Unofficial Portkey Archive

Wherein, the Dark Lord gives orders, Neville recovers, personnel issues are dealt with, Harry and Hermione go for another dip, commemorate house-elves, wake up in the middle of the night, and Ginny confronts her mum.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger. Welcome to new beta Staples701.

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 71 - Going Back

The Dark Lord scowled. His brilliantly plotted coup d'état against the Ministry, expected to augur in his own rule and a Pureblood renaissance, had become a disaster. Its casualties were terrible and its propaganda value worse. His right hand witch, Bella, had almost been killed when - in irony totally lost to Voldemort - Potter had somehow managed to deflect the Dark Lord's own Killing Curse into the Dark witch.

Because of her Horcrux, she had not died, but the Dark Lord would not call her present state "living" either.

He had experienced that state himself, and those memories haunted even his hardened mind.

Bella was a mere homunculus. Even that had been problematic. Extracting her soul from Nagini had been touch and go, after he and his familiar had been abruptly ejected to Wensleydale, from whence they had come, at the climax of the Stonehenge debacle.

The Dark Lord personally used the same magic on Bella's disembodied soul fragment that Wormtail - after that dolt's painstaking instruction - had once performed on Voldemort himself. This time he avoided the annoyance of using possessed, and disposable, Muggle bodies.

Fortunately, Voldemort could oversee the spellwork himself, because this attempt was more difficult. Voldemort benefitted from redundancy. He had several Horcruxes, whereas only one protected Bella. Creating Bella's homunculus required far more unicorn blood than did his own initial transformation. But on that front, the Dark Lord took no chances. He had laid in an abundant stocked of unicorn blood.

Something else bothered the Dark Lord - something more personal and more worrisome than he would share with any of his followers. Voldemort believed that his own magical performance at Stonehenge had been subpar. Not his spellwork, but about something more fundamental; his power. An uncertainty had gnawed at him ever since he created his first Horcrux.

"I should have overwhelmed him immediately," the Dark Lord second-guessed himself in the privacy of his exclusive study. "With my shielding, I should have shrugged off his pitiful spells."

"My Fiendfyre should have swept the field…."

"My aim was off…. I missed him twice with Avadas, and nobody - let alone that runt - should have been able to impede the curse I sent after his Mudblood…."

"My Bow Shock Curse should have crushed him like an insect…."

"And he should never have been able to obstruct my flight path. Even though I chose to break it off…."

Gradually, the Dark Lord concluded that, throughout the battle, he had been slow and enervated, especially in single combat with Harry Potter. It was a problem - and that problem could only get worse.

Potter was sixteen and maturing into his magic. The boy had hugely improved over their last personal encounter. His account of himself had certainly been superior to that wretched effort in Scotland, when Potter had reportedly fled in panic before somehow escaping the strange, powerful, and quite unexplained explosion that had engulfed Killiechonate Castle.

Voldemort was sixty-eight - in the prime of life by wizard standards, but not getting any younger. He was as powerful now as he would ever be.

Unless….

That "unless" was why the Dark Lord was seated in his study, poring over yellowed notes he had not revised in nearly a half-century. The notes were frustratingly ambiguous - reflecting their source.

Had he pushed the limits too far? Had determination to evade the Grim Reaper at all costs finally cost too much - too much of his magical core? Should he have chosen the conservative option when he decided to make multiple Horcruxes?

If the prophecy were as he supposed, the answers to these questions could be worse than even the other day's set back.

Studying the dusty parchments also reminded Lord Voldemort of an obscure way - tricky, but possible - to rectify that problem. This option did not demand remorse.

Lord Voldemort was remorseless.

Mulling the situation, the Dark Lord recognised a second likely benefit from the plot gelling in his mind. He could advance another scheme he had brewing.

Methodically, he gathered all pages he had perused, reorganised them, and packed them away in the Self-Situating Safe that now housed his remaining personal effects.

He could do this - but nobody could know the true reason. The adverse effect on morale would be incalculable. And in the wake of Stonehenge's abysmal failure, Death Eater morale was hardly where the Dark Lord wanted it.

Scowling so fiercely at a mirror that, with a scream, it cracked, Voldemort psyched himself into his normal, fearsome persona. Leaving the solitude of his ærie, he strode purposefully into the main part of the isolated compound that his Death Eaters now occupied.

He had expected to rule the whole of Britain by now, but again Potter had blocked him.

The first knot of grovelling, sycophantic Death Eaters meeting the Dark Lord scurried to comply with his shouted Order.

"Where is Lucius? I wish to discuss something with his son before he returns to Hogwarts."

That message sent, Lord Voldemort returned to his tower and entered what were once Bella's private chambers. He pulled the magical cord that hung from the ceiling.

Within seconds a female voice called from amidst the flames in the room's fireplace, "You called, mistress?"

She heard, instead, the ominous voice of the lady's master, "It is I who has summoned you, Candace. The plans concerning you have changed."

Moments later a still-young witch, only a few years out of Hogwarts, stepped from the fireplace. She had hazel eyes and cherry-wood hair at the intersection between redhead and brunette. She immediately dropped to her knees and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robe. "How may I serve you, Master?"

"A … misfortune … has occurred," he began silkily, not bidding her to rise. "As a result, Mrs. Lestrange's no longer requires your services as maidservant." He paused for dramatic effect, and his sharp eyes noticed the trembling in her shoulders. "Instead, I now need a nursemaid of sorts. Will you undertake it?"

"Of course," the prone woman affirmed. "You have ordered it."

"Excellent," the Dark Lord drawled, pausing to consider something in the far distance. Finally he spoke again. "Perform well, and you shall be richly rewarded. I may even call upon you to lend a hand in more serious matters."

"I am so flattered, My Lord," was the response. "Let me prove my worth."

"I shall," Voldemort answered with a hiss. "Arise, and let me acquaint you to your new charge."

For fifteen minutes, the Dark Lord instructed the slightly built woman in her tasks as the handmaiden to Bella's current, reduced form. Eventually, he left her to bathe and change the now grotesque parody of a once powerful witch who had been his second.

Lord Voldemort retired to his own suite. He struggled to produce his Patronus, a Runespoor. This spell was another thing that, due to age, descent into Darkness, or something yet unknown, was becoming progressively more difficult.

`All the more reason…,' the Dark Lord thought.

He sent another message, "Snape, come to me. Regrettably, many things have changed including my orders for you. You must assist young Malfoy in a task I have charged him with."

* * * *

Harry sat gingerly on the corner of the still bedridden figure's mattress. "Hey, Nev, how're you keeping? Healer Huxley says you'll be back on your feet before the Term starts."

Neville stirred under his sheets. He looked up from the comfort of a large Gryffindor-striped pillow. "I'm about as you'd expect - for somebody with essentially a replacement shoulder. I'm damn lucky I'm right wanded."

"You look pretty well patched-up to me," Hermione chimed in. She stood next to Harry, her right hand carelessly looped about his waist. "I'm told you've been under Dreamless Sleep Potion until just this morning. How much does it hurt? Really?"

Neville raised his left shoulder and winced visibly. He tried moving his left arm. Below the elbow was no problem, but any movement involving the rotator cuff remained exquisitely painful.

"Aaaugh…. Got a ways to go, yet," a red-faced Neville admitted. "By the way, thanks Hermione. I hear you saved my life…."

Abashed, Hermione protested weakly. "Thank Dobby instead; he needs to hear it. It wasn't me … not much."

"Not according to Healer Huxley," Neville stopped her. "Unless he was having me on about you refusing to leave Stonehenge until we were all accounted for.…"

Hermione's face went pink. "Well … yes, that much is true, I'll give you that…."

"Nor would he have any reason to invent a story about you putting Phoenix Tear Extract on my crushed shoulder the moment they dragged me from the rubble. He seems to think you don't go anywhere without it."

This time she blushed to her toes. "Neville … you know I'd never…. Used it all up…."

"Nev," Harry intervened to rescue his thoroughly embarrassed fiancée, "Lets just leave it at everybody saving everybody else's life that night. That's way easier than trying to keep score."

"But that's not true," Neville responded with complete sincerity. "Harry, you saved everyone … as usual. Hermione saved me, at least. I didn't save anybody. I didn't even see Luna."

"Neville, if you and your enchanted plants hadn't stopped almost a thousand Triads in their tracks for a good half an hour, we'd all have been dead before any goblins ever showed up," Hermione reminded him, looking to Harry for confirmation.

"She's right, Nev," Harry hastened to support his Hermione. "I saw your results from my broom. First, giant thorn bushes to block their way. Once the grandstand toppled you stymied them again with Devil's Snare. After they burnt that away, you halted them a third time with Venomous Tentacula."

Neville's face started to warm. "Yeah … guess you're right, those were good ones - but none of you probably saw my favourite of the lot."

"Well, don't keep us in suspense, mate, what was it?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about this mystery plant.

Neville complied. "I first used the Staff once I knew where the Triads stored their brooms, flying carpets, and the like. I conjured Elapidic-Vined Kudzu cuttings. They took root immediately and completely engulfed their stuff. The Triads tried hacked at it, but every cut spat streams of venom at anyone in the area. I think they gave up because I never saw a single Triad airborne in the whole battle."

Harry knew Neville was right. Nobody else had flown a broom that night. He had encountered Dementors - a big exception - but if Harry had been as outnumbered in the air as the rest of his friends had been on the ground….

Neville truly had saved his life, and Harry told him exactly that. "Without that, Nev, I wouldn't have lasted fifteen minutes. I was hit more than enough just by curses cast from the ground. So, no more cock and bull about you not saving any lives, okay? You certainly saved mine. I'm impressed at you holding out as long as you did. It was you against the world."

Neville then voiced what was on the tip of Hermione's tongue. "You're wrong, Harry. I had help. I had Dobby. He conjured some sort of shield so that the other side couldn't see me - until those Dementors forced me to use my Patronus. Once they located me, it was just a matter of time. I was pinned down, and whilst Dobby could block lots of curses, we were outnumbered by hundreds to one. So much spellfire inevitably broke through the stone protecting me. It fell and buried us both."

Harry and Hermione winced. "Neville, I'm amazed you're still alive," she told him as she squeezed his hand.

"Dobby … he kept the shield up, even amidst the rockfall," Neville went on. "Never seen anything like it. No doubt Gran's elves would have squeaked and ran…."

"That's because they aren't free," Hermione sniffed. "Free elves - elves who can use magic to defend themselves against Wizards - they're … they're … well, you've seen what Dobby can do…."

"I saw, all right," Neville agreed readily. "You know what? If we're tapped for Orders of Merlin because of this…."

"We are," Harry tersely informed him, trying not to break Neville's train of thought.

"Oh … then I really need to ask this," Neville shifted. "Can you direct my Order of Merlin to Dobby? I couldn't have held out five minutes without him."

"Why shouldn't Dobby be awarded one of his own?" Hermione asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He was clearly very brave - and he helped us win as much as anyone, to hear Neville tell it. Dumbledore said everyone who went would get one, didn't he?"

Harry went from being intrigued at Neville's story to being struck dumb. For his part, Neville regarded Hermione as if a writhing nest of serpents had suddenly emerged from her hair.

"Umm … it's just … Dumbledore said…."

"Hermione, I don't think you understand," Neville interrupted, painfully rolling partway onto his good shoulder to look straight at her. "I'm a Pureblood. I've seen this all my life. To wizards who make Order of Merlin awards, house-elves don't exist - not as … well they're mostly considered things - at best, beasts. The Ministry aren't any more likely to award Dobby an Order of Merlin than to confer one on a … on the Thestral I flew there."

Looking grim, Hermione turned to her fiancé. "Just what did Dumbledore say, Harry?"

Harry tried to retrieve that conversation. "Umm ... he said everybody, I'm sure of it."

"But, to him does `everybody' include a house-elf?" Hermione wondered aloud.

"Don't know," Harry had to admit. "But I have a feeling we'll eventually find out."

* * * *

Eerily reprising a previous arrival, the carriage from Hogwarts swooped low over the Estate's demesne. Eight Thestrals spread their wings broadly as the carriage bumped to a landing and slowed to a halt at the front gates. This time no fancy welcome awaited, only Jerry McAllister, Ima Hogg, a footman, and a couple of house-elves.

Harry and Hermione quickly shed their heavy travelling robes.

"I'm going upstairs to supervise. I want everyone's belongings packed properly," Hermione announced, her voice all business. "Can you send Annie and Dobby to help me?" Barely waiting for Ima Hogg's response, Hermione bustled off to the nearest available Floo. "The Proprietor's Suite!" she declared and vanished into the green flames.

The smile with which Harry had seen his fiancée off evaporated as he turned to Jerry McAllister. Steeling himself, he told his majordomo, "We need to talk - about security issues."

Jerry's facial expression did not change, but his shoulders slumped slightly. Harry thus knew that this request - no, order - was not unexpected. "Aye, we do," he spoke as the loyal servant. "May I suggest the Map Room? It's our most secure room, protected by both measures that I oversee and those added by Mister Moody. And … my condolences on your loss…."

That reminder of Mad-Eye's recent death tugged at Harry's emotions, even though mentioned by someone like McAllister. "Thank you," Harry replied, swallowing hard to maintain a stiff upper lip. "I think your suggestion is appropriate."

McAllister immediately turned and led the way. Some of the hovering staff started to follow, but Harry stopped them cold. "Sorry, private."

Minutes later the lights in the Map Room came on, illuminating the wall-sized battle scene that dominated the room. "This way, sir, I think you'll find…."

McAllister's voice hitched as Harry stopped and uttered, "Surveillius revelato." That was not good. The Proprietor had deliberately reconfirmed the presence of his late guardian's precautions himself. Obviously, trust was lacking. Something must have happened - probably involving said guardian.

There was only one thing for the Hufflepuff to do. The moment he dreaded above all else was at hand.

Fortunately, the events of the New Year allowed him to act on his conscience in good conscience.

The throne-like chair was gone - returned to storage for (hopefully) decades. Mechanically, Harry sat behind the massive mahogany Proprietor's desk. McAllister took his accustomed place in one of the two plush velveteen chairs that faced Harry. He had been in this position many times. This, he feared, may well be his last.

McAllister's breath hitched as, in the wink of an eye, Harry's wand was in his hand. Obviously, the Proprietor wore an invisible holster. For a frightening instant McAllister thought he might be hexed - or worse….

"Muffliato," Harry incanted. "Can't be too careful. Now I need answers from you about a disturbing report Mad-Eye gave me before he died. He found what he believed was a very serious and suspicious flaw in the wards."

"Sir, before we start, could I trouble you to look in your top right-hand drawer?" McAllister requested.

Harry nodded and pulled the drawer open while McAllister continued. "You'll find a scroll, tied with Château ribbon…."

"Yes," Harry responded as removed the scroll.

"…and next to it, should be a clear-glass phial…."

"Unh-hunh."

"…The phial contains a dose of Veritaserum…."

"What?"

"And the scroll contains my signed resignation, sir, should you choose to accept it at the end of this conversation. If you will, sir?"

Harry gave McAllister both items. Then he put his hands on the desk, and looked straight at the man. "Jerry, what's going on?"

"Sir, your guardian was correct," McAllister revealed. "More right than he could have imagined. I am responsible. But I've decided to come clean…."

Before Harry could stop him, McAllister knocked back the phial, swallowing the Veritaserum in one gulp.

For fifteen minutes, Jerry McAllister confessed everything that had happened. His long-term love affair with a Muggle, kept secret from his Muggle-hating employers - but evidently not secret enough. His recent encounter with his former employer, Lucius Malfoy, and Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort's right-hand witch. Their threats to kill his mistress in an extremely messy fashion. Their demand, to which he complied, to install a secret "back door" in the Château's wards that they could access.

"I don't get it," Harry muttered. The allotted time for their conversation had far been exceeded, yet the answers remained maddeningly obscure. "Why have you decided to tell me all this now?"

"Because I can, sir," McAllister answered, with yet more maddening obscurity.

Harry had other things to do - a final dip with Hermione in the pool topping the list - and he was tempted just to sack the man and be done with it. Would he need to show his wand again to encourage a swift departure? But something about the way McAllister talked - he sounded liberated, like Sirius being let out of Azkaban….

"Why can you … now, at least?" Harry tried again. "Were you cursed?"

"Sir, I'm a Hufflepuff," McAllister began.

"Why does that matter? And can't you stop the `sir' business?" Harry responded sharply. His hands went to his forehead. "Sorry … I've got enough going on to drive me mental as it is."

"No problem," McAllister demurred. "But please understand; I'm doing this partly to do the old Sorting Hat proud. I am loyal to this estate and to you as Proprietor more than to anything else in the world - except for one…."

"Emmie Puckle," Harry answered. It was logical.

"Aye, right in one," McAllister responded. "And now, thanks to you, she's safe."

"Thanks to me?" Harry echoed rather stupidly

For the first time in this conversation, McAllister smiled broadly. "I guessed what you did, at least the outline. I'd been planning, meself, ever since that horrible day I'd learnt that Death Eaters were holding her hostage, only without her knowledge. I was hoping against hope…. I saw my chance, and I took it. She's overseas now … a long, long way away…. I don't care much now if they kill me."

Harry was surprised. Until then, he had assumed that his New Years getaway had been flawless. "How did you know?"

"When you went missing, I was flabbergasted, and the entire staff was in shock. It was passing strange to start with, the Ministry's unusual security precautions and all, but when not just you, but your friends, all disappeared sudden-like … well, something had to be up."

Had a security breach occurred on his end? "How?" Harry essentially repeated his question.

"You took your two minders - that Tonks, but especially Mad-Eye … er … Alastor Moody. You even took Dobby, but nobody from the Estate."

"That was a giveaway?" Harry asked, appalled at the simplicity of the explanation.

"Once I gave it some thought, aye," McAllister confirmed, after considering his answer. "Mister Moody, obviously, was nobody to be trifled with. Since he not only didn't stop you, but went with you, something had to be serious. Short of Death Eaters, I can't think of much that would prompt Mister Moody to go along with whatever exactly you did…."

"True enough," Harry had to confirm. Just being around Mad-Eye had been enough for McAllister to realise how paranoid the ex-Auror had become after his year in Barty Crouch's trunk. "We discovered that Death Eaters had taken one of my best friends, Ron Weasley, and we had to save him."

"Aye, that much we all know … now," McAllister shrugged. "We've seen the papers. If you haven't, I make sure to keep a complete set of Prophets in the sitting room. You've reaped excellent press, and you'll doubtless get more. That three-pronged attack, your crew, the goblins and the Aurors, sounds like a masterpiece - pure and simple."

Harry winced noticeably. Dumbledore had told him that the Ministry would play fast and loose with certain aspects of that night's events - especially its own lack of preparation - but this was Harry's first concrete encounter with that strategy. Truth was never simple, and rarely pure.

McAllister sensed on Harry's reaction. "I'm sorry, did I offend you somehow?"

"Nah," Harry replied briskly. "It's just … well, you probably don't need telling, but much of what's in the Prophet isn't exactly accurate."

McAllister paused. "True, but from where I sit, it doesn't matter much. Your taking Dobby meant one thing - you were desperate for help, but you didn't trust me or the staff. I chalked that up to Mister Moody. He'd been out checking the wards…. Once you went missing, everyone was in such a panic. We'd never out and out lost a Proprietor before, let alone one as new and different as yourself."

"I ordered the entire grounds searched. Even I was paranoid; I ordered house-elves to search, too. They, at least would tell me if somehow you turned up murdered on the grounds. Exhausting that possibility, I started sending out owls to anybody in authority whom I could reach. Then Annie informed me about helping you and your … oh, don't know how to describe her, to tell the truth…."

"Just call her `Hermione'," Harry told him. "We confuse the goblins the same way, so they do that. Anyway, what did Annie say?"

And so Harry's unhappy haystack received another straw. Annie was Hermione's favourite, but instead of keeping mum, as promised, she had grassed.

Seeing his boss' face cloud, McAllister offered a defence. "You weren't here. Members of the staff were panicking, accusing one another. It was possible that you'd been kidnapped, probably by Death Eaters - and that meant, aye, some of the staff had to be involved. Fingers were being pointed. If Mister Moody returned and you didn't ... there would be absolute Hell to pay."

"Annie came to me, in confidence, and explained that you'd all left of your own accord and how she'd secretly helped you obtain our Thestrals. She thought that, from your behaviour and the tenor of your conversations, you were expecting to fight Death Eaters. I used all that to calm people down - such as it was."

Harry could not feel altogether wronged by Annie. Frankly, he had not thought about what his disappearance would leave in its wake at the Château.

"When Death Eaters did show up, a couple of hours later, I knew Annie was right," McAllister added, leaning forward for emphasis.

Harry began wondering how abrupt his departure must have seemed. He was stupid. How could he think that he - the bloody Proprietor - could just up and leave without a trace?

"…Those Death Eaters who showed up were so disorganised, so obviously leaderless, that I knew you must have won somehow."

"Disorganised? Leaderless? How could you tell?" Harry inquired sharply. This conversation was suddenly much more interesting - the first eye-witness account concerning Death Eaters after their expulsion from Stonehenge.

"Oh, Reggie and Bella used to bring their Dark friends to the Château," McAllister explained, warming to his story even under Veritaserum. "Their presence used to drive Proprietor Orion to distraction, but indiscipline, at least, was not one of their faults. Those we found stumbling about in the dark just beyond our wards were pathetic, by comparison. With any sense at all, they would've used that back door I told you about. But whatever the Death Eaters were doing was so bollixed that they didn't have either of the two who could use it."

"Two?" Harry asked, intrigued at this information.

"Aye, Lucius Malfoy and Bella," McAllister told Harry, as both instinctively felt for their wands. "Only they accosted me, so I could only match their auras to that back door."

"Both of them were at Stonehenge," Harry commented in a low, steady voice. "Where they went after that, I don't know."

"Not here, at any rate," McAllister answered. "Good thing. Had those two come, things would have been much more difficult. As it was, they fled after only a few minutes of trading wandfire. Then, I took my big gamble…."

"What did you do?" Harry asked the obvious question.

"I bet everything on you - all in," McAllister stated with great seriousness. "If I miscalculated, I expected to die. You'll find another envelope, well sealed, in that drawer where I put my resignation letter and the potion."

Harry opened the drawer and looked inside. "The black envelope with the silver ribbon around it?"

"Aye, sir, that's the one," McAllister quickly confirmed. "No need to read it now. It's basically what I've already told you."

"What the hell were you thinking?" Harry asked sceptically. "With me gone, your frolic and detour was dangerous."

"Aye, but I had no choice," McAllister maintained his ground. "It was then or never. I'd been planning to rescue my Emma for weeks. I had it worked out - how to get her away and where to take her. I just needed the right moment, when the Death Eaters weren't watching her, at least not closely, to make a break for it. Seeing the ones near the Château, and knowing … well, thinking I knew … what you'd been up to. I went for it."

"You left the Château even more leaderless than I did," Harry reproached.

"Not really," McAllister defended his actions. "Ima is perfectly capable of running the place. I told her I wanted to walk the perimeter - to check the most important wards. But that was a ruse. The telemetry alone showed that they were operating flawlessly, including Mister Moody's alarm. Once I was alone, I Apparated to a spot I'd selected with a pre-made Portkey. I had Emma out in less than ten minutes. She's safe and sound now, and far away from here. So I can tell you everything. With her safe, what happens to me doesn't matter…."

"That's how I feel about Hermione," Harry commented.

"I suspect our reasons are similar, sir," McAllister responded most truthfully.

"True enough," Harry agreed. He paused, uncertain what to do. It lengthened enough to become uncomfortable.

"Umm … I'm awaiting your judgment, sir," McAllister prompted nervously.

Harry was a bit taken aback. "Judgment in what?"

"I've handed you my resignation," he reminded. "It's up to you to accept it, or not."

Harry was extremely conflicted. McAllister had committed a grievous security breach. Yet, the circumstances were extenuating - and he had volunteered everything without prompting. Another question was how to handle the breach itself, the back door to the wards. Moody had alarmed it, but that was all.

Harry's gut told him that McAllister was a good man. He had a similar reaction, earlier, to Jazzy - who had once tried to kill him, more or less. In her case, his gut had made a correct choice.

"You know the wards, I'm told, better than anyone," Harry began. "If you mend the rent you created, do you think the Death Eaters would find out?"

"They would have to test the ward," McAllister replied, fidgeting over whether he was to be sacked. "They could run a test easily enough, but a repair, by itself, would not alert them."

Harry had another question. "If we left it as is, could you add … for lack of more precise language … a monitoring charm to detect someone passing through it?"

"It's keyed to those two … those two's auras," McAllister was too disgusted to utter the Death Eaters' names. "I could easily add a Proximal Perusing Charm to detect their presence - but only if they actually crossed the boundary. That same entry would presumably trigger the alarm placed by Mister Moody."

"Could your charm send a signal to me when triggered?" Harry persisted.

"Aye, that would be no problem," McAllister reported, still not sure where Harry was going. "I could lodge the charm receiver in something tough - a garnet's as tough as anything - so you would know instantly if either of them crossed the threshold, so to speak."

Harry made up his mind. "Do it, then."

McAllister was somewhat baffled at the order. "And what exactly would that be, sir?" he asked pointedly.

"Everything we've just discussed," Harry said quickly. "Oh, and take down Mad-Eye's alarm charm. Leave your handiwork exactly as the Death Eaters expect. If they come by, I don't want them to think that anything's amiss."

McAllister could scarcely believe his ears. "Sir! Excuse me for speaking freely, but that will compromise the security of the Château."

"Not if I can help it," Harry said firmly. "And as for this…."

Wand in hand, Harry held up the beribboned scroll that was McAllister's resignation letter. "…Your resignation is most definitely not accepted. Flambus!"

The scroll burst into flames and was gone moments later.

"Thank you, sir," McAllister nodded. "But respectfully I still think you're endangering the Château…."

"No, I'm setting a trap," Harry declared. "What happened the other day - that's only the beginning. I'll be fighting Death Eaters again. What better place than here? I'm the Proprietor. All the Château's enchantments respond to me. Since I have to fight them, here is my best chance. If Malfoy and Lestrange are stupid enough to come to me … then let them."

"That's risky, but it could work," McAllister observed. "I'll do my best to ensure that every enchantment is in tiptop shape. I mean, as your majordomo, I would anyway … but knowing that those two could get theirs … that's extra incentive." McAllister's eyes gleamed for a second. "But still, what about the staff…? They could be casualties in all this."

"I suppose I ought to talk to them," Harry agreed.

"Sir, I strongly disagree with telling them all. I frankly can't vouch for everyone's loyalty," McAllister counselled, leaning forward to emphasise his point. "We need a revised Unbreakable Vow procedure. Even if everyone's loyal, it's still too many people to keep any secret."

"I may not be Hermione, but that doesn't make me stupid," Harry retorted. "Let's redo the loyalty vows and give anybody the chance to resign with full benefits beforehand."

"Aye, sir," McAllister withdrew his protest.

"Stop sirring me," Harry reminded. "And before I do that, I want to address the house-elves. Make sure they're all available in … umm … say two hours."

"It will be done, s…." McAllister caught himself just in time, producing a tight smile from Harry.

"Thank you."

"Will you be needing anything before then?" McAllister asked. His first job was to make the Proprietor comfortable.

"I'm going to see Hermione. You know what they say about `all work and no play,'" Harry said with a grin. "Just keep our privacy. Dobby will know how to find us."

* * * *

The massive oak and cast iron door opened of its own accord. Harry slipped in.

"Well, there you are," came a welcoming voice. "I was wondering if you'd a spot of bother - a staff rebellion or some such…."

"Nope, things just took longer than expected - the law of everything going wrong, taking longer and all that," Harry shrugged, but the look on his face was not nearly as annoyed as his words.

"Oh, yes," Hermione concurred as she approached. "Mister Sod's axiom is pretty much the rule for the last couple of years, isn't it? Who knows, maybe your whole life - save the last few months, I hope." She kissed him. "What was it this time?"

"That can wait for the carriage ride back," Harry put off her question whilst encircling her with his arms. "I recall that we have a little swim date right about now."

"We most certainly do," Hermione purred. "I owe you one from the other day, and it's about time to make good."

"I can't wait! Let's go," Harry beckoned her through the door. "Did you get what you wanted whilst I was otherwise occupied?"

"No, but I will now," she parried whilst grabbing a firm handful of Harry's arse, making him jump.

"Hey! We're not there yet!" Harry mockingly protested. "And you didn't answer my question."

Hermione looked at him, she hoped seductively, "Oh yes I did. As for your other meaning, I could use your response to me…."

"Hermione…."

"…But I won't. Yes, I have what I needed, and nobody saw me, so I'm in a doubly good mood."

"So what did you choose?"

"I'm not sure," Hermione admitted. "Another book from the same crypt, but I'm not sure what it is. That's not as important as proving authenticity. If one's legit, chances are they all are."

"All right," Harry agreed, satisfied. "Do you have the Gillyweed?"

"Yup."

"Bathing costumes?"

"Yup, although I don't expect we'll be wearing them very long. How about you?"

"Ditto."

"Dobby will stand watch, right?"

"He'll stand guard, but I truly doubt he'll watch."

"You! You know what I mean."

"I sure do, and I can't wait."

"So let's go, then."

"Yes, let's."

As promised, Dobby met the pair at the door to the indoor pool. The elf sported a green and black bandana decorated with the Château's chambered nautilus insignia. Covering his large, leathery ears were ear muffs of the pink and fluffy sort used at Hogwarts.

"Did you collect all of our clothes for later?" Harry asked Dobby as Hermione led the way to the changing space.

"They's being as Harry Potter sir ordered," Dobby cheerfully reported.

"Good," then Harry turned serious. "Now at the meeting, don't act like anything I do is strange or shocking - even if it is. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir! Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby practically squealed.

As Harry followed Hermione inside the pool area, the last he saw of Dobby was the elf readjusting his bandana - to cover his eyes.

Harry changed into his own little black Speedos. Joining Hermione on the deck, he was shocked. No, Hermione was not wearing anything flesh-toned camouflaged. Nor was she in some other sheer costume. Rather, Hermione had selected a one-piece candy-striped costume. It strongly resembled Emmeline Vance's outfit at Brighton several months earlier.

`If you can't say something nice….' Harry refrained from commenting. Hermione's own adage - men should avoid discussing a woman's age, hairstyle, or clothes - seemed particular apropos of the woman herself. "What shape for the pool do you want today?" he asked her evenly. "We've tried the sphere and the oval, and the cube is too ordinary…."

"What's the infinity sign shape?" Hermione asked as she looked over his shoulder, her arm going to his waist.

"That's an exercise mode. It's shaped like that whatchamacallit strip you told me about…."

"You mean a Möbius strip?" she quickly asked.

"That's the one. Good for my swimming laps whilst you're practising on your violin, but not for much else," Harry told her.

"Well, let's try the tetrahedron, then," Hermione suggested.

"The what?" He cocked his head.

"The pyramid," she clarified. "Technically a four-sided one."

"Umm … okay," Harry tapped his wand on the triangular shape. The pool behaved predictably. Valves opened at the top of the room. Water roared in. In a minute or so, a liquid pyramid shaped by four identical equilateral triangular sides had formed - filling the four-storey space to the extent geometrically possible. The pool deck carrying Harry and Hermione ascended the two were on rose to the midway point. It automatically resized, growing smaller as it rose.

The shrinking deck brought a second, previously overlooked, control panel towards the pair.

"What's on that one?" Harry asked.

Hermione examined it. "Hmm … it selects the composition of the water. The settings are `fresh,' `salt,' `sparkling,' `chlorinated,' `poly,' `heavy,' and `IVV.' The default must be `fresh.'"

"Sparkling water sounds like fun," Harry offered, in a voice he intended as suggestive.

Hermione vetoed the idea. "As enticing those little bubbles might be, they're filled with carbon dioxide. That's incompatible with the Gillyweed. We couldn't breathe."

"Well, salt water tastes yucky," Harry ruled out that option, "and chlorinated water hurts my eyes - and I hope I'll see a little more of you."

"Don't worry, you will," Hermione assured, trying to be suggestive without giving away the game. "I think we can rule out polywater. The magical kind is more like jelly. Too sticky to swim in … or do anything else. And heavy water? We're not trying to float. I wonder what IVV is?"

Curiously Hermione pressed that option. Instantly, the pyramid changed colour from slightly bluish to a dark red.

"What is it, Harry?"

He poked his finger into the pyramid's side, tasted it, and quickly stuck out his tongue in disgust. "Tastes alcoholic."

"It does have that odour," Hermione observed. "I suppose it stands for `in vino veritas.'"

"Well, good, old original fresh is fine by me," Harry remarked impatiently.

"Agreed, let's use fresh." Hermione returned the prism-shaped pool to its original composition. Next, she reached into her beaded bag and removed a compact handful of what resembled slimy, grey-green nightcrawlers. "Want some?"

"Abso-bloody-lutely."

She divided the gelatinous mass and tossed half to Harry. "Catch."

Harry utilised Seeker reflexes to pluck a less-substantial-than-expected share of the Gillyweed from midair. Hermione gobbled up her half and started chewing furiously.

A bit put off by Hermione's old-fashioned garb, Harry was tentative. "Well, don't you think … umm … we should…?"

He never finished his thought - it being interrupted by big, sloppy, open-mouthed, Gillyweed-juice-drooling kiss from his fiancée.

Breaking that kiss, she said breathily, "We certainly should…. Last one in's a spoilt Ashwinder egg." Her now-visible gills gasping in the air, Hermione took two quick steps and dove headfirst through the pyramidal wall of water.

The flow of cool water restored Hermione's equilibrium. Swimming effortlessly with webbed feet and hands, Hermione spun until she had an unobstructed view of Harry, and he of her.

Caught flat-footed, Harry could only watch the ripples die away.

Before his eyes, a most amazing thing happened. Hermione's Edwardian bathing costume faded away - entirely.

Her voice was in his head. `It's a Peppermint Panties^® outfit, Harry. Dissolves in water, leaving only a fresh, minty flavour….'

Harry's higher thought faculties shut down as his blood rushed elsewhere.

Gnawing furiously on his helping of Gillyweed, Harry hopped on one foot whilst struggling to divest himself of his suddenly all-too-confining Speedos. "Oh, bloody Hell - Evanesco!" Wandless magic was dead useful.

Drifting lazily in the water, accustoming herself to her lungs' new function as fish maws, Hermione heard the splash from Harry's dive.

Underwater, speech was harder than telepathy. `Open your legs and close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise….'

Fresh and minty, indeed.

Hermione readily complied, but with webbed fingers, grabbing the back of her knees was the limit of her flexibility. Wandless magic, however, was wonderful.

"Animadverto iam!"

With no wand to attract it, Hermione's magic - a Notice-Me-Now Charm - flowed instead to her great toes.

`Whoa,' she heard Harry Legilimence. `You think I need landing lights?'

`I hope not; we've yet to take off.'

`Requesting clearance for take off.'

`Cleared, you are.'

Harry went to radio silence. Hermione's entire body quivered in anticipation - particularly her most sensitive….

Ooh, was that him, or just her own hyperactive imagination?

She felt it again. Oh, Merlin! That was him. He had charmed his tongue again.

His Gillyweed-extended hands grasped her buttocks, pulling her onto him.

Hermione simultaneously felt burning hot and bracingly cold - in the same spots. Reaching down, she grabbed fistfuls of his wild, floating hair and hung on for dear life.

It was indescribable….

Some indefinite time later, following however many roller coaster highs, Hermione decided that she wanted him.

`You're amazing, Harry, but now it's my turn. I owe you one, after all.'

`That's not why I do this.'

`Me neither…. Now c'mere.'

Weightlessness was wonderful - more wonderful than peppermint. Not even having to pause in his own ministrations, Harry let Hermione pivot him about until….

He inhaled water at her lips' familiar touch. Her hands caressed his backside. Without ado, she took him in - enveloped him. Oh, yes…. He must have been extraordinarily good in some prior life to deserve this - to deserve her.

Mighty Morgaine, he felt more than mandibular muscles nearing his navel. What was she doing now?

She was humming….

Oh … sweet … aaahhhhh….

He was putty in her … umm … hands. If, after she started that, he lasted a minute, that would be plenty.

It was only the end of the beginning.

Their allotted time passed in a blur. Six available degrees of freedom dramatically expanded the range of possible positions. Nevermore would either view the Starfish and Stick as merely a Quidditch move.

Weightlessness, however, had its disadvantages. With naught to push off and little save each other to grab, most of the newfound exotic positions required more exertion than the two lovers anticipated. The phrase "full body workout" took on a new secondary meeting.

Harry knew that Hermione was brilliant - that went almost without saying. When she solved their latest little problem, his high regard burgeoned into awe.

Hermione was knackered. Without gravity, pushing and pulling both required effort. Since her workout scheduling had been lax, it was bloody tiring.

Reflexively, she exhaled a great breath. Breathing by gills, that was wholly unnecessary. Except….

…With her lungs acting as fish maws, that great breath cost her buoyancy. Since the pair were topsy-turvy at that moment, she pulled away from Harry - a most inopportune development.

Against that movement, Hermione overcompensated.

"Ow!"

She heard Harry's yelp even underwater.

She Legilimenced, `Oh, I'm sorry, Harry.'

`I think I'm bent.'

`Dear, dear … traumatic Peyronie's.'

`What does paying Ron have to do with anything…? That hurt.'

`No I meant…. Harry I've an idea!' The timbre to Hermione's voice abruptly jumped with this Eureka moment. `First, let's get you back where you belong….'

That was easily accomplished. Harry's yelp had been largely anticipatory, dampening his ardor only a bit.

`Now, on my count of two,' she instructed. `On two, breathe out - with your lungs, I mean. One, two….'

Ooooh… They both felt it.

It was outstanding.

In short order, they discovered how to substitute buoyancy for gravity during submarine erotic acrobatics - or so Hermione described it. Before long, they advanced past counting, and were communicating rhythmically on more fundamental levels.

All too soon, their time expired. The squealing of a klaxon signified that their precious hour was over.

They emerged, gasping but well satisfied, just as their gills receded.

"That was … wow … Hermione," an appreciative Harry gasped as he struggled onto the deck. His next remark, however, did in any hopes of recommencing festivities on solid ground. "But why such small portions, Hermione? We could have gone longer…."

"No, we couldn't, Harry," his fiancée's clinically informed him. "Gillyweed isn't safe for use more than once every couple of weeks. It's strong stuff with potentially serious knock-on effects. Any more and we'd be risking things. That's why I lowered the amount."

"What kind of effects?" Harry wanted to know.

"If used to excess, Gillyweed's effects can take many hours - even days - to resolve. We could be trapped in this pool … like fish in a barrel, really … for that long. That's why I reduced how much we chewed. Even so, we were only on the cusp of safe use."

Having a pre-Healer for a partner certainly had its advantages - but she could be rather much of a killjoy.

So, it was back to business, the "business" being Harry's address to the house-elves. Hermione could handle most of the planning, but Harry as Proprietor had to undertake the great bulk of the actual presentation.

This speech caused him more anxiety than did his earlier oration to thousands of armed goblins.

That speech followed goblin tradition - this one would attempt to overturn centuries of elfin practice.

Thus, upon leaving the cavernous Proprietor's Suite for the last time, Harry sought comfort in confirmation.

"The plaque is prepared?"

"Yes, Mister McAllister has it," she responded.

"Dobby's okay with his role?"

"I daresay he's as tense as you are," Hermione informed him. "Especially about the bit with me. But he'll do anything for you."

"You're all right with this, too?"

"I think it's the best thing to do," Hermione allowed. "It's not an Unforgiveable, after all."

"And McAllister knows where we'll do this?"

Hermione responded with a low, but audible chuckle. "He does now," she continued. "When I first raised it, he admitted he hadn't visited the elves' quarters in fifty years. Wizards just don't go there, it seems. But he's discovered how to get there, and he says he's made arrangements for it to be presentable…."

"Presentable?"

"He told me the place reeked," Hermione explained. "Probably some of the elves aren't much better than old Kreacher about keeping their own quarters clean. At the mere mention of you visiting, I'll bet they cleaned everything quite smartly."

At her mention of the traitorous elf responsible for Sirius' death, Harry made a rude face, but the present day intervened. "There's Jerry now," he pointed as they descended the grand staircase.

Sure enough, the newly reconfirmed majordomo stood at the foot of the stairs. Dobby was with him.

"Jerry, are you ready?" Harry greeted. "Sorry we're late. We.…"

Hermione glared at him.

"…Umm … we got distracted…. Lost track of time," Harry finished rather vaguely.

"Think nothing of it," Jerry replied with an air of studied neutrality. Noting Hermione's reaction, he started leading the way. "Everything's as ready as it can be. But before we get to that, I've something you wanted."

Jerry produced a small silver box, maybe two centimetres cubed. He popped it open and handed it to Harry.

Harry took a look inside, as Hermione craned her neck for a peek. Glimmering against a black velvet background were two flawless blood-red garnets. Compared to most precious stones he had seen in the Black family collection, these were tiny - less than three millimetres across, each weighing no more than a carat.

"You did it, already?" Harry asked.

"Aye, charmed `em meself," Jerry confirmed. "I know the wards better than anyone."

"What's this all about?" Hermione asked. It was news to her.

"I'm setting a trap…."

Jerry sharply cut off his boss. "Not here." Providentially, they were just passing the Map Room. Jerry motioned them inside.

"Harry, what are you doing?" Hermione repeated.

"I would've told you on the trip home," Harry replied a bit defensively. "Jerry just told me. Death Eaters forced him to compromise the wards. He was under duress…."

"Duress … Harry, why is he still here…?" Hermione was nearly incandescent.

Harry looked straight at her. "I know how he feels, Hermione. I'd have done it, too, to save your life."

"What!?"

"Long story, but no longer meaning much," Harry quickly continued. "Whilst we fought Death Eaters at Stonehenge, he helped her escape. Then he immediately told me everything. The wards contain a trap door of sorts that only Lestrange or Malfoy, Lucius that is, can access. But they don't know we know. These garnets … will … umm … just what will they do?" He turned to McAllister.

"If Bellatrix Lestrange passes through, the stone on the right will warm up, not dangerously, but enough that it will be unmistakable," Jerry detailed. "With Malfoy, same thing, only it's the one on the left. I recommend wearing them on the underside of jewelry. A ring, watch, or bracelet … or else some sort of piercing. That is, if you're so inclined…."

Harry rolled his eyes at that last suggestion.

"Harry, what are you trying to do?" Hermione bored in. "Why haven't you fixed the wards?"

"Like I said, they don't know we know," Harry reiterated. "All the Château's wards and other defences respond to me. If I have to fight them anywhere, let it be here - with the benefit of surprise. It's a trap…."

"But for whom, Harry?" Hermione remonstrated. "You - and I - aren't the only ones here. What about the staff and the house-elves? They could be captured, or caught in the cross-fire. Death Eaters won't hesitate to torture or kill them if it serves their purpose. To maintain surprise, you couldn't tell them. They're sitting ducks. You can't do this…."

"I have to do this, Hermione," Harry resisted. "Bellatrix Lestrange killed Sirius. Malfoy - he would have happily killed you at the Ministry. And … well, you know…."

Hermione would not let the matter drop. "And we can't guarantee our luck will hold next time. Who knows how outnumbered we may be? The elves might not do what we want."

McAllister had been quite content to stay out of the "discussion" between the Proprietor and the (de facto) Proprietress. "What you need is an escape hatch," he chimed in. "That can be arranged."

"What do you mean, `escape hatch'?" Harry quickly asked.

"Something like those bomb shelters Muggles used to build," McAllister answered. He saw Hermione giving him a strange look. "I - I fell in love with a Muggle. That's how I know," he said quietly.

"I see," she grumbled, barely mollified. "How's this idea supposed to work?"

"The same spellwork powering these garnets is easily adapted to sound an alarm here," Jerry described his idea. "I can drill the staff - and the elves - on evacuation procedures, for other emergencies, of course. Given how far away the breach would be…."

Listening to Jerry, Harry had an idea. "I think we can do better," he cut over him. "Forget a shelter. It can be an exit - one I'd be installing eventually."

"What sort of exit?" Hermione asked sceptically.

"Underground - to the goblins," Harry proposed. "Slamdor would insist on one eventually…."

An even more inspired look appeared on Harry's face.

"…And it's also a route here for goblin reinforcements," Hermione finished.

"Brilliant," Jerry intoned. If the Prophet's accounts of the Battle of Stonehenge were halfway accurate, they're plainly fierce fighters.

"Harry Potter, sir? Miz Myown?" Dobby spoke for the first time since Harry and Hermione arrived.

Harry looked down attentively. "Yes, Dobby?"

"If what we's being doing works, house-elves won't be needing to `vacuate," he pointed out. "We's could fight, too."

"That's right, Dobby," Hermione encouraged. "So we should get on with it." She turned on her heel and came face to face with the room's wall-sized painting.

Hermione came to an abrupt halt. "I … don't … believe … it," she mumbled.

"Hermione, are you all right?" Harry hastened to her side.

"That painting … it's…."

"The Château's Leonardo," McAllister specified, pride evident in his voice.

"But … the Muggles - this has been missing for centuries," Hermione continued as her composure returned.

"True enough," McAllister confirmed, "as with most of our Muggle collection."

Hermione looked rather askance at him. "The Rembrandt?"

"Storm on the Sea of Galilee, of course."

"The Michelangelo?"

"This one's twin, of course," McAllister replied with a bit of a smile.

Hermione's brow furrowed. "Of course, the Battle of Cascina to go with the Battle of Anghiari…. But why have the Blacks stolen Muggle art work?"

"The Blacks have done no such thing," McAllister huffed. "We rescued them. The buffoon who owned that palazzo…. He would have ruined them both. The thieves who stole Storm - they had no idea how to preserve art. It would have rotted."

Rather to Harry's surprise, Hermione relented. The artwork, although significant, was not her intended focus. "I should be thanking you, then." She strode from the room, the others following.

"Which way to the elves?" Harry asked when everyone was in the hall.

"With the no inside Apparition rule it's a bit roundabout for us wizards. The only passage large enough for us is the delivery entrance," McAllister explained. "I'll lead."

"Dobby, why don't you go ahead," Hermione told the elf. "It's best for everyone to have fair warning."

"A very good thing, indeed," Dobby bobbed his head. He quickly vanished.

The Château's immaculate walls and polished floors grew progressively less immaculate and polished. McAllister led the pair through a green baize door, past the (human) staff quarters, the kitchen, the laundry…. Proprietors visited these areas of the Château once a century, if that.

"Once again, I apologise for the conditions, but there's no other entrance," McAllister puffed. "Elfin tunnels are far worse - hands and knees only."

They rounded a corner. The walls were now bare brick and occasional stone. The narrow corridor led to a large space, perhaps double the ground floor at Harry's uncle's house. That this room was at the very base of the Château was evident from four massive stone pillars that pierced the elves' dwelling space.

Despite an obvious effort to cleanse the place for an event as rare as a Proprietor's visit, the elves' best efforts could not remove the unmistakable odour of generations of close-quartered living. The noisome combination of cleaning fluid and sweat reminded him forcefully of Dudley's old gym.

More than any stink, the elves made a strong impression. Their sheer numbers were startling. Elves were everywhere. They perched upon rough wooden benches and piled atop equally crude tables shoved against the walls to give their august visitors space. Other elves poked their heads from rows of dingy cubbyholes that, fronted by threadbare curtains, passed for the elves' "private" quarters.

These niches - some inhabited by entire elfin families - disgusted Harry even more than Hermione. Even from a distance these quarters were plainly smaller than the cupboard he had called home during most of his first eleven years of life.

All told, Harry saw dozens - no, scores - of elves. If Hogwarts employed Britain's largest staff of house-elves, as Hermione once discovered, then Château Blackwalls must run a close second.

Most elves were "dressed" in the Château's uniform of blackish burlap sacks (in varying states of disrepair) tied about the middle with silver cinctures. Some elves, whom neither Harry nor Hermione had seen before, wore considerably less. Younger elfin children wore nothing. News of the Proprietor's visit had plainly spread far and wide. Interspersed amongst the diminutive house-elves were a number of physically larger but more rudely dressed field-elves - although they were not specifically invited.

Harry squeezed Hermione's and stepped forward, whilst she deliberately held back.

He was about to address a crowd, the vast majority of whom viewed themselves as chattel, as Harry's property, and nothing more. Harry's speech, and actions, would be viewed by many, wizard and elf alike, as radical - even revolutionary.

But Hermione felt strongly, and Harry agreed, that it must be done.

"I'm Harry Potter," he began gently. "As you know, I'm the new Proprietor of Château Blackwalls. You work for me. I'm here to talk to you about what's happened over the last few days, and why things can't be how they've been…."

Harry stopped and motioned for McAllister to bring out a large, flat object wrapped in the same burlap that the Château issued ordinary elves in lieu of clothes. Harry leaned this mystery parcel prominently against his legs and continued speaking.

"The other night three incredibly brave house-elves, Crikey, Phrumpy and Blonny, died when the Black city house, at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, in London, burnt down. That same night, as I'm sure you know, I left here secretly to fight a bunch of Death Eaters. To help, I took your new head house-elf, Dobby, with me. Dobby…?"

Harry beckoned with one hand. On cue, the gaudily garbed free elf stepped forward and stood at Harry's side. Both knew that Dobby was considered odd - if not bizarre - by most of the assembled house-elves (and likewise by the bulk of the wizard staff). Dobby's authority would be critical in what was to follow.

"These two events, my Death Eater fight and Grimmauld's destruction, are related," Harry told everyone bluntly. "The three elves who died in my service were among the best working at the Château. Dobby hand-picked them, with my approval, to work on my most important new project, to restore Grimmauld Place, after over a decade's neglect, to a place I'd want to live in, if necessary."

Pausing for effect, and then sighing with real emotion, Harry continued. "But that project's beside the point. Grimmauld's gone. Crikey, Phrumpy and Blonny acted heroically and saved most of the furnishings. They literally gave their lives for a rundown house that mattered only because I said so. And for what? To lie in that barren, nameless plot where you bury your kin? As the new Proprietor, I think not - their sacrifice deserves remembrance."

Harry's wand leapt to his hand. With a quick Severing Charm the black burlap covering the mystery item fell away.

"For their valour, I'm honouring Crikey, Phrumpy and Blonny today as the first three recipients of the Blackwalls Special Services Award, to be permanently commemorated by this plaque." Harry gestured at a gadrooned oval-shaped plaque of shimmering silver mounted on a rectangular slab of richly polished walnut. Altogether it was nearly a metre long and about half that tall.

"This tea tray was salvaged from the fire at Grimmauld Place," Harry explained. "It's mounted on the top of a desk they also rescued. There's space for many more of these gold name plates … honours that I hope won't be won so dearly. Jerry…. Hermione…."

With Jerry's help, Harry hefted the plaque to one of the few prominent blank spaces on the wall. Deliberately avoiding magic, Harry used a large, U-shaped hand drill to bore four good-sized holes in the bare brick for mounting the plaque. He fit four even larger screws through the desktop and drove them into the holes. Only after the plaque was securely attached the hard way did Harry add a solid Sticking Charm.

If not for the relentless scrape of metal against brick, one could hear a pin drop throughout Harry's exertion.

"Jerry, please clean it up," Harry puffed when finally finished. The Château's majordomo produced a rag and some polish. He removed both fingerprints and brick dust from the plaque.

As McAllister worked, Harry caught his breath. Then he declared, "From now on it's the majordomo's personal duty to come down here every six months and to clean this plaque properly. That way the wizard staff will remember what they owe to your efforts. If that doesn't happen, I want to know, and I expect you to tell me. That's an order."

Driving screws into brick with naught save hand tools was hard work, particularly in the hot and sticky air in the elves' quarters. Borrowing a serviette from Hermione, Harry mopped his brow and wiped off sweat that was dribbling down the inside of his glasses' lenses.

"Now for the main reason I want to talk to you directly. I was away fighting Death Eaters when Grimmauld burnt. As I've mentioned, those two events were doubtlessly related. Fiendfyre destroyed Grimmauld, and only Death Eaters can do that. As brave as Crikey, Phrumpy and Blonny were, they couldn't lift a finger to stop them. Why? Because bound elves can't use magic against wizards - any wizards."

"Dobby would have been at Grimmauld, except he came with me to help fight Death Eaters," Harry explained, beginning the most delicate part of his presentation. "He did so gladly. With one of my friends, Dobby held almost a thousand Death Eaters at bay for half an hour. If Dobby weren't there, I would have been killed. It's that simple."

After briefly locking eyes with Dobby's adoring orbs, Harry refocussed on his audience. "There's more. We also know that Death Eaters were near the Château that night. We suspect, but can't prove, that they intended to attack. It might happen again. You know, as I know, that I'm a Death Eater target, as are Hermione and the rest of my friends. Seeing Dobby in action has convinced me that I am better served by free elves who can use magic to fight Death Eaters than by bound elves who can't. Dobby, if you will…."

With no overt warning, Harry whirled around, his wand pointed straight at Hermione. "Incarcerous!" he yelled.

Ropes streamed from his wand, but before they could immobilise Hermione, Dobby made a sweeping motion with his arms. A burst of elfin magic swept the ropes aside and jolted Harry hard enough to plant him roughly on his bum.

Dobby's use of magic against the Proprietor himself caused noticeable grumbling amongst the assembled house-elves. Some even began advancing on Dobby.

"Stop," Harry commanded. "Dobby did exactly what I wanted. If I were a Death Eater and he weren't free … well, Hermione would have been kidnapped - and not one of you could have lifted a finger to stop it."

Summing up, Harry told the elves, "Because of the Death Eater threat, I need free elves to help protect me and my friends. Every one of you would better serve me free than bound. Now, Dobby…."

The free elf waved his arms again, in a different motion. A whooshing sound followed, and in flew a large box. Dobby controlled it with his right hand and landed it on the floor while his left-handed motion simultaneously brought a table forward. Benches atop the table swayed, causing several seated elves to jump off. The table came to rest immediately below the just-mounted plaque.

Another silent motion from Dobby and the box burst open. Dozens of identical black outfits, cut from finer cloth than burlap, floated from the box and folded themselves neatly on the table. Soon the table displayed shirts, trousers, jumpers, and socks, all trimmed with silver.

As Dobby worked, Harry suddenly Legilimenced Hermione, `I just had an idea … how to make this work. Follow my lead … but be ready to catch Dobby if he faints.'

`What is it?' Hermione responded in kind.

`Something Dumbledore told me whilst you were still in Hong Kong,' Harry replied ambiguously. `No time. I hope this works.'

Dobby finished. At the sight of clothes, the elfin audience predictably recoiled.

Harry stepped forward again. "There are enough clothes here for every one of you. But as much as I would like you all to accept them, this is strictly voluntary. I can't force freedom on anybody. Freedom's hard work. To make up your own mind, without somebody like me telling you what to do. That's not easy. But I believe that hard working elves can handle freedom, and I want free elves."

As Harry anticipated, the crowd of elves remained dubious, with much whispering and head shaking. Whilst elves certainly aspired to hard work, untold generations of elfin tradition considered clothes a mark of dismissal and disgrace. More was needed to convince them than just the word of a callow and unfamiliar Proprietor.

And, thanks to a timely thought, Harry had something more to offer.

"I promise you all that, I intend no punishment, regardless of your choice. All free elves will always be welcome at the Château, but I won't force clothes on anybody. Accepting clothes only makes you more versatile and more useful in my service."

Harry turned to Dobby, who had slunk into the shadows at the chilly reception being given the offer of freedom. "Dobby, please come here."

Hesitantly, the elf approached the Proprietor.

Harry kneeled down until he could look Dobby straight in the eye. "As my head house-elf, I offer you an Unbreakable Vow that no house-elf, free or bound, will be discharged from my service due to acceptance, or refusal, of these clothes."

Utter, stunned silence engulfed the house-elves' quarters. Never had a wizard offered such a vow to a lowly elf - let alone the Proprietor of a great estate such as Château Blackwalls. The vast majority of house-elves were bound. One could no more swear an Unbreakable Vow to a bound elf than one could offer such an oath to one's kitchen sink.

But Dobby was a free, sentient being - and that made all the difference.

"Jerry, will you do the honours? Neither of us knows the spell."

Dobby almost swooned upon realising that Harry was serious. Even Jerry McAllister stumbled a bit over his own feet when Harry summoned him to act as Bonder.

Harry took Dobby's hand. McAllister drew his wand and gently laid it across their clasped hands. He was transparently confused. The majordomo had never administered a vow quite like what he was now called upon to perform.

"Isn't there an activating incantation?" Harry asked curiously.

"Umm … no, not at least the way I've always done it." McAllister said throatily, still disbelieving what was happening. "I presume it's a matter of intent."

Fortunately, Hermione stepped in. From her beaded bag she produced a quill and parchment. After scribbling frantically, she handed the results to McAllister.

Having no better idea, McAllister read verbatim what Hermione had written. "Do you, Harry Potter, as Proprietor of Château Blackwalls, agree that no elf who accepts the clothes you have offered shall be discharged from your service or otherwise punished, solely on account of that elf's action?"

"I agree," Harry spoke clearly, whilst smiling at Hermione for her quick thinking.

"Dobby?" McAllister queried the other party to the vow.

The poor elf was dumbstruck.

"Say you accept," Hermione prompted.

"I … I accept," Dobby chirped, birdlike.

McAllister's wand vibrated slightly as it excreted an intensely crimson flame resembling a red-hot wire. The flame snaked around Harry's, and then Dobby's, joined hands.

Before the spell came to a halt, Hermione was already scratching her quill across another piece of parchment. Again, she passed it to McAllister.

McAllister continued rote recitation. "Do you, Harry Potter, as Proprietor of Château Blackwalls, agree that no elf who refuses the clothes you have offered shall be discharged from service to Château Blackwalls or otherwise punished, solely on account of that elf's action?"

Harry's voice again rang out. "I agree."

Dobby's hesitant, "I accept," this time came without prompting.

Another tongue of red fire snaked from McAllister's wand. It wrapped itself about the first.

Somewhat to everyone's surprise, Hermione continued writing.

McAllister read, "Do you, Dobby, as head house-elf of Château Blackwalls, agree to teach any elf who accepts the clothes being offered how to use its … er … his or her magic to protect the Château and its inhabitants from Death Eaters and other unwelcome wizards?"

"I - I do agree," Dobby answered more firmly.

"I accept," Harry immediately followed.

A third identical string of flame emerged. It flowed in the opposite direction, from Dobby's hand to entwine Harry's.

Hermione placed her hand on McAllister's shoulder, signalling that the vow was complete. He raised his wand. With contact broken, the intertwined red streaks sunk into the two participants' bodies and vanished.

The dramatic ceremony over, Harry drew himself to full height. "There, I hope you all will eventually accept freedom and the hard work and benefits it brings. You can't be punished either way. But I've one more thing…."

Hermione stepped forward to address the elves. "It's now 1997, not 1897 or 1797. Things are more complicated now, so we need all elves to be educated. You can't do your jobs adequately without knowing how to read."

Many of the elves started to fidget.

Hermione reached into her bag again and withdrew a small box.

"Finite." Freed from a Shrinking Spell, the box expanded instantaneously and fell to the floor with a thud. Hermione opened it and pulled out a couple of thin books. "These are primary form textbooks. With these you will learn to read and write. We want every elf above age eight to have a set…."

Harry stepped to her side and rested his hand on the books Hermione was holding. "I want to be absolutely clear. Reading and writing are being required. You will be tested by Ms. Hogg. Anyone who doesn't learn will be relieved of duty and not allowed to do anything but study. Any refusal to become literate is reason for dismissal - clothes or no clothes."

"Jerry, please distribute the textbooks." Harry turned to Hermione, "Let's go. We're done here - for the time being."

* * * *

By Harry's standards, this dream was outstanding. The locale was tropical and the setting sensual. Even when not nightmarish, Harry's nocturnal sojourns usually ended with him late or lost - sometimes even naked. Not now. He was with Hermione, and surely not lost. If he was starkers (difficult to tell), he was definitely having fun.

Another wave of pleasure flowed through him - then the image of gathering coconuts on a beach - then another surge….

Eventually one of the pulses was strong enough to rouse him.

It was quite dark. He was at the Château….

Wow! He felt a fingernail trace the length of his manhood.

"Hermione! What are you doing?"

"Watching you sleep … at first," she responded alluringly. "You seemed so serene - so much younger - I saw the boy I first fell in love with." Her forefinger followed its prior path. Harry inhaled with a hiss.

Their agreement never to wear clothes when sleeping together had never looked better. "So this is what you do in the middle of the night? Watch me sleep and try to give me wet dreams?"

"Maybe," Hermione smiled. "You hardly need encouragement…." For emphasis, she again employed her forefinger.

"Well, consider me encouraged," Harry whispered, squinting towards her voice in darkness. "What do you want to do?"

The sheets rustled. One of Hermione's long, creamy legs looped over his waist. She flexed it, firmly, pulling them together. Simultaneously, her opposite leg slithered between his.

The next thing Harry knew, he was cozily nestled against her incredibly warm, incredibly slick, incredibly splayed cleft.

"Hermione!"

"Just you relax," she purred. He felt her hand on top of him, and gentle pressure. She had him firmly sandwiched against herself. "I know what I want to do."

"Relax? You've made me about as unrelaxed humanly possible."

"The rest of you can relax. Him? He's perfect just the way he is. Mmmmm."

Hermione's near foot rested on his hip. Her opposite hand stroked him, rubbing the top and pressing the underside of his firmness against her moist softness. She - the rest of her - began rocking to some rhythm in her head.

"Mmmmmmmm."

Relaxation be damned.

Harry could not be more aware….

Hermione was using him to get herself off.

Like everything else, she went about this quite competently.

Considerately aware of Hermione's needs, Harry could feel her exquisite, firm little nubble sliding beneath him. Whilst she set the pace, Harry could still flex himself at appropriate moments in her cadence.

From her squeals and the way her breath hitched, Harry knew she appreciated it.

Time slowed. Hermione's slippery nectar gradually coated him. In a fog of lust, she rocked and he rolled. Harry wondered when she would insert….

She never did.

Instead, Hermione's pace quickened as her moans deepened. When she switched to mouth breathing, Harry knew she was approaching her peak.

Harry had to admit, her using him in such an erotic fashion was a right turn on - for him.

Prickling sensations told him he was close.

Rotating slightly, he propped himself up. "Umm … Hermione, if we don't…."

"Naaah…. Harrreeee!" Her near arm flailed, grabbing his and yanking it towards her. Unbalanced, Harry flopped again on his side. She shoved his hand onto her heaving breast.

`Whatever turns you on,' he thought as Hermione pulled his hand firmly against her chest. This new pressure point let her undulate even more vigorously below him while her top hand slid pistoned even more frantically along his length.

Hermione's back arched. "Hunh … hunnh … hunnnh … Harrreeeeeeeee!!!"

The last thing Harry noticed, before his primal instincts asserted complete control and followed her over the edge, was her spritzes tickling his base and bedewing his hips.

Moments later, Harry joined her. Had he climaxed any harder, his gonads would have been deposited on Hermione's midriff.

They drifted, utterly spent, for some splendid interval. Eventually, Harry opened his eyes he saw them surrounded by a lambent fuchsia mist.

"Ummm, Hermione, what was that?"

His lover seemed to chortle. "Technically, I … mmmm … nice shot, Harry."

"What?" He turned towards her. In the soft pink glow, he saw her thoroughly decorated with … him. It was almost enough for a feeble Incarcerous Curse. Smiling, she delicately wiped her chin clean with her thumb - and licked it off.

"Hermione, I'm sorry."

"Oh phooey, Harry. Can't I enjoy your taste? You constantly tell me you like mine?"

"But it's all over…."

"Besides I once read that it's an excellent skin conditioner." Hermione sat up and began kneading herself, using Harry's essence as body lotion.

Harry brain blanked. Impossibly - so soon - he felt himself stir down below. Transfixed, he could only mouth his prior question. "…What - what was that?"

"Technically, I'd call it mutual masturbation utilising one another's genitalia."

Finishing with her breasts, Hermione worked her way down to her waist. Harry remained tongue-tied.

"Uh … right … but why?"

"Must there always be a reason?"

"Well, no, but with you … you usually have one…."

She sighed. "Oh, all right. For your ears only…. Truthfully, I've wanted to try that for years. It's a fantasy since summer after my third year. I imagined you'd be so much better than spells like Aquapulsis or Vibratio. It's back to Hogwarts tomorrow, so with you lying there, prepositioned, so to speak, I decided - finally - to give you a try."

She rubbed the last of him into her thighs.

Harry felt rather unnerved. Hermione had been schlicking to him for years. He felt a bit stupid, too; being oblivious for so long.

"So … umm … how was it?"

"Definitely exceeds expectations," Hermione grinned. "Definitely."

"Oh really?" Harry came back. "I thought it was outstanding."

"Well … I've been spoiled," Hermione admitted, lowering her eyes. "I'm no longer thirteen, or even sixteen. I'm a woman now, and frankly I like it better with you inside."

"If you're willing help a bit, maybe that can be arranged."

* * * *

The Floo at the recently reconstructed "New Burrow" flared. A clearly agitated Molly Weasley stepped into the otherwise deserted dwelling, not bothering to charm the soot from her travelling robes. Moments later, a fiercely scowling Ginny Weasley followed suit.

"I simply can't believe that Dumbledore would even consider letting that awful Chang creature stay at Hogwarts after what she tried to do to poor Ronnie," the older woman raged. "I'd think that attempted murder of a department head's son would merit a one-way trip to Azkaban … or at least expulsion and breaking that witch's wand into tiny pieces!"

"Mum, calm yourself. It is possible that she was possessed," Ginny pointed out. "I should know. It happened to me, remember? Whilst I can't stand that little bint, Dumbledore usually has good reasons."

"But what about poor Ronnie?!" Molly cried. "To have that happen to him … and from a girl we thought might be…." She stopped talking abruptly, before she said too much.

Too late.

"Might be what?" Ginny pounced. "Was dear Ronald going to declare for her or something? Is that why you grounded me, but not him - when their shagging each other's brains out really caused everything?"

"Ginevra Weasley!" Molly screeched. "I'll not have such language in this house - much directed at me. One more similar outburst and you'll stay grounded."

"But that's the real reason, isn't it?" Ginny pressed, albeit refraining from further vulgarities. "Why ground me for the whole holiday, and not him? He started it."

"We've been over this before," Molly countered testily. "Ronnie showed appallingly bad judgment, but no more. You, however, put two people into the Hospital Wing. That merited, and received, harsher punishment." Turning her back on her daughter, she marched down the corridor into what remained of the original Burrow.

Trailing along behind, Ginny pointed out what she thought was obvious. "You don't deny it, though. You let Ron go to Chang's because you thought he might declare for her. That's what I expected, too…."

"He's too young," Molly retorted over her shoulder.

"Not for Chang, he isn't," Ginny contradicted. "She's only a year ahead and very popular - before all this."

Entering the old living room, Molly Weasley heaved a great sigh and plopped heavily in her favourite chair. She shook her head at the situation's absurdity and looked her rebellious daughter up and down. "You're old enough, I suppose…. All right, I admit it. I've borne seven children; already buried one. You and Ronnie will leave school in a couple of years. What do I do then? I've no grandchildren - and no prospects. It's just … Weasley men, well, they're clueless about witches."

Most of her fight fled Ginny upon seeing her mum this way. She lowered herself to the chesterfield opposite. "That's not true … Bill sure wasn't. He proposed to Fleur."

Molly winced. Thinking about her recently deceased eldest son was still painful. The words seemed to stick in her throat. After an overly long pause she muttered, "Merlin protect his soul. But that Fleur…. I've no doubt whatever that she `helped' Bill along. She's Veela, you know. Before her … Bill … he was never serious about any witch, despite abundant opportunity."

"But getting married so young isn't the fashion anymore," Ginny argued, blatantly contradicting herself in hope of avoiding another "birds and bees" lecture.

Having bigger fish to fry, Molly let the discrepancy pass. "Oh, yes it is - for good, tradition-minded wizards. Oliver Wood is married. Alicia Spinnet is engaged, as is Ward Connerly … and Destin Sizemore. I've received notices by owl post. But those Muggle influences…. All sex, sex, sex, and no commitment. I don't know what our world's coming to…."

"But isn't Percy…?" Ginny tried unsuccessfully to derail the coming Molly Weasley rant.

Bad choice of references.

"Percy hasn't taken one concrete step to make an honest woman out of that Clearwater girl," Molly snipped. "They're living together…. What do the Muggles call that? `Friends with benefits,' I think. And Charlie? Not a thing. It's been years, and the clock still has him `travelling.' He has no `home' of his own and no family plans. The Twins - always `working' and never `at home' unless they're here. Again, no commitments of their own. I'm not an empty nest kind of witch. I just wanted to help Ronnie along…."

Molly Weasley burst into guilt-ridden tears.

Now Ginny had to comfort her distraught mum. "But think of it. You've had seven children. Certainly Dad was one Weasley male who can't be called clueless about women…."

"Ginny…." Molly started speaking, stopped, and then decided to continue. "I'll tell you a secret," she winked conspiratorially, "woman to woman - Weasley to Weasley - Prewett to Prewett, you might say. Arthur was even more lost around witches than Charlie on his worst days. I led him every step of the way, the poor dear. He was so shy."

"Daddy's not shy, just naturally reserved," Ginny maintained, standing up for her father.

"Then, it was shyness," Molly had an almost girlish smile on her face. "Believe me, I'm sure. And I guess … well, you're old enough to know." Molly's tone abruptly became both serious and hushed. "I didn't exactly tell the whole truth, years ago, when I mentioned making a Love Potion as a girl. The truth is, and I haven't told this to any of you, but that Love Potion was for Arthur - to give him courage enough to kiss me."

Ginny was astounded. "Love Potion?" she gasped.

"Only once," Molly hastily added. "That was all it took. Arthur just needed a little nudge to focus his attention properly. After he finally noticed me - that way - everything else was, as they say, history." A far away smile crossed this mother of seven's face as she remembered how the two of them had been at the beginning.

"But … does he know?" Ginny had to ask. She was trying to come to grips with this notion. Her parents' marriage - thus her very being - owed to a Love Potion?

"Oh, yes," Molly answered primly. "I couldn't keep something like that secret forever. It wouldn't have been fair to him. I told him ages ago - way before you were born - just after I learnt I was pregnant with Bill. He didn't mind. He'd known for months that he needed a push in the right direction. And Ronnie … of all my sons, he reminds me most of Arthur. So don't be too upset…."

"Then … not grounding him was your way of encouraging him and Chang?" Ginny sought to close the loop - and to avoid more information about her parents' love life.

Molly returned a wry smile that rapidly faded. "Unfortunately, yes, my dear. I'm afraid my meddling turned out miserably - even worse than trying to interest him in Hermione…. And that was hard to top."

"You tried to match Ron with Hermione?" Ginny was amused. She had often suspected this, but never expected an opportunity to confirm it directly.

"For most of last summer, at Grimmauld," Molly admitted whilst shaking her head at her futility. "I made sure he read Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. Then, I arranged for her to arrive before … ah, early, to prevent distractions. They had more than enough time alone together. Try as I might, nothing he or I could do generated any sparks. I suppose they were just too different…. She with all that Muggle background, and he with none."

"I suppose," Ginny commented noncommittally. She had trouble being objective about Hermione, when that girl was far and away the greatest obstacle to her own eventual happiness.

"Yes, it was just too much of a stretch, especially with the kerfuffle over You-Know-Who's return." Molly looked up with a pensive cast to her face. "Ron, like Arthur, needs the guidance of a strong woman. But there are limits, I suppose. That Hermione, I think she was just too much for him."

"I suppose," Ginny repeated her rote answer. With the Hogwarts Express leaving the next morning, she yearned for the privacy of her own room. That is, before….

"…And you, my dear daughter, that's the least of your problems."

Too late. Mum turned the conversation in a most unwanted direction.

"What problem?" Ginny answered defensively, feeling like a cornered Doxy at Grimmauld Place.

"Ability to get boys to do what you want - you have that in abundance," Molly told her. "But I think you go through your boyfriends a bit too heedlessly. Last year there was that Corner, Dean Thomas, and somewhere in there, I believe someone named Goldstein…."

Ginny was unnerved by how much Mum knew about her love life. "Only for a couple of weeks," she protested about the last. "He said his parents didn't approve, so I cut him loose as a bad job."

"That's what I mean," Molly tutted, shaking her head in disapproval. "Then you took up with someone else without as much as a decent interval."

"Mo - ther," Ginny groaned in frustration. "I don't want to discuss my ex-boyfriends. They're over and done with…. I really should go to my room and pack." She stood up, hoping to end the conversation.

Undeterred, Molly followed Ginny down the hall, taking full advantage of this rare moment, the two Weasley women together at the Burrow with nobody else about. "And good riddance to them. Now your most recent beau - that Neville Longbottom - he's another cauldron-full of Shrake altogether. A fine Gryffindor, not snobbish despite his old wizarding family…. War hero parents. He may be a keeper. You've made an excellent match, there."

"Muuuuum!" Ginny almost howled. "Can't you leave well enough alone?"

"You're my only daughter, Ginevra. You will benefit from my experience and perspective," Molly replied peremptorily.

"Sod Neville. I broke up with him," Ginny snapped, to shut Mum up.

"Oh, my," Molly fretted. "Whatever for? I can't believe that a boy like him would try pushing things too far, too fast."

"Hardly, Mum," Ginny answered as her face reddened. "He was boring, plain and simple. And he didn't pay me enough attention…. That clingy family of his. Now, may I go?"

Molly Weasley gazed appraisingly at her daughter. "Boring? That boring boy already has one Order of Merlin to his credit, with a second on the way - I'm sure of it. You can't do much better than that."

Tired of her mum's prying, Ginny erupted with an angry response. "Oh yes, I can. He's not the only one!"

Molly reacted as if punched in the gut. "Oh, Morgana! That's it! You've never moved past your crush on Harry, have you?"

Ginny's face reddened - how had she managed this? "What's so wrong with that?" she spat. "I think he likes me … like that."

"I wouldn't be so confident, dear," Molly cautioned.

"But what about his Christmas present?" Ginny yowled. "If I were nothing more than Ronnie's little sister, he would have given me some Quidditch knick-knack. He didn't. He got me a beautiful shawl - a protective shawl."

Molly was not impressed. "I'm afraid you're reading too much into that…."

A red haze descended on Ginny. She reached her breaking point over this most sensitive of subjects. Eyes flashing, she cut across Molly. "Why can't I have a chance? Hermione doesn't own him, for Circe's sake - he's not her bloody property!" Ginny screeched. "They're not married or anything! Maybe I can love him better! I'm your daughter! Don't I have a right to try?"

Molly Weasley had never seen such an outburst from her daughter. She could feel magic flowing from the girl. That had never happened before, except for Harry, and the display frankly made Molly anxious. Ginny's magic felt … odd, but not for any reason Molly could understand.

Molly uncharacteristically backed down - something she would have never done from any of her sons.

"Of course you do, if it's what you truly want," Molly responded sympathetically. "And you're my flesh and blood; I'll support your decision. But as your mum, I' don't want to see you terribly unhappy. Just look at what you're up against. Come with me…."

Molly walked Ginny back to the old living room. She pointed to the Weasley clock, a relic of the family's less prosperous past. Years ago, Arthur had added hands for both Harry and Hermione. At first Harry's hand read "Visiting" when he came to the Burrow and "Home" when he was at Privet Drive. But in Harry's fourth year, that had irrevocably shifted, and the Burrow had become Harry's true "Home."

Recently, Molly had noticed, the calibration of the clock's hands had changed again.

Harry was not at the Burrow, but with Hermione at Château Blackwalls.

The clock's hands read "Home" for the both of them.

Ginny's jaw trembled as she realised what the clock revealed about the location of Harry's - and now Hermione's - home. Blinking, she looked back and forth between Mum and the clock face. "AAUUGGHH!!" she wailed as she turned and rushed to her room.

Molly wisely let her go. She had not intended to deter her daughter as much as to help Ginny appreciate the odds she faced.

In that Molly Weasley succeeded, but not in the manner intended.

In her old upstairs room - the one she had occupied since first learning the name "Harry Potter" - Ginny lay on her childhood bed with the door firmly shut and magically sealed. She wept, but as she did, Ginny furiously vowed not to sell herself short, regardless of her mum's view.

"If Mum can do it, so can I. I'll bloody well show her…. I can do this."

Beneath her blouse, the necklace Ginny wore emitted a barely audible hum.

* * * *

Author's notes: Bellatrix Lestrange is in the same position that Voldemort was prior to the end of GoF, and for essentially the same reasons

Homunculus - an approximation of human form

Plenty of clues now to what Hermione's and Luna's spell did

Killiechonate Castle was introduced in Ch. 33

Voldemort's observations are accurate, but not his conclusion; Snape will pay

Candace will have her wish

Voldemort doesn't have a Patronus in canon, so I created one

To Healer Huxley phoenix tear extract is like the AMEX card, don't go anywhere without it, and to him, Hermione doesn't seem to

Elapids are the snake family including cobras. The kudzu reacted like a spitting cobra. Kudzu grows very fast and dense, being from Georgia, I know

At Stonehenge, Harry did in the DEs' brooms, and Neville the Triads'

There will be more about Dobby and the Order of Merlin

McAllister's affair with a Muggle was mentioned when he first was, in Ch. 62

An insight into the chaos that reigned in the Château after Harry went missing

A glance at the faked spin the Ministry put on the Battle of Stonehenge

The line about truth is by Oscar Wilde

The goblin confusion about Hermione refers to an incident in Ch. 52

They don't have Lucius' whereabouts exactly right

A frolic and detour is when an employee does his own thing on the employer's time

The Jazzy incident was in Ch. 40

Tiny garnet inclusions are the oldest surviving rocks on Earth

Harry's not going to be a dull proprietor

What is called "Murphy's Law" in the U.S. is called Sod's law in Britain

Hermione's don't expect to be wearing for long line is from "A League of Their Own"

The Emmaline Vance reference is to something in Ch. 15

As a Möbius strip has only one side, a water one would be excellent for exercise swimming

A tetrahedron is accurately described

Polywater is a theoretical linkage of multiple water molecules

Heavy water has #2 hydrogen instead of the usual single proton

I do not use alcohol as a plot device in this fic; none of the main characters drink

Gills do not sustain life in unoxygenated water

Nightcrawlers are earthworms

Peppermint Panties is a play on the Peanuts character

The concept for the "Notice-Me-Now Charm comes from Ch. 4 of "The Python Defense" by canoncansodoff

End of the beginning is a Churchill quote

The six degrees of freedom are the three axes and rotation about each one

Peyronie's disease involves just what Harry complained about

There has to be a reason Gillyweed isn't more commonly used; I invented one

The garnet ends up in an unexpected place

No pierced or tattooed Harry in this story either - just invisible goblin scars

A goblin entrance to the Château will prove useful

The three artworks mentioned, by daVinci, Michaelangelo, and Rembrandt are lost in the manners described

Blonny found the Farmer's Reducer in Ch. 67

The discussion with Dumbledore about Unbreakable Vows occurred in Ch. 4

The Unbreakable Vow procedure accords with canon

Harry gave Ima Hogg responsibility for elf literacy as a loyalty test

The Molly-Ginny talk embellishes the love potion reference in PoA Ch. 5

Molly's R/Hr encouragement is another view of what Hermione discussed in Ch. 7

A shrake is a type of canon fish

Ginny invokes the Christmas gift that Hermione picked out

58

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