had seen this too - once before - during the very incident he was expecting to describe today.

But this was different. Instead of onrushing Death Eaters, a mass of evil looking Muggle firearms and other armament flew through the windows, ripping the drapery from their brackets and landing with a loud clatter in a heap at Mad-Eye's feet.

Dumbledore looked at Mad-Eye, who was breathing heavily. As Harry also struggled to his feet, he blurted out. "What was that all about?"

"A trap," Mad-Eye spat. "A bloody Muggle trap. Down the hall, and in the rooms overhead…. Muggle special forces…. Dozens of `em…."

Mad-Eye bent over and picked up a black-strapped gun that Harry recognised from his brief training as some sort of automatic weapon.

The aged Auror made a gesture with his wand that Harry did not recognise. With great clatter, all the firearms first forcibly ejected their magazines - and then themselves flew apart. Hundreds of live rounds went rolling around the room, interspersed with stray gun barrels, stocks, flash suppressors, firing pins, and the like.

"Looks like SAS," Mad-Eye commented, his non-magical eye peering at the insignia on the now detached shoulder strap. All the while, his magical one kept spinning.

"What's that?" rasped Harry as the magnitude of what just happened began to sink in. For all intents and purposes, Dumbledore and Moody had just decapitated the Muggle government, he thought because….

"Special Air Services, 21st Regiment," Mad-Eye answered. "Muggle counter-terrorist special forces … damn good ones too. They're the blokes who stormed that rag headed embassy back in 1980. I think they'd planned something similar here - ta capture yeh."

Harry stared back wide-eyed.

"These," Mad-Eye kicked at the mass of metal at his feet, "are all their weapons. But we've got ta do more than that. We haven't stopped `em yet."

"True," the Headmaster concurred. They know the Prime Minister is in here with us. If these Muggle forces are as proficient as you state, I am certain that they will make another attempt shortly - one way or another, and bare-handed if necessary."

"Then, let `em try bare-arsed. I'll give `em another go," Mad-Eye declared, "and Summon their ruddy uniforms next…."

"We must not have an incident," Dumbledore interrupted, "no matter how ill-intentioned the Muggles have been. Our enemy is Voldemort, not the United Kingdom. Let me try something."

"Nah! Fight fire with fire, I've always said," Mad-Eye rasped. "Kick `em when they're down and they'll bloody well stay down."

"No," Dumbledore commanded. "You did the right thing, but any more would be too much of the right thing." The Headmaster made a gesture with his hand in the direction of the prone body of Prime Minister Major. The man stirred, moaning softly.

"What happened?" the Premier asked nobody in particular. "Do we have him…?"

"I suppose that depends on how one defines `we' and `him,'" Dumbledore said softly, helping the PM into a sitting position. "From the Muggle standpoint, I think the answer would be, `I rather think not,' but from ours…."

The Prime Minister abruptly came fully awake. "So you're now holding me hostage?" he asked dejectedly.

"Certainly not," Dumbledore answered, almost jovially, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "My purpose is to keep there from being a casus belli between our - and other - peoples, notwithstanding your intent to do precisely that. Your Special Forces have been disarmed, and every other Muggle in the room is currently unconscious. Come, let me show you something."

Dumbledore guided the still somewhat shaky Prime Minister to the one of the shattered windows, which overlooked Chequers' extensive, green front garden. "Look there," Dumbledore pointed.

"I don't see anything but a large pasture," the Prime Minister commented.

"You are not supposed to," Dumbledore remarked, "until now…."

Dumbledore made an upwards motion with his hand. The Arcadian scene shimmered, as if a curtain were being lifted. Into view came a great number of elite goblin troops - as many as a thousand, it appeared - all armed to the teeth.

The Premier did a double take. His gasp was audible clear across the room where Harry was standing.

"What's that?" Prime Minister Major asked dumbly.

"Those would be goblins," the old wizard explained. "They are fierce fighters, and quite magical in their own way. There are, it appears, ten or so hundred-warrior legions present - with several times that number available, if necessary, as reinforcements. Young Mister Potter just happens to be an adopted member of the goblin royal family. Thus, they can be expected not to look kindly upon any attempt to take him forcibly into your custody. In fact, I suspect they would resist rather violently … and effectively"

"G-G-Goblins?" the PM squeaked in an unnaturally high voice, hardly believing his ears. "So like dragons and … whatever else, they exist too?"

"They not only exist, but are responsible for Mister Potter's rescue the other day, and I believe for the explosion," Dumbledore answered smoothly. Harry said nothing as the Headmaster blithely undertook to mislead the Muggle head of state.

"Th-Th-They…. They did?" the Prime Minister stuttered. "They have that power?"

"Not precisely," Dumbledore responded. "The source of the power itself is unclear. It may have originated with the Dark Wizard Voldemort. What we know for certain is that the explosion occurred as the goblins overran Voldemort's castle in the course of their successful rescue of Mister Potter. They are currently searching what remains of that structure with what I believe you would call `a fine-toothed comb' - if goblins used combs, that is. That is why your people have been denied access to the area in question. You will be permitted to enter only when the Goblins decide they have finished."

"At least that's one question answered," muttered the Premier wearily - thoroughly intimidated. "So what happens now?"

Dumbledore rather thought that whoever originated the brilliant idea of attempting to take Harry Potter by force would soon be getting the sack, but that was not his concern at the moment.

"We need to set everything right," the Headmaster replied. "And then, you need to get on with your questioning."

Both the Premier's eyes and Harry's went wide at the same time. "What?" they both asked in disbelief.

The Headmaster addressed them both, in a voice that brooked no opposition. "Yes, you Muggles are entitled to your inquiry. Notwithstanding your recent attempt at unpleasantness, we must cooperate. Voldemort is the enemy here - not one another. But first…."

Dumbledore made another wandless hand motion, and then continued. "…Your communications have just been restored. I want you to call your…. Alastor, what did you say the affected troops were called?"

"Special Air Services," Mad-Eye growled, deliberately sounding as ominous as possible.

"Yes," Dumbledore acknowledged. "You will ring up whoever is appropriate and order these Special Air Services forces to stand down. Tell them you are in no danger, and that an accommodation has been reached. Their weapons will be restored to them presently…." Dumbledore kicked at a stray cartridge underfoot. "…But I am afraid they will have to reassemble them without our assistance. Before that happens, however, I shall dispatch some wizards - called Obliviators - who will modify their memories so that this little incident will be forgotten. Then we can continue as if nothing ever happened."

"Like nothing ever happened?" the Prime Minister Major replied skeptically. "You've virtually destroyed this room."

Dumbledore smiled. "Not a problem," he replied. The Headmaster raised his arms (Harry knew this was mostly for effect), and incanted, "A priori."

Almost immediately the rubble-strewn room righted itself. Shards of broken glass jumped off the floor and reassembled into windowpanes. The drapes repaired themselves and flew back into place. Even the various papers resorted themselves and landed neatly in their previous positions.

"Also," Dumbledore added pointedly. "Might the name Edwina Currie mean anything to you?"

"I hope our agreement to stay clear of private matters runs in both directions," the PM responded, his eyes telling the Headmaster everything he needed to know.

"It can," he replied imperturbably.

Prime Minister Major quickly made the call.

* * * *

Undoubtedly due to the Headmaster's show of force - and his deception of the Muggles - and his final exchange with the PM - Harry's questioning went rather well from his perspective. Whilst revealing that he had been with a "girlfriend" and her death in connection with his kidnapping was unavoidable, the Muggles were civilised (or scared) enough not to pry into irrelevant details. Prime Minister Major soon understood that Harry Potter was not the key to all of the many unknowns. Rather, his captors paralysed and stunned the boy almost immediately. Thereafter he was held incommunicado in some underground dungeon for several weeks. The upshot was that Harry had not even known of the incident accompanying his abduction. Almost….

"So you were unaware of the aeroplane crash until after your rescue?" the Premier asked.

"Right…. I didn't realise it at the time, but I think now that I did see the glow through some curtains. I thought it was sunset, but thinking about it … it was too late - and in the wrong place…. The window faced east."

"So you believe you saw it?" the PM repeated, wondering if Harry's testimony made sense. "But the explosion was heard for many miles. Why didn't you hear it?"

"Er…," Harry answered hesitantly. "I had cast an Imperturbable Charm … that is, I put magic on the flat, so nobody could hear in, but that also meant that we couldn't hear out."

The Premier continued, "And why did you…?" He got a nudge and a look from his second. "Oh, right. Very well, you needn't answer that - as per our previous agreement."

Harry's lack of useful knowledge truncated much of the questioning. The entire situation with Hermione before his kidnapping did not arise at all. Indeed, the currently comatose girl who loomed at the moment as the most important living person in Harry's life was not mentioned during the questioning, except for one unexpected point near the end:

The Prime Minister was rotely following the script his underlings had prepared. "And after you escaped from the Death Eaters, was there anyone else you remember seeing in the vicinity."

Any truthful answer had to mention Hermione, but Harry remembered the technique Blackie Howe had taught him to attempt to change the subject. "Umm … There was my friend Hermione Granger, who did some sort of locating spell to find me, and very shortly thereafter Voldemort himself showed up - mentally, that is…. In my mind."

With almost anyone else, Harry's tactical mention of Voldemort might have worked. Not with the beleaguered PM - because the new name recalled yet another of his government's recent embarrassments. "Granger? Oh blast. She wouldn't be related to that dentist chap who did a runner a couple of weeks ago, would she?"

Harry responded as blankly as he could. "I'm afraid I've no idea what you're asking after, sir…. But her father is a dentist. I know that."

The moment the wizard quartet finally returned safely to the magical world, Harry furiously faced down the Headmaster. "What's this about Hermione's father going fugitive? You never told me about that."

"Harry, take a deep breath," Blackie Howe cautioned. "We have no idea whether that incident had anything to do with your friend Hermione. There could be…."

Harry cut across his solicitor fiercely, "Save it, Blackie. It's one and the same. Hermione's parents are the only dentists named `Granger' in the whole UK - I've checked." He turned back to Dumbledore. "I'll thank you to answer. Why didn't you mention this to me?"

"I am indeed sorry, Mister Potter," Dumbledore prefaced his answer. "With all the other things we had to discuss, I simply did not judge it very important at the moment. However, Doctor Granger's fugitive status was mentioned in the transcripts I provided and advised you to read. I gather that you have not…."

"No I haven't," Harry replied hotly. "And I really don't want to. I know I've got a lot of issues with her, and I assure you I intend to resolve them…. I-I just don't need to have my nose rubbed in it, that's all."

"I quite disagree, Mister Potter," Dumbledore replied gravely. "I firmly believe that the truth is far preferable to lies, or in your case, to misconceptions. Of course, I cannot force you to read anything not in the Hogwarts curriculum, but once again I recommend - strongly - that you peruse the transcripts."

His hand reflexively touching his left cheek, Harry let the Headmaster's advice go in one ear and out the other. He returned to his original question. "What's all this about Hermione's dad being a fugitive?"

Dumbledore sighed. "He fled shortly before being named as a central figure in a corruption scandal of some sort. He took money from companies who wished to shortlist their products and services with the Muggle National Health Service. For the sake of completeness, I need to inform you that one of those companies was Grunnings - a leading maker, as you know, of dental drills."

Harry was flabbergasted - flabbergasted and appalled. Never in his wildest imagination would he have believed that his boorish Uncle Vernon might have had anything to do with Hermione's parents, let alone paying bribes to her outwardly urbane father. Harry thought back to his uncle's speech to the family what seemed like forever ago.

"Oh blast it all," he muttered, "Much more of this, and I'll be a nutter."

"Harry! Yer Occlumency," Mad-Eye broke in. "Yer starting ta glow."

Jerking to attention, Harry caught himself. He resorted to now ingrained techniques. Almost audibly, a mental gateway slammed across his mind, numbing his emotions and driving them into his subconscious.

"Mister Potter, I also have good news for you," Dumbledore intervened. "News I have put off until we were finished with the Muggles."

Harry looked up - an unmistakable glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Hermione…. Is she…?" He could not bring himself to utter the question, but the Headmaster understood.

"Her physical healing should now be complete," Dumbledore advised. "But I caution you that her recovery is physiological only. Her mental state, despite our best efforts, remains essentially unimproved. However, the progress of her physical condition puts her out of any immediate danger. Thus, she will be moved from the Room of Requirement to the Hogwarts Hospital Wing."

Harry nearly jumped out of his shoes. "When we get back, can I see her? I really need to see her."

Dumbledore smiled benignly. "Of course you may, but let me first make clear that `we' are not returning to Hogwarts. You are. I am on a quest of sorts … a quest to learn more about Voldemort's past as Tom Riddle. Consequently, I have not been at Hogwarts regularly for some time. I returned specially to assist in your encounter with the Muggle authorities - a capital idea, I must say - but now I must be off again. I assure you, when I learn something useful, you will be among the very first to know about it, since this quest is ultimately for your benefit."

The idea of Dumbledore's quest ordinarily would have fascinated Harry, but not at this moment. Only one thing was on his mind.

"Fine, but when can I see Hermione?" he asked insistently.

"She is to be moved early tomorrow morning," Dumbledore informed Harry. "I ask you not to interfere with her medical team - as the Confederation has adopted EU directives regarding medical privacy - so I recommend that you present yourself at the Hospital Wing tomorrow morning around six. I have left instructions with Minerva and Poppy that you may spend as much time as you desire during visiting hours, and if possible at other times as well."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Harry responded fervently. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

Dumbledore offered no audible response, but the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his belief that Harry's last statement was mistaken.

* * * *

Almost afraid to breathe, Harry stood patiently as Madam Pomfrey softly closed the curtains behind him, silently granting his unstated wish for privacy. For the first time in weeks Harry was face to face with Hermione.

Her face appeared beautifully - even serenely - calm. Her skin, newly regenerated from immersion in magical amniotic solution, was almost translucent. He could see distinct bluish-purple veins snaking down her arms and neck.

She looked so pale, so fragile.

She was also silent. The phoenix song that she had emitted in the Room of Requirement had ceased.

Her brown hair was short. It had not regrown to the same extent as her skin, nails, ears, corneas, and the other peripheral body parts that Harry understood were burnt away in the accident.

Mercifully, her eyes were closed.

Thus Hermione would not know of her barren surroundings, with only a scattering of what Harry assumed were healing talismans breaking the white monotony. He was thankful for that small favour. She had no flowers, no pictures, and no personal effects at all, save the Auror's ring on her finger - in all respects identical to Harry's own. To be safe, Harry performed yet another cleansing charm on himself. She seemed so very much alone. He vowed to fill her space with flowers and photographs.

Gingerly, Harry sat next to her on the clean white sheets. Hermione's body was utterly still, with just the trace of a pulse visible in her pale neck. Her head had rolled to the side, mouth partly open, with a small amount of drool oozing from the corner of her lips. His hand shaking, Harry daubed it with his sleeve. He absent-mindedly began stroking her hair and then her cheek. Both felt thin, and her skin had a papery, almost lifeless feel.

She looked so different with short hair - not at all like Hermione. It was not how he remembered her. Gently he placed his hands on her scalp. The absence of response was unnerving; for she did not move a muscle, not even a twitch. Irreparable brain damage was a possibility, he knew, but his Occlumency repressed such thoughts. He had to believe she would recover. Down any other road lay madness - his own.

Instead, he focussed on the vibrant image of the Hermione he knew. It was unexpectedly difficult. He was shocked at how much his short-term memory of her had deteriorated in a matter of weeks. Closing his own eyes, Harry concentrated on hair growth, hers this time rather than his own. In less than a minute he restored her hair to how he recalled it - but not quite. Her newly regrown locks were not at all as bushy as before. They were thinner, still wavy, but not nearly as wild.

Harry Transfigured into a hairbrush the quill he had brought along for doing his schoolwork. "Hermione, I'll make you as beautiful as I can," he whispered. Then, taking great care, he took some of her hair into his trembling hands. It was so fine - soft like he imagined a baby's hair would be. Carefully, methodically, he brushed and brushed Hermione's hair until every tangle was fixed and every strand shown. Cradling the girl's unconscious head in his hands, Harry brushed her rearmost hair last.

Just as he finished, Harry heard a soft scraping behind him. Still supporting Hermione's head, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Madam Pomfrey regarding him with just the trace of a smile on her own face.

"I'm … I'm sorry," he apologised. "I know I shouldn't have, but … but I couldn't help it. I wanted her to look beautiful again."

"Did you cleanse yourself as I directed?" the nurse asked.

"Twice," Harry declared.

"Then there's no problem," she said gently. "And I daresay you succeeded admirably."

"Her, her hair," Harry remarked, seeking some explanation. "It's so fine…. It's not like before."

"Nor will it be," Madam Pomfrey told him. "Her scalp had to be entirely regenerated - her burns were that severe. She has brand new follicles, similar to a newborn infant. It will be years, if ever, before her hair ages enough to reach its previous state."

"Can I…? Er…. Is it possible to have more time alone with her?" Harry asked, his voice almost pleading.

Madam Pomfrey glanced at the hourglass on the wall and pursed her lips. "I can give you another twenty minutes, that's all," she told him. "After that, I must open up for ordinary visiting hours. There are, after all, quite a number of people besides yourself who wish to see her, and I must accommodate them."

With a flick of her wand, Madam Pomfrey rotated the hourglass. Another flick measured twenty minutes worth of sand. Then she closed the curtains and left.

Harry drew his wand and silently cast an Imperturbable Charm on the area. Hermione looked so helpless and vulnerable lying there, lost to the world. Actually, she was only a couple of inches shorter than he was. He thought about how many times she had saved him - including the last time, which had put her in this sorry state.

Then he drew close to the comatose girl and spoke from his heart.

"Hermione, you probably can't hear me, but I have to say this. I'm so sorry. I-I-I had no idea…. I'm so dense, you see … I-I-I love you. Really…. There, I finally said it out loud. If only I'd the courage to say it before. I was a coward, though … and confused."

Harry wrung his hands, and wiped a tear away with his sleeve. "I-I-I didn't realise how I felt - not really - until it was too late. Then, I made a mess of things with the business about Ron and Cho. I'm so sorry I hurt you. In oh-so-many ways I've hurt you."

"I never could tell you how I really felt - how much I love you - because I was so afraid that … that you wouldn't feel the same way. Then I'd lose you as a friend. And now … I've lost you anyway…."

Harry felt his jaw start to tremble and his eyes begin to burn. "And-now-I-never-got-to-tell-you-at-all…," he rushed through the last sentence before his tears began to fall. Then he had to stop speaking altogether, as sobs began wracking his body.

He thought about Occlumency, but for the moment decided against it. He did not want to feel numb. For the first time he could remember, he actually wanted to cry - needed to cry. There were some things worth crying over. He had finally found one of those things - but he might have lost it in the process of finding it.

Yet even in sorrow Harry had to be careful - it was the curse of whatever power he had. He buried his face in the plain linen sheet draped across Hermione's body, but carefully clutched at it as well. Deliberately, he kept his hands close to his face to watch for any sparking he might generate.

Nothing.

His tears flowed freely - so much that he half expected he would exhaust the supply. But nothing worse. Harry's emotions held no anger - only a cleansing mixture of grief and love.

He had little time left. Harry gathered his wits about him and made his vows. Taking her limp hand in his, he swore, "Hermione, I'll do anything, go anywhere to get you back. I'll pay any price. I'll bear any burden. Whatever it takes…. I'll get you back … all the way. You'll be whole again - or else I'll never be."

"You see … without you, I'm pretty much dead already - inside. I love you so much it hurts ... so much I lie awake at nights just thinking about all my mistakes. I won't make them again … I can't…."

"You're the only one left - the last and the best. Everyone else I've ever loved has been taken from me. I-I-I can't let that happen to you … for your sake and for mine…. Without you to love, there's nothing left to fight for."

"Oh Merlin, I need you!" he confessed. "Love - I just don't know how it works. There was Sirius, but that was different. Nobody else comes close to what I feel.… I need you to show me … like you've shown me so much already. I can't find love alone … nobody can."

Harry glanced around. The sand had nearly run out. His time was almost up. He thought about what else he wanted to do. Trembling now in the knees, he stood and bent over her motionless form. But as he lowered his face to hers, he stopped and thought better of it.

"I shouldn't do that," he murmured.

He had once before, pathetically believing that magic might make færie stories come true. For well over three years, it had been his guilty secret. He had never breathed a word of it to anyone, especially her. The oversold magic of a kiss had not awoken her then, and he was certain it would not now.

Even more, while he doubted she could hear or sense him at all, a sliver of doubt, and hope, persisted that maybe she could. To steal a kiss this way was not right. He wanted her full consent. He would never kiss her again - kiss her and mean it - without her approval.

Harry drew back. He caressed her right hand - the one bearing the Auror's ring - in both of his. He slowly, gently kissed the tip of each of her fingers one by one, whilst whispering softly. "I love you. You have my word … that just as you came for me … I'll come for you. I'll get you back. And I'll tell you the truth about everything."

The last grains trickled from the hourglass.

Tenderly, he arranged her hands across her body. Harry stood, took a deep breath, and ended the spell. Then, realising that his crying would be obvious to anyone who saw him, he uttered a couple of spells to restore his face to some semblance of normalcy. The Twins' face freezing potion would be better, but he never thought he would ever need it.

* * * *

Harry did not stay away for long - only long enough to wash, change clothes, and eat (Madam Pomfrey was not about to let anyone, even Harry, eat in the Hospital Wing). Returning with a full compliment of books, parchment, and quills, he spent almost the entire day by Hermione's side as other visitors came and went.

As did almost everyone, he also brought flowers - a single white rose and a single red carnation to symbolise the two of them (he'd actually done a spot of research about that). Throughout the day, Hermione's space filled with fragrant blossoms, all charmed to stay fresh.

Several Healers, one who Harry recognised vaguely as Hlr. Huxley, also made the rounds. Other than obligatory nods of greeting, none responded to his questioning glances.

When alone with Hermione, Harry read aloud to her from his lessons, and commented about what he wrote in his homework essays. When Hermione had other visitors, Harry retreated to a chair further away and revised his homework in silence. He spent about half his time in each mode, as Hermione had a steady stream of visitors.

These visitors ranged from the stiff upper lip sort (Neville) to the emotional (Ron and Ginny) to the perfunctory (Ron again, this time with Cho), to the just plain strange (Luna). Of the so-called "Boomwins," Luna turned up last, but stayed longest.

She arrived in late afternoon, and spent about half an hour reciting passages from ancient manuscripts in an incomprehensible language. The language (according to Luna, anyway) was Keltoi mothertongue - the ancestral language of both Britain and France before the coming of the Romans. Harry let Luna carry on with her strange chants for as long as she liked. He immersed himself in his books and scratched away with his quill. He completed a four-roll Potions essay discussing the benefits and drawbacks of various cauldron stirring techniques.

All of a sudden he heard muffled shouts outside - several women seemed to be yelling at one another. Harry's head swivelled abruptly as the main door to the Hospital Wing slammed open.

"The nerve of you people!" someone screeched. "Horrid accommodations amidst horrid people…. Left to stew in my own juices for the better part of a week! Told to make an appointment to see my own daughter!"

"But you have to understand," came another loud voice sounding something like Madam Pomfrey (although she had never raised her voice so much in Harry's presence). "…She was in no condition to be seen by anyone…!"

"I'M HER MOTHER!! IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT CONDITION SHE'S IN!! I HAVE MY RIGHTS!!"

The curtain was roughly yanked back, and Harry found himself staring into the rather wild eyes of Dr. Jane LaFayette-Granger. For the moment, however, she looked only at Hermione.

"Oh my God!" Dr. Granger exclaimed upon viewing her daughter's insensate body. "MY BABY!! What have they done to you?!"

Madam Pomfrey trailed Dr. Granger into the cordoned off area, looking like she had barely escaped from a herd of centaurs. She threw Harry a rueful look.

Dr. Granger expertly gave Hermione a mini-physical, taking her pulse ("slow"), observing her breathing ("shallow but regular"), squeezing her hand ("non-responsive"), and pressing on her toes ("fair pedal refill").

Then she pulled a set of Muggle car keys from her purse. Attached to them was a tiny electric torch. She lifted up one of Hermione's eyelids and shined the light directly into her eye. "Only slightly reactive to light - probably reflex only," she murmured.

She jingled the keys next to Hermione's ear whilst holding her hand. She repeated the process whilst feeling her neck. "Non-responsive," she said flatly.

Then she jabbed one of the keys into Hermione's thigh - almost causing Harry to leave his seat to protect his friend. But that was over in an instant. "Unresponsive to painful stimulus," her mother said with clinical precision. She turned to Madam Pomfrey.

"I don't know what you've done to her that she's in this state, but rest assured you will be hearing from my lawyer. She's plainly comatose and in need of real hospital care, one that…."

"No, you can't do that," the Hogwarts head nurse protested vigorously. "These are magical injuries. They won't respond to Muggle medical treatments. At best, they would be a waste of time. At worst they could…."

"Codswallop and poppycock," Dr. Granger sneered. "As if she's responded to what passes for `treatment' in this hideous place? I'll take her out of here and she'll never be back. Mark my words."

Harry could remain silent no longer. He would not lose Hermione in that way. Not to anybody. "Doctor Granger, with all due respect, you really ought to listen…."

Dr. Granger sharply rounded on him. "YOU!! What are you doing here, anyway? Haven't you done quite enough? You ought to keep your nose out of things you don't understand - like the role of parents!"

Harry struggled not just to avoid anger, but merely to get a word in edgewise, "But I do understand enough…."

"I'm sure you do," Dr. Granger spat. "I understand that you promised to keep her safe. You've good intentions, you told us. She'd come to no harm, you promised. Look how well you keep your promises!! Look at her, will you!?! YOU'VE DONE EVERYTHING BUT KILL HER!!!"

Harry could feel himself starting to boil. He Occlumenced himself to remain calm and avoid a catastrophic accident, but that only made him even less articulate.

"But…."

"I'll wager she went gallivanting after you again, on some mad adventure," Dr. Granger declared angrily, having no idea how close to the mark she was. "That brought her more trouble than you children could properly handle. And once again all you could do was bring back her body - just like that poor Cedric boy that she belatedly told us about. I should never have let her come back here!!"

Harry slammed down the numbing gates of Occlumency upon his emotions as firmly as he possibly could. But it was hard, so very hard - because in her almost mindless rage, Dr. Granger was speaking the horrible truth. He had done this to Hermione! What right did he have to her after this?

The ordinary emotionless torpor of Occlumency slowly gave way to a wave of nausea. If this went on much longer, he would surely pass out - or worse.

An authoritative voice intervened. "Doctor Granger, please calm yourself. The boy is correct. Magical injuries cannot be treated by your conventional means. They will fail, and your doctors will resort to electroshock therapy or some such, which will only make things worse. If you deny her the magical treatment she is receiving, you'll sign your daughter's death warrant."

Hlr. Huxley, speaking in his most magisterial fashion, was attempting to divert Dr. Granger's anger away from Harry … onto himself if necessary. He, of all those in the room, was most acutely aware of what Harry was being put through - and what he was struggling manfully to prevent.

Dr. Granger turned on Hlr. Huxley with exaggerated disdain. "And you are?" she asked.

His stentorian voice answered, "Healer Paracelsus Huxley, Healer-in-Charge of Internal Magic at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries - at your service."

"I'll thank you to leave medical decisions concerning my daughter's health to those competent to make them," she replied icily, her voice dripping with contempt. "I hardly need a complete physical to convince me that your purported magical treatment of my daughter has been a total and abject failure - malpractice cubed, I'd wager. I just have to look at her. If I left her here, that would be signing her death warrant. I've had quite my fill of all your quackery and wand-waving mumbo-jumbo."

Ignoring the hail of insults, Hlr. Huxley persisted, "But Doctor Granger, you really should get a second opinion…."

"What!?! From one of your kind, I suppose? I rather think not," Dr. Granger raged on. "No! She'll be out of here as soon as I can arrange ambulance service to this godforsaken place. In fact, I'll ring up 999 as soon as I get to somewhere I can use my mobile."

"That will be quite against all medical advice…"

"Oh, shut up. I'M HER MOTHER!! And I'm a medical professional. I know my rights. And they are…."

An unexpected voice joined the conversation. "I rather doubt that you do." In the heat of the argument, everyone had quite forgotten that Luna Lovegood was even present.

"And just who are you?" barked Dr. Granger.

"A friend of Hermione's," Luna answered calmly, reaching into her robes. "One who…."

Dr. Granger cut across the rather dreamy-looking girl as viciously as she had everyone else. "Well, Miss `Friend of Hermione's,' I'm her mother and I don't believe we've been introduced. I have the God-given right to direct my daughter's medical treatment, and that's what I'm going to do."

Luna shrugged off the verbal assault. "I'm afraid you don't have that right," she maintained in a serene voice.

"SAYS WHO!?!" Dr. Granger practically screamed.

"Says Hermione herself - in this," Luna replied, producing a piece of parchment from inside her robes.

The sudden emergence of a document drew Dr. Granger's latest rant up short. "And just what is that?" she demanded suspiciously.

"Well, Hermione called it an `Advance Medical Directive and Enduring Power of Attorney,' so I suppose that's what it is," Luna replied matter-of-factly.

"Let me see that," Dr. Granger blurted. She rudely snatched the document from the enigmatic girl's grasp. Her eyes flew across the page, immediately recognising her daughter's handwriting. At the bottom, appeared "Hermione Granger" in what her mother instantly knew as her usual signature.

Not reacting at all to Dr. Granger's abrupt seizure of the document, Luna commented bluntly, "Hermione is nothing if not thorough, so I'm sure you'll find it quite in order, complying with all Ministry, UK, and EU directives for such things."

Madam Pomfrey and Hlr. Huxley were too stunned by the latest turn of events to say anything. Harry had no idea what Luna was talking about. All too soon, he found out, as Dr. Granger furiously rounded on him after she had read all she needed.

"You!" she hissed, her voice trembling with rage. "God - I can't believe it. She's given you, of all people, the power to take medical decisions on her behalf." Dr. Granger reread a portion of the document, as if that might somehow change the words on the page. "….And the corker is … she's given you power to make life-or-death decisions for her if she's in a `persistent vegetative state.'"

Harry's jaw dropped. He could scarcely comprehend what he was hearing. Once again he fell back upon Occlumency to force himself to remain calm. If what Dr. Granger said was right, he had just been handed a responsibility beyond his grimmest nightmares.

Dr. Granger's hands started to shake. She had reached a breaking point of her own. The Hospital Wing fairly rung with her anguished and unexpected scream. With her quivering hands, she madly tore the offending document to shreds.

With a ripping noise accompanying her every word, she declared, "I won't stand for this…. I can't stand for this."

When finished, she held a handful of torn up bits of parchment, none more than a few centimetres across. With a wild look in her eye, she scattered the scraps of paper in front of Luna. "So much for that," she declared.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that in our world," Luna benignly told the woman.

Luna was right.

Before the confetti-like pieces even reached the floor, they began swirling around and around one another - coalescing in midair into a single, intact document. The reconstituted document took off through the air, hitting the thunderstruck Harry squarely in the chest and remaining there as if Velcroed.

"Hermione is nothing if not thorough," Luna commented calmly.

"This isn't over, not by a long shot," Dr. Granger seethed, addressing everyone and no one. She turned to Harry, "If you ever … ever … pull the plug on my baby - my own flesh and blood. I will … I will kill you myself … with my bare hands if necessary."

Having said her piece, Dr. Granger turned and fled the Castle, the clack of her heels soon fading into the distance.

"Well," sighed Madam Pomfrey, "that horrible woman is finally gone. I guess that means Miss Granger is staying put, doesn't it Harry? Harry? Oh, my...."

Everyone stared at Harry Potter. He was white as a sheet. His breathing was rapid and shallow. He started to twitch….

"Help … me," he gasped. "Please somebody … before I do something…. Please … stun…."

"Stupefy!" Hlr. Huxley's voice rang out. The Stunner, glowing fiercely red, hit Harry solidly in the back and he keeled over, unconscious before he hit the floor.

* * * *

When Harry came to, he found himself lying on a gurney in what looked like a converted classroom. Hlr. Huxley was eyeing him intently.

"Good afternoon, Harry," he said once Harry's eyes flickered open. In fact, it had been anything but.

"Where … where, am I?" Harry asked reflexively.

"Welcome to my surgery away from home," Hlr. Huxley answered, using his best bedside manner. "How do you feel?"

"I feel awful," Harry murmured. "I'm sorry. I tried controlling it, but finally - with that last bit … just too much."

"Harry, you've absolutely no need to apologise for anything," Hlr. Huxley reassured. "I thought you did a magnificent job with Occlumency, especially as you've only been training for a few months, and even that was rather disrupted of late. You were sorely provoked. It's not every day - or even every lifetime - that one is accused of essentially murdering one's best friend."

"Trouble is, she wasn't that far wrong," the boy replied bleakly as he struggled to sit up. "There's no escaping that I did it … I'm responsible for Hermione being how she is. I'm sure Dumbledore's told you, since you're pals and all."

"You're not responsible for anything," Hlr. Huxley chided. "What you learnt a short while ago should convince you of that."

Harry did not understand. "You can't be serious. I lost it with her in my mind. That's what almost killed her in the first place."

"My patient plainly knew what she risked when she set out to find you," the old Healer chose his words carefully. "She took time to draft an advance medical directive - what's known as a Living Will - and nobody does without contemplating the possibility of dying, or worse. Miss Granger accepted that risk … and paid you perhaps the highest compliment that one person can possibly pay another. She's put her life in your hands."

Harry shuddered. "I can do a lot of things - but not that," he plaintively replied. "I'm afraid I can't possibly … live up to that responsibility. If I ever had to `pull the plug' as her mother called it…. I'd probably kill myself first. I just couldn't do it to her. Not when I … when I made her that way."

Hlr. Huxley fingered his wand nervously, wondering if he might have to use it again. "Harry, you're still coming to terms with what just happened. It's best not to dwell on such things. At some point you should talk to Albus about this. He's been in the same position."

"What?" Harry asked.

"Talk to him. More than that I can't tell you. Healer/patient confidence, you know," Hlr. Huxley parried gently. "Besides, it's highly unlikely that you'll ever be called upon to exercise that power."

Harry brightened visibly, so Hlr. Huxley continued.

"Unfortunately, it's not what you think," he cautioned. "The problem is that Miss Granger's directive - even though I'm sure she dotted every `I' and crossed every `T' - isn't worth the parchment it's written on."

Harry's face fell again. He had been anticipating - hoping for - some good news on Hermione's condition. "How so?" he asked hesitantly.

"She's an unemancipated minor, Harry," Hlr. Huxley explained. "Still under the age of seventeen…. I'm certain that no court, wizard or Muggle, would enforce that directive as against a biological parent. I've been practicing a long time, and I've seen this kind of thing before."

"But Hermione's mother doesn't know that," Harry protested, "and I can't believe you'd tell her."

"She'll be back, Harry," cautioned Hlr. Huxley. "You can count on that. Your friend - I'm afraid I don't know her name."

"Luna," Harry offered.

"Luna played her cards very well, getting that monster out of here, even temporarily," Hlr. Huxley continued, smiling slightly. "But you heard the woman. She has a lawyer, and she's a very competent medical professional in her own right - she conducted quite an admirable impromptu physical on her daughter. Given her situation, I'm sure she's in quite frequent contact with her lawyer. She'll think of the minority issue at some point, and as soon as she mentions it to her lawyer … well, the die will be cast."

Harry grasped the implications immediately. "Were you serious when you told Hermione's mother that Muggle treatments would be worse than useless?"

"Quite serious," Hlr. Huxley answered gravely.

"That means that we…." Harry's voice trailed off in contemplation of the consequences.

"We don't have much time, yes," Hlr. Huxley forthrightly completed Harry's thought. "That's why I'm already planning to step up the pace quite a bit."

Harry broke in, "Healer, you might know that I'm … that I've come into quite a bit of … er…." He was embarrassed at the mere thought of the size of the Black inheritance.

"Quite a bit of money," Hlr. Huxley finished Harry's thought again. "Albus informed me - well, the outline of it, anyway."

"Well, whatever it costs, I'll pay every Knut," Harry offered desperately. "Whatever it takes, I'll cover. Galleons mean nothing. Just find something that works - please…."

For the first time in the conversation, Hlr. Huxley was the one feeling uncomfortable. Harry Potter was a genuine hero - the widely reputed "Chosen One" - and even the somewhat jaded Healer was not entirely immune from all the journalistic hype that surrounded the boy. Yet that same hero seemed but a step away from getting down on his knees and begging him for a cure.

"Harry, rest assured, I'll do everything I possibly can. We all will," Hlr. Huxley soothed. "But I don't think that money will be the deciding factor. It'll be the knowledge, creativity and, yes, the luck of the medical team. But I will keep your offer in mind."

"Thank you," Harry answered fervently. "Thank you for anything and everything. Oh, and thank you as well for coming in when you did. Fortunately, you got Hermione's mum off of me in time. I might have cracked much earlier than I did."

"Fortune had nothing to do with it," Hlr. Huxley corrected. "I heard her on the monitor the moment she entered the Hospital Wing. From the way she was berating your Madam Pomfrey, I knew I would likely be needed."

"M-M-Monitor?" Harry replied apprehensively.

"Oh, yes," Hlr. Huxley answered. "This little gizmo right there…."

The Healer pointed to a small black sphere a few centimetres in diameter, mounted on a triangular base. Harry had seen, but ignored, an identical object on a table next to Hermione.

"…You see, even though she's no longer in need of critical care, Miss Granger's condition and circumstances nevertheless warrant constant surveillance…."

Again, Harry understood the implications of what he was being told. "Then…. You … you know, don't you?"

"About your heart-to-heart monologue? Yes, I know," Hlr. Huxley responded truthfully. "Heard quite enough of it. Frankly, it brought tears to my eyes until I finally shut the monitor off to give you privacy. Miss Granger doesn't know how lucky she truly is."

"But … Dumbledore…." Harry stuttered.

"My lips are sealed," Hlr. Huxley assured Harry. "I've been a Healer for over a half century, and I'm quite capable of keeping my patients' confidences - from anyone."

"But I'm not your patient," Harry observed.

"But Miss Granger is," Hlr. Huxley corrected. "And you have presented me with an enduring power of attorney, signed by the patient, naming you as responsible for her medical decisions. Your confession this afternoon only convinces me further that you - more than anyone else in this world - have her best interests truly at heart. Until proven otherwise, it is my obligation as a Healer to treat that power of attorney as valid. I intend to give you every possible benefit of the doubt. You stand in the shoes of my patient, and for all intents and purposes, that makes you my patient as well. That, by way of an overly long-winded explanation, is why you can count on me."

Harry exhaled a deep breath he had not realised he was holding. "That's quite a relief," he admitted.

"Do you know what else that means?" Hlr. Huxley asked enigmatically.

"Er … no," Harry answered.

Putting a hand on Harry's shoulder, the Healer explained, "I've seen that questioning look on your face several times today, as I've entered Miss Granger's presence. I need no longer ignore it. Now that I know you hold Miss Granger's proxy, I'm at liberty to tell you everything that you want to know about her condition and prognosis. Do you have any questions?"

"I sure do," said Harry somewhat more enthusiastically.

"Ask away."

* * * *

Author's notes: Chapter title is similar to Pink Floyd song

The River Irk is real and appropriate; one of my betas suggested it

Meth labs are known for obnoxious odors

A terraced house in the US is called a "rowhouse"

Snape magicked Pettigrew into a French maid outfit

Old-style Fidelius (circa 1981) is broken as to all if the secret keeper tells anyone

"Ain't touched a drink all night … juiced up" - from "Bitch" by the Stones

Harry smells the library, someone's fresh, unperfumed odor, and the yogurt flavors Hermione had selected in Ch. 7

I never liked the HBP fanged Frisbee scene. The real Hermione would have hexed Ron, so I did it differently

Johanna Lindsey is a romance novelist

Fleur describes smells associated with Harry

Fleur Veelaed the unsuspecting Harry

"Keep all hoops covered" is Quidditchspeak for "keep all bases covered"

The London disaster being so large, a high level inquiry was inevitable

Hermiome's present will be revealed in time

The Buckinghamshire location is accurate

A red tie is a "power tie" common in interviewing

Magic Circle is a nickname for elite London law firms; white shoe is a similar phrase, but more American

All the vehicles would be appropriate to the setting

Chequers is the British Prime Minister's country residence

John Major was just finishing as Prime Minister in 1996

A "member of chambers" is a senior British barrister

D'Israeli founded the Tory party

Question Time in British Parliament is when any MP can ask the PM a question from the floor

"Premier" and "Prime Minister" are synonymous in Britain

I've slotted Hestia Jones for the Shacklebolt role from HBP

Gladstone was D'Israeli's leading political rival - another excellent beta suggestion

Nobody's guessed the magical link to the Palace yet

Fleet Street refers to British newspapers

The American terrorist fixation might be little early for 1996

1816 was the "Year Without A Summer"

The mad cow disease problem with British beef surfaced in 1996

Uncle Vernon received Tory political mailings

Red boxes are attaché cases issued to British cabinet members

This is the spell Dumbledore used in his office in OOP against the Aurors and Umbridge

SAS, the Special Air Services, are a real British elite unit, and the historical details are accurate

Tonks followed Moody's kick-when-down philosophy against the Muggle muggers in Ch. 13

John Major had an affair with Edwina Currie. In 1996, it was still a secret

Harry's refusal to read Hermione's testimony costs him valuable time

Harry had looked up the Grangers on Dudley's computer in Ch. 3

The hand movement to the left cheek - to where Hermione slapped him

EU medical privacy directives are quite strict

"Clean white sheets" is from "Sister Morphine" by the Stones

Hermione gets somewhat of a new look with her hair

"Pay any price … bear any burden" is from JFK's inaugural speech

Some lines from "I Want To Know What Love Is" by Foreigner

Exactly what Harry did three years previous will eventually be revealed

Keltoi mothertongue (ancestral Celtic) becomes important

Pedal refill is blood refilling the vessels in the toes after they have been squeezed

"Torch" is British for flashlight

Malpractice cubed - malpractice in every dimension

999 is the UK equivalent of the US 911

Advance Medical Directive, etc., is the proper term for a living will

This is a magical directive, and the wizarding age of majority is seventeen, so Muggle ages of majority don't matter

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